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I suppose I could cover them up but what’s the point. Callan already knows that they are there. He already knows what I’ve been through but I hope he doesn’t treat me like a victim. I want him to see me as a normal girl who might have a very hard core crush on her detective.
And even though I know that him insinuating a relationship with me before my case is over is unprofessional, I can’t help but hope he’ll ignore that obstacle. Sighing, I sit down on a small chair in the corner, taking my phone in my hand and wish that I could call my sister Meadow.
It would have been nice to have someone to talk to but as of now I have to restrain myself. Reaching out to her while Romeo is still out on the loose could be dangerous and I don’t want anything to happen to her.
On my request, the detectives didn’t call my parents and while most of them shrugged, Callan’s eyes deepened at my words. But it wasn’t pity I saw in them. Instead he looked like he understood.
Sometimes if you’re lucky, some strangers end up knowing you better than you know yourself. Not that Callan is a complete stranger. I saw glimpses of a wall, across his desk and it was covered with photos and information on me.
He must’ve looked at that wall while I was looking at the wall in Romeo’s cave and a shudder goes through me. Callan and Romeo don’t belong in the same sentence and a thought strikes me that I didn’t think about before.
Because my perpetrator called himself Romeo, I always thought of him as being male. But it’s possible he’s not. I never saw his face or his hands or heard his voice. And I couldn’t distinguish his height since I was tied to the bed. And whenever he came close enough there was no smell, just the sterile scent of nothing.
What if Romeo is a woman?
The thought disturbs me even more. Am I now going to be wary of other women too? Letting out a silent groan, I rub my hands against my dress as nervousness floods me and I stand up right when I hear Callan’s reverberating voice outside.
Hours must have passed without me even noticing and I hurry over to the window, pulling the curtains aside. He’s standing on the street, towering over two other police officers who were put there to keep an eye on me.
He tells them something, his lips barely moving when he talks and they quickly nod then get into their car and drive away. As if his sixth sense is telling him that I’m looking, he turns around and our eyes hook so hard that I feel like a catch is ripping through my gut and a whimper gasps from my lips.
His own mouth tightens, his eyes filling with not hunger but starvation. He’s looking at me in my simple, fairy tale inspired dress, undressing me with his gaze and I almost sneak my hands to the back and pull down the zipper.
Whatever he asks of me, it’s his. Whatever he wants, it’s his.
And my body blazes with prickles when I realize why I feel this way. It’s because I’m his. I was his from the moment our eyes met and he spoke to me without even opening his mouth. I saw everything I wanted to see in his face in that moment.
I saw my future.
Giving him a smile, I mime that I’ll be right out and he gives a curt nod and I turn to reunite with my detective.
*****
Growing up as a rich kid, I’ve seen a lot of gorgeous places but I’ve never quite seen something like Fates Falls. It’s a small town, surrounded by majestic mountains and cramped with colorful houses. I’m not exaggerating when I say that its story book perfect.
I know that Callan spent a lot of years in Ireland which is why he still has an accent but on our way here (which roughly took the whole night) he told me that this is where he grew up from the ages of eight to fourteen.
But looking at the two level house with its porch and pale blue clapboard façade, I can’t fully believe that this is his childhood home. It looks so...cute. And Callan is many things but he is not...cute.
And his neighbors don’t seem to think he’s that cute either because some have stepped out on their porches, regarding Callan like he’s their worst nightmare come alive.
“It’s the safest place I know,” Callan says and I turn to look at him. His eyes are not fixed on the house as if he doesn’t want to look at it. Instead they are fixed on me, on my lips, then on my breasts before his eyes rise to mine again. “Last time a murder happened here was 26 years ago.”
Shivering and not just from the cold, I ask, “Who was the killer?”
He doesn’t reply, averting his gaze and walks across the neat gravel walk with both our bags in his hands and I follow. Reaching into the pocket of his worn coat, he takes out his keys, opening the door.
“After you,” he says and he seems tenser than usual and I get struck by the thought that maybe he doesn’t like being here. Maybe there’s some bad history here, some bad blood.
But why then take me here in the first place? Swallowing, I look up and him and I know why. He said it himself. This is the safest place he knows and my safety is important to him, so important that he seems to be willing to rip up old wounds.
It brings me down a peg and without thinking, I rise on my tiptoes and put a kiss to his hollow cheek. He tenses and I feel my face flush. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that but I wanted to thank him. My stomach turns when I realize that I could have just said thank you, like a normal person.
Gee, I didn’t have to thank him with my mouth...
“Melody...” he says in a low voice, overflowing with buried emotions and it feels like I’m about to crawl out of my skin from how bad I need him to touch me and I grow mortified when he moves his hand to his cheek, wiping my kiss off.
“How about you show me the rest of the house?” I say quickly and the embarrassment is crystal clear in my voice. Turning from him, I throw an anxious look over my shoulder only to see him press his fingers to his lips and my insides melt again, the embarrassment draining from me.
