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“What was that?” Romero quips.
I didn't realize I spoke out loud. Now I have to explain myself, something I never do, even in better circumstances. “I said I don't see the big deal.”
“About what?” Romero tweaks the camera’s position another few inches until the bed is centered in the frame. I can also see part of the bedroom door and the mirror over the dresser. It’s as detailed a view as I’m going to get.
“Any of this. You want me to talk to the girl? Fine. Then get her to answer her phone. I've been trying since she left. All because, what? My ex isn't out of the picture completely?”
“That could be.” He’s speaking quietly, tension in his voice while he fixes the camera’s position. According to what he told me, it’s mounted inside the top corner of her bookshelves, partly concealed by a stuffed animal. “She's young. She's already been pushed around.”
“But Amanda doesn't mean anything. She's a pain in the ass and determined to ruin my life. How is that my fault?” I sound like a whiny little bitch. This is what she's made of me. I've grown into a whiny little bitch, begging for a chance to be understood.
“You never told her about the papers not being signed.”
“Why would I?”
“Did you ever think that keeping it quiet makes it look like a bigger deal than it is?”
My anger rises. “Just do your job.”
Either he forgets I can see him, or he doesn't care. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes in plain sight. “I'm done. On my way out now.”
“Wait,” I whisper when a familiar car pulls up from the other direction. “I think she's coming.”
“Son of a bitch.” Just like that, he disappears, the bedroom door opening and closing. The phone goes dead, too, leaving me with no idea whether he’s escaping. I guess I’ll know soon enough.
My gaze darts back and forth between the footage on the tablet of the bedroom and the Corolla, whose headlights shut off a moment before the driver's door opens. At that moment, everything else ceases to exist. I don't care that Romero has to sneak out of the house while Bianca and Charlie unload groceries at the curb.
I don't care that a detective would probably have a nose like a bloodhound and would be able to sniff out a stranger's presence. Romero's intelligent enough not to wear cologne or anything that would give him away, except Charlie is a real pain in the ass, determined to fuck with my life. I wouldn't be surprised if he picked up on something being off, no matter how good Romero is at his job.
All of it falls away at the sight of her. How has it only been two days? I feast my eyes on her beauty, soaking it in the way parched earth soaks in the rain. My mouth goes dry, and I forget to breathe, too busy taking in every detail to worry about something like keeping myself alive.
The way she laughs and how she grumbles when Charlie takes one of the bags from her like he thinks it's too heavy for her to manage. At least I know I'm not the only man whose opinion she brushes off.
For one wild, breathless moment, I see myself getting out of the car. Facing her. Daring her to ignore me now. Demanding she come home, where she belongs. With me, in my arms, in my bed. Where I can watch over her, protect her, worship her.
That's all I want to do. Why can't she see that? What do I have to do to open her eyes to the reality of us needing each other?
“Look at me,” I whisper as she and her father cross the sidewalk and approach the front porch. “See me. Know I'm here. This is what you've made me do. These are the lengths I have to go to if I want to look after you. Know that I haven't given up. I would never give up on you, even if you think you’ve given up on me.”
While Charlie unlocks the front door, she does, in fact, look out over the street. Absently, though, her gaze drifting over houses and cars. She looks straight past me, through me, and I grit my teeth to hold back a roar of frustration. How can I sit here without her knowing I’m right here? Can't she feel me the same way I still feel her? Did I make that little of an impression on her?
With a blink of my eyes, she’s gone. The lights inside flicker on and I wait, holding my breath, staring at the house. Waiting for a scream, a gunshot, something, anything.
Instead, my heart leaps into my chest when the passenger door opens. I reach for my Glock out of sheer reflex. “It's only me.” Romero ducks into the car and slams the door before leaning back in the seat, panting. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I cut through two backyards and nearly broke my ankle on a swing set. I’m not as good at hopping fences as I was when I was a kid.”
