Читать книгу Deadly Past - Kris Rafferty - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Why was Cynthia surprised to discover Charlie had friends in high places? Moments after arriving at Massachusetts General Hospital, her ass landed on a trauma room exam table. While others waited hours to be seen, Cynthia shot to the head of the line. Lucky her. The power of Charlie.

She’d balked, of course, at the order to don a hospital johnny, and no perky, freckle-faced, hyper-kinetic nurse in moon and star designer scrubs was going to intimidate her into changing her mind. Charlie was never seeing Cynthia in a johnny. Just the idea of him in the room while she was practically naked on the exam table sent waves of mortification through her. Cynthia’s rebellion earned her a hostile preliminary exam, and by the time Nurse Ratched left—having poked, measured, and grimaced through Cynthia’s vital signs—it was clear she’d won the nurse’s “most difficult patient of the shift” award.

Whatever. Charlie acted as if nothing was amiss, so Cynthia just went with it and didn’t complain. Though she’d wanted to. She’d wanted to complain a lot, because she was here, and every instinct she had told her to be at the crime scene, finding answers.

Just back from radiology, having received her CAT scan from a handsome, flirting, brown-eyed technician, they awaited the test results. Charlie sat in the corner on a tiny chair, grimacing. He’d been grimacing ever since she’d flirted back with that sexy tech, but she couldn’t prove causation. His discontent could be from sitting on that tiny chair. It made him look like a G.I. Joe crammed into a dollhouse. He didn’t fit.

Whatever had his panties in a bunch, he was ignoring her, so Cynthia pulled her iPhone from her suit jacket pocket. Charge was at twenty percent. Too much was going on to risk it dying again, so wasting it on Instagram didn’t seem sensible. She slipped it back in her pocket and then leaned for another entertainment magazine, grabbing it from the wall rack without falling off the table. No small feat. She pretended to read as she studiously did not swing her feet, despite an overwhelming urge to do just that.

“This is such a colossal waste of time.” Cynthia flipped a page, unable to concentrate on the photos of lavishly dressed actresses attending red carpet events, while Charlie sat there, all silent, huge, sexy, and disgruntled. He was perfect, it was distracting, and he had a full charge on his phone. The man was carelessly scrolling, swiping up, looking at who knows what.

Not for the first time, she wished she didn’t want him so much, but just looking at him made her girly parts clench. He was the smartest, bravest, kindest person she knew, and he made her laugh. He was her best friend, and wanting more from him was selfish and greedy.

Wanting more would kill their friendship.

In relationships, when one of the people involved feels indebted to the other, that debt colors everything. Even a kiss. She had no idea how far Charlie might go to appease his sense of obligation, and she had no intentions of exploring his limits, because when she kissed a man, she liked to know his tongue was in her mouth because he couldn’t help himself, instead of wondering if it was there because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

He wasn’t her type, anyway. Slap a kilt on him and he looked ripped from the pages of Outlander. No, one of the later books, after the Battle of Culloden. Battle worn, with scars to prove it, he was more fierce than pretty, and her tastes usually ran toward the pretty: like Benton or Modena, members of her FBI task force. Now, they were seriously good-looking men. Though Charlie’s size was a turn-on, and his pale blue eyes were dreamy…. Still, not her type. So why was she squirming, feeling aflutter just looking at him?

The exam table paper ripped beneath her butt. She peeked at Charlie, wondering if he’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. He’d noticed she was acting weird, too.

“You’re not human,” she said. “You should be nervous thinking about what we’ll find at the crime scene.” Like evidence that could land her in jail.

He compressed his lips, averted his gaze. “I’m more concerned with the CAT scan. Stop being nervous. I’ll tell you when it’s time to be nervous.”

“Don’t tell me—” Her back straightened and her jaw jutted out. “Who said I’m nervous?” His calm patience was pissing her off.

“Are you human?” he said.

His cheek kicked up when it took her a moment to realize he’d thrown her words back at her. His cleverness earned him a scowl. Then her shoulders sagged under the weight of her fears. “Yes, I’m…” She glanced at him. “I’m human.” She slapped the magazine closed and set it on the table next to her. “What if we find something at the crime scene that points to me? I could lose my career over this.”

“Did you kill anyone?” His expression and tone suggested he’d already answered that question for himself, and he’d judged her innocent.

“Not yet.” She narrowed her eyes, throwing out that threat. “I didn’t kill anyone. Probably. Are you suggesting no innocent person has ever been convicted?” His impatience was marked, yet Cynthia thought the question pertinent.

Grabbing the edge of the exam table, she found herself rhythmically tapping her pale pink, manicured fingernails on the wood underneath the table’s cushion-top. She calculated the odds of her falling on her face if she hopped off the table, and then calculated them again on a sliding scale with three-inch heels added to the equation. She was getting antsy.

“Try to be patient,” Charlie said, scrolling on his annoyingly charged phone.

She hated sitting there, looking like a little girl who might, at any moment, begin to swing her feet. FBI special agents with degrees in criminal psychology do not swing their feet while sitting on exam tables. In fact, it was impossible to project confident, capable, and professional while atop this plastic cushion with crinkly paper, swinging feet or not. The very act of sitting there put her at a disadvantage. Unfortunately, Charlie occupied the only other seat in the room. His tiny seat.

“I have every reason to be nervous. Blind justice, and all.” She studied the aseptic room with its waxed shiny floor, its high-gloss white walls. Everything had the look and smell of something that was bleached frequently. “Our criminal justice system runs on evidence, Charlie.”

His smile barely touched his lips, but it was there when he glanced up from his phone. “Yeah? Do tell.” Charlie’s world revolved around evidence, and Cynthia was caught preaching to the choir.

“It’s only a matter of time before they find my blood at the scene,” she said, “or my prints on bullet casings.”

His brow furrowed for a moment, and then cleared just as quickly. “I’ll figure it out.”

The way he said that had her worrying. Terrance’s death had a grip on him, even now, ten years later. She had no doubt he’d go to extraordinary lengths to repay the debt he felt he owed for “allowing” Terrance to drive drunk. Cynthia, for her part, would make sure Charlie never got that chance. She wanted no part of his risking his career to “figure it out.”

“If evidence can clear me,” she said, “Benton will find it. I trust him to do his job.”

“I trust him, too.” He returned his attention to his phone, but he no longer scrolled, or seemed to be reading, which meant he was just avoiding her gaze.

“Is there a but implied there? I mean, it sounds a lot like you’re implying a but.”

“No buts. I trust him.” He finally looked at her, and then slipped his phone into his back pocket. “l learned to trust him during the Coppola trial. The syndicate is dead, Coppola is in jail, and that’s because Benton knows what he’s doing.”

“True.” She glared at the shiny tile flooring again, allowing her hair to fall in damp, loose waves over her face. It took forever to air dry after a shower if she didn’t take the time to blow dry it. There hadn’t been time this morning, what with both her and Charlie impatient to get out of the house, so it was unruly. Cynthia preferred her hair pencil straight, sliding over her shoulders like silk, swaying when she walked, with not a wisp, not a stray hair moving out of alignment. Yet, here she sat, on an exam table, with unruly hair. Not aligned. “Six Coppola syndicate WITSEC witnesses. I can’t keep silent, Charlie.”

“You will. We follow the evidence, as always, and it will lead to the real unsubs. As always.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You open your mouth before we can clear you, we’re off the case. Or do you have an alternate idea? I mean, one that doesn’t require you to confess to murders you didn’t commit?”

She hopped off the table, unable to sit there any longer, and boom! Her heel zigged when it should have zagged. Her knees buckled and forced her to grab the cushion-top to regain her balance. Charlie shot forward, intense, like a parent hovering over a toddler: hands out, poised to catch.

“I’m fine,” she said. Charlie was really close, and chose to remain so, though he’d dropped his hands.

“Get back on the table before you fall on your face,” he said. Cynthia waved him off, then felt guilty when he compressed his lips and scrubbed his face with his hands. He looked exhausted, and it reminded her that he’d been up most of the night, worried because she hadn’t answered her phone. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“Not telling Benton where I was last night gives cover to the killer,” she said.

He returned to his tiny chair. “We’ll contact your gym when we leave here,” he said. “They’ll have records of you checking in and out last night. Maybe security video to fill in the time gaps prior to the safe house security feeds of you coming and going. It will help solidify your alibi.”

“Alibi? I remember being at the crime scene when the vics were alive, and—” Cynthia cringed, knowing she had to fess up. “I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to deal with your reaction—”

He groaned, shifting in his chair as if he couldn’t get comfortable. “How bad is it? No, go ahead. I’m fine. It’s okay, you can tell me, but first, will you get back on the table? You look like you’re about to fall down.”

She shook her head. “I accidentally deleted the surveillance video on the safe house main server. The only video that survived is on the flash drive.”

Charlie blinked a few times, frowning. “Excuse me?”

“Get that look off your face. I didn’t do it on purpose. I—” She tucked her hair behind her ears and felt it pouf out, which is what it always did when she didn’t take the time to dry it properly. To align it right. The expression on his face was making her nervous, so she paced the small eight-foot cubby of a room to release some energy, and every time she glimpsed Charlie’s shocked expression, her heart did a little skip. “You know I’m not good with tech. You know it. It’s like I’m allergic to the stuff, and tech knows it. Not my fault.” He shook his head, clearly stunned, and she supposed it was to be expected. Charlie was a forensic guy. Hearing she’d destroyed evidence had to offend him on a visceral level.

“You deleted it.” His tone suggested he still had trouble processing her confession.

“Accidentally. But I took a copy first.”

“But they have video of you leaving the safe house. Yes?” His gaze locked with hers, and suddenly she didn’t want to pace anymore. She wanted to sit down.

“No.” She cringed at his shocked reaction. “I’d turned it off, thinking to activate a fail-safe—”

“No.” He stood up, and his hands reached for her as if he wanted to shake her, but when she stepped back, he sat down so quickly the chair squeaked and she thought it would break.

“I was afraid what would happen if I touched the machine again, so I kept it off, leaving it for the experts. I thought it was for the best.”

His jaw muscles twitched. “If those experts recover the video, they’ll see what was deleted. Copied. They’ll wonder why it happened, why that timeframe. They’ll wonder who did it, blocks away from a mass execution of WITSEC witnesses.”

Her heart sank. “I’ll explain.”

“It reeks of intent, Cynthia.”

“I know.”

“You fucked up,” he growled.

“I know!” Did he have to keep rubbing it in? Leaning a hip against the exam table, she avoided Charlie’s gaze.

“What did you have for supper last night?” he said.

“Hmm?” Now that he’d mentioned it, she was hungry. “Falafel truck parked outside the precinct house.”

“We’ll take a statement from the falafel guy. Get it on the record when you left work.” He nodded once, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “You remember leaving work. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” She did. “And though I can’t remember going to the gym, the workout clothes in my bag were still sweaty, and gym member cards are used, so there’ll be proof.” She struggled to remember. “After the falafel, though, the next thing I remember is waking up at the safe house.”

He studied her features. “But you said you remembered images.”

“Just flashes of memory. The vics lined up against a brick wall. Alive.”

“That’s a lot. We can work with that.” He pinned her with a stare. “I presume you’d remember planning a mass execution, gathering the vics up, binding them, transporting them to the scene.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t do that.” She had a bruise on her hip from last night, and leaning on the table irritated it. She shifted her stance, attempting to get comfortable.

“So, no premeditation,” he said. “Do you remember coming to my house? Dumping those items in my trunk?” She shook her head. “Nine o’clock, so you couldn’t have anyway. Your gym member card will give you an alibi for that, at least.”

Her shoe slipped, and she had to catch herself. She was feeling shaky. “So, me at the scene was wrong place at the wrong time?”

His brow furrowed briefly, as a rebuke, as if she’d slipped on the floor just to piss him off. “Your phone was in your car when you found it, and you called me at ten. It must have died then, and you heard shots fired. Then you ran to the crime scene.”

“No. I remember them alive. I remember screams.” She shook her head, glancing at the exam table and wondering how undignified she’d look if she crawled back on it. “I don’t remember anything, really. I remember the falafel. The rest is a blank.”

“You don’t have to remember. We can deduce.” He shifted on his chair, looking uncomfortable. It made her play with the idea of asking him to change places with her. “You drove and parked the Lexus across the street from the safe house. We know that. You had to have walked to the gym, got back to your car at ten, called me, phone dies”—he shrugged—“you hear screams and run three blocks to the crime scene. You see vics alive, blackout, and you have video of you walking to the safe house, gun drawn, injured. That about right?”

“Sure. Whatever.” She still didn’t remember anything after eating a falafel, which had been amazing, and thoughts of food were making her stomach rumble.

“That’s what we tell Benton.” He stood and stepped in front of her, towering over her. “First, we’ll go to the crime scene and check it out. Tell Benton after we see the evidence to make sure it supports our story.”

“And if it doesn’t?” she said. He stepped closer, forcing her to lean against the exam table or risk touching him.

“Don’t borrow trouble.” He took another step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes focusing on her lips. “We’ll tell Benton after I give the all-clear. You understand?”

Cynthia had to tilt her head back to catch his gaze, because he’d trapped her between him and the table. “Benton has…has my…back,” she stuttered. “My team—”

“Will have conflicting loyalties. I won’t.”

Charlie lifted her by the waist, sitting her ass back on the padded exam table. It was a relief, because now she didn’t have to crane her neck to meet his gaze, but her thighs had automatically spread to accommodate his body. Now, with him so close, his hands touching her, all sorts of naughty thoughts popped into her head. Instead of pivoting back to his tiny chair, Charlie’s fingers dug into her waist and his eyes narrowed. He seemed to see something in her expression that pissed him off. Then his gaze dropped to her lips and her confusion cleared. She knew exactly what he was seeing. What she’d not thought to hide.

Her desire. She wanted him, was fighting it, and… He knew.

What he couldn’t know was his nearness was dredging up every arousing dream she’d suffered through since their kiss months ago. In those dreams, she didn’t have to wonder what would have happened if Charlie hadn’t rejected her kiss. Her dreams were full of wonderful, happily-ever-afters, but inevitably she’d wake frustrated, because they were only dreams, and she knew Charlie’s rejection had been for the best. Those months ago, he’d broken the kiss off, but she should never have kissed him in the first place. And as much as Cynthia hated to admit it, that’s why Cynthia was truly embarrassed.

Now Charlie stood so close she could feel the heat of his body, and that made it impossible to hide her flushed cheeks, her rapid breathing and hungry eyes. Though Charlie’s demeanor shouted rejection, he didn’t step away, didn’t attempt in any way to dissipate the trigger prompting her arousal. His nearness.

He was too close, her mind shouted. Too male. Too fucking attractive to pretend she didn’t want him. Why was he doing this to her? Fearing he was moments away from forcing her to admit her attraction, she panicked. She tilted her chin up, putting her lips mere inches from his, thinking he’d panic, too, and step back.

“We kissing now?” she said, her tone dripping with belligerence. The only reaction she received was a miniscule tightening of the skin around his eyes. And…a flicker of hurt?

“Do you want me to kiss you?” It sounded like a threat, and for the first time ever, she saw resentment in his gaze…directed at her. He cupped her cheek and drew his thumb pad over her lower lip. “There was a time I couldn’t kiss you even if I’d wanted to. Couldn’t speak, lift a finger, or even wiggle a toe. Couldn’t hold you when you’d cried.” He dropped his hand to hers, gripping it. “Or squeeze your hand as you cried at my hospital bedside.” Charlie’s gaze moved from her lips to her eyes, and she saw his resentment fade. He was back to looking like the man she’d come to rely on. Just Charlie. Supportive, kind, strong Charlie. “I’m not that person anymore, Cynthia. Stop pushing me away.” After a last glance at her lips, he turned and sat in the corner again, leaving her breathless and confused.

Pushing him away? Is that what he thought she was doing? She was trying to save their friendship.

If she’d been alone in the room, she’d be clutching her chest, trying to settle her skipping heart. The man had a way of devastating her without even trying. There was a time, he’d said. Yes, she remembered it well. Watching her grieving parents struggle though burying a son, consoling a daughter, moving on with their lives. And Charlie. Sitting with him as he fought his paralysis and emotional hell as he suffered in a body that had become a prison of pain.

She remembered hours of resting her cheek on his hand, clutching his fingers, because they were the only part of him not bruised or abraded. She’d read aloud the complete works of Edgar Rice Burroughs in his hospital room. It took the whole Tarzan series and the John Carter of Mars series for Charlie to regain control of his limbs. They’d celebrated by starting Tolkien’s The Hobbit, and Charlie was sitting up by the time she’d reached Smaug hoarding treasures in the Lonely Mountain. Then her mother died of a heart attack almost a year to the day Terrance died, and her father stroked out two days later, leaving Cynthia alone.

Charlie became her security blanket. She’d become his burden. She owed him an apology, but couldn’t go there. So she settled on a less explosive olive branch. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand back. The paper crinkled under her butt, reminding her that they were back in a hospital again, holding hands.

Charlie’s cheek kicked up, but his eyes were sad. “Yeah? For what?”

“For always being there for me,” she said. He winked, and that was all it took to make her feel weepy.

A discreet knock on the door was a welcome distraction, and prompted Charlie to move away from Cynthia. Dr. Josephine Kepler stepped inside, making the small room feel even smaller. She was young, with dark hair twisted into a messy bun. Her white smock’s lapel was adorned with multiple ribbon pins.

“Good news,” Dr. Kepler said, her gaze directed at her clipboard. “CAT scan results indicate no concussion. No thrombosis, no fluid retention beyond what would be considered normal for minimal bruising. There’s swelling around the laceration, but it’s to be expected. It should remain tender for about a week, but scabbing indicates you’re healing quickly. You’re young, healthy.” She glanced up from the clipboard and flashed her brown eyes at Cynthia. “How exactly did this happen?” The doctor glanced at Charlie, as if maybe she was about to ask him to leave the room for privacy’s sake.

“The gym last night. Sparring.” Cynthia put up her fists and jabbed, illustrating sucker punches. “Ironic, right? Every injury I’ve ever had resulted from training, rather than using my skills to thwart bad guys.”

“Bad guys, huh?” Dr. Kepler smiled. “You were doing weapons training?”

“What?” Cynthia said. Dr. Kepler’s smile faded, and then she exchanged glances with Charlie again.

Charlie cleared his throat. “Cynthia, your laceration, and the bruising around it, is consistent with a pistol-whipping.”

“Ah. Yeah. That’s what I get for training with a newbie.” Cynthia donned a sheepish grin as she visualized a few more sucker punches…at Charlie’s jaw. Why had he kept that from her?

The doctor handed Cynthia a CD in a clear plastic case. “A copy of your CAT scan. I’ve written the name of a specialist on the disc, just in case you develop further symptoms.”

Good news dispensed, the doctor left, and moments later Cynthia hooked her Kate Spade pocketbook over her elbow, intent on getting the hell out of there. When she and Charlie stepped through the ER’s automatic glass doors into the parking lot, she threw him a glare.

“Pistol-whipped?” she said, not slowing her gait. “I was pistol-whipped, and you didn’t think I’d be interested? I thought I’d fallen and hit my head.”

“You had dirt all over you. You did fall.” When they’d reached his black Charger, he opened the passenger side door and waited for her to slide inside before closing it again.

When he was behind the wheel, she threw her hands in the air and then let them drop. “I was pistol-whipped. Someone got the jump on me. Don’t you think that’s something you should have told me?”

“I needed you at the ER. If I’d told you that, you’d have fought even harder to skip it.”

She tugged at her seat belt and buckled in. “You’re so damn controlling, you drive me crazy. This is good news. Someone else was at the crime scene with me, and probably killed those men.”

“We already knew that. The killer hit you over your head—”

“I didn’t know, because someone failed to tell me I was pistol-whipped.” She compressed her lips as he slipped the key into the ignition. “Maybe with my gun, too. We should dust it for prints.”

“No blood on the grip, so unlikely,” he said, putting the car into gear. “I looked when you tried to hand it over. Remember? When you thought you were a murderer?” He grimaced, looking all I told you so, as he checked his mirrors.

“It was discharged. Maybe someone other than me shot it. There could be prints. We need to check, access IAFIS. Charlie, we have to try.” He nodded, keeping his foot on the brake, holding her gaze as he waited for an opportunity to merge into traffic. “The vics were Coppola snitches,” she said. “Benton won’t lack suspects.”

“I’ll do it myself so we don’t flag anyone’s attention.” He drove, turning the wheel. “What are you thinking? Revenge killings?”

“Maybe, but the Coppola syndicate is as much a family as a business, and Dante Coppola turned state’s evidence, so why kill his underlings for doing the same?”

He glanced at her. “Call Benton and tell him we’re on our way. And nothing else.”

“You are so bossy. Tell me to breathe. I dare you.” She pulled her seriously charge-deprived iPhone from her pocket, plugged it into his car charger, and dialed. “People will wonder why we’re arriving together.”

“Benton already knows I brought you to the ER.”

“Exactly,” she said. “People will wonder.” Charlie shook his head. He wasn’t saying it, but she knew he was thinking Who cares? “No one knows we know each other, Charlie. Everyone believes we’re acquaintances. And work acquaintances, at that.”

He kept his eyes on the road. “Whose fault is that?”

“I’m not assigning blame.” Benton wasn’t picking up.

“I am.” He glanced at her, before shifting lanes.

“Don’t be like that,” she said. The call went to Benton’s voice mail. She disconnected the line. “I keep my private life private for a reason. It’s nobody’s business, and I don’t want to talk about Terrance.” He grimaced, keeping his eyes on the heavy traffic, which had bogged down. It was forcing him to brake repeatedly, and all the stops and starts were making Cynthia’s stomach queasy.

“I’m not Terrance,” he said.

No, but they both knew there was no explaining Charlie without delving into what happened ten years ago. Her late brother and Charlie were intertwined forever in her head, and every decision she’d made since the accident somehow could be tracked back to that day. “You know what I mean,” she said.

“Yeah, I do.” And his grimace told her he wasn’t happy about it. The traffic began to move again, thankfully.

“You have to admit that suddenly informing everyone we’re best friends will put us in the spotlight, and prompt questions,” she said. “I’m on the cusp of being implicated in a murder case, Charlie, and you’re the department’s forensic pathologist. It will look suspicious.”

“But I am your best friend, Cynthia. It’s the truth.” He shook his head, grimacing. “I shouldn’t be touching this case with a ten-foot pole, and neither should you. Why don’t you take a medical leave? Your head injury is perfect cover. I’ll take some time off, hand this off to a substitute M.E. Benton and the team can field this case without us. Sooner or later we’ll be kicked to the curb anyway. They’ll find your prints, your DNA, and even a half decent prosecutor will use that to crucify you during evidentiary proceedings. Add suspected tampering with evidence? They’ll fry you.”

“You’re right,” she said. The right thing to do was to leave this case, her future, her freedom, in the hands of Benton and the team.

He glanced at her. “But that’s not what we’re going to do, is it?” he said. No, because she was innocent, and she needed to know what happened last night. That didn’t mean Charlie had to be involved. In fact, his idea of taking time off and leaving town sounded perfect. “Our involvement could kill whatever case Benton builds,” he said. “We’re officially radioactive.”

“I know.” If she was guilty. Which she wasn’t. Hello? Wasn’t it his job as best friend to keep pointing that out?

“So, we help Benton. Make sure we don’t ruin his case.” There he went using that “we” word again.

“Not we, Charlie. That would mean putting your career on the line,” she said. “I can’t allow it. Why don’t you take some—”

“Your life is on the line.” He glanced at her, his eyes intense. “You witnessed murders. There is no scenario that doesn’t include me watching your back.”

“I blacked out. I don’t know anything.”

“The killer doesn’t know that.” His hands gripped the wheel like he was strangling it, though his speed stayed steady, and his eyes were firmly on the road.

“Then why did he leave me alive if he thought I could ID him?”

“I don’t know. Believe me, I wish I did.” He visibly reined in his jacked emotions, inhaling sharply. “And until I do, I need you protected, or I can’t function.” He glanced at her. “Let’s make a deal. When you’re not buddied up with one of your FBI team members, you’re with me.”

“I can’t—” She ran her fingers through her drying hair, feeling the flyaway strands, feeling harassed.

“Your instinct is always to push me away. I’m protecting you, even if you don’t want it.”

“Of course I want you!” As soon as the words left her mouth, she cringed, because yeah, she did want him, more than she’d ever wanted a man in her life. “I meant to say it.” She sank deep in her seat, folding her arms over her chest. “I want it.”

The silence in the car pressed down on her until she couldn’t resist glancing at him, only to see that a calm had settled over his features. His shoulders were relaxed, and when he took the turn at the stoplight, Charlie almost seemed his old self again as their car approached the hustle and bustle of the crime scene. He seemed confident, indomitable.

“We tell Benton nothing until we clear you, solidify your alibi best we can. Hopefully we can get that done today,” he said. “And then we work the case. You stay with me or with one of your team at all times. We clear?” He glanced at her until she nodded.

She’d nodded, because she was afraid, and he’d convinced her his way was the safest way to protect Charlie and the FBI task force’s careers.

“We work the case,” she said. “Find this killer.”

“Yeah. That means we need to protect ourselves,” he said, glancing between her and the road. “Do this right.” She arched a brow, having lost the thread of his point. “This.” He used his right hand to indicate her and then him. “Technically, this is collusion, and that’s an avenue the DA can pursue to create a conspiracy case against us, maybe even implicate Benton and the team. Not good.” His expression gave her no indication of where his mind was at.

“What are you saying?”

“We need to get married, Cynthia.”