“No. I lift. Why?”
“Do you have gnarly calluses?”
“The worst. I’m surprised you didn’t notice them last night when I was fondling your body.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“Between the gym and constantly washing my hands at work, my skin is terrible. I moisturize. I swear I do, but I have perpetually rough hands.”
I grinned. “They can’t be that bad if I didn’t notice.”
“You must have been lost in the moment because I assure you, they’re awful. Why do you ask?”
“Do you pick at them?”
“I try not to. Tear those buggers off and you’ll probably bleed and make your next session more painful. They’re hard to ignore though.”
“Shit. You’ve effectively obliterated another pesky thought.”
“I feel like I should apologize.”
“No. It was nothing.”
Silence.
I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted to return to the previous evening. I wanted to bask in the glorious time we’d shared. In the newness of this relationship. Was it a relationship? I wanted to get fully naked with Dominique and explore him both physically and emotionally. Maybe that set me apart from other men, but I’d spent my entire life longing for a connection like the one that was developing between us. I wanted to savor it and nurse it into being.
It had been uncomfortable sharing about my past the previous night, but I needed Dominique to trust me, to know me. By exposing my injured heart, I hoped it would encourage him to share his story too. His past didn’t frighten me. I hoped someday he would let me in.
Before we got off the phone, I took a chance and asked, “Are we dating?”
I could hear Dominique’s smile. “I don’t usually entertain hookups, so…”
“So we are?”
“We are.”
“Excellent. I really should go,” I muttered miserably.
“I’ll see you tonight, Kobe.”
“Have a good day… boyfriend.”
Rue was waiting forme when I got to the bullpen. She waved me over, insisting I pull up a chair. Instead of asking how my interview with Fatemeh went, she dove right into her most recent discovery.
“I found out why Ford was at the university.”
“Oh?”
“Remember how his mother mentioned that he attended weekly therapy? Well, upon going through his phone, our IT specialist found regular appointments on the calendar app. Ford saw a guy named Dr. Fortune from five to six p.m. every Thursday night. The doctor’s office is on the other side of the canal, near the bank where Ford worked. It didn’t seem like an unreasonable distance from his home, so I called Ford’s mother to see how he got to work and back. She confirmed he didn’t own a vehicle and walked most places. He didn’t like the confines of public transport and only used it if the weather was particularly bad.
Rue pulled up a map on her laptop. She zoomed in to cover the area in question and ran her finger along a suggested path. “If Ford took the shortest route from the doctor’s office to home, it would go right through campus. I suspect he cut through the quad regularly. Every Thursday night.”
“Like clockwork. Shit, and our perp knew it.”
“Yep. Ford would have been crossing the quad at approximately six thirty, which is within the window for time of death, according to Dr. Chevalier’s report. We figured Navid’s morning runs were known to our unsub, and I suspect Ford’s weekly appointments were as well. These kills were meticulously planned.”
“Our unsub has an agenda, Rue. These men were targeted for a reason.”
