“You’re leaving?” she asked, raising her head off the pillow.
“I figured you’re stillprocessing.” I smiled, sliding my hand along the shape of her leg beneath the blankets.
“I am Ryan. I’m overwhelmed by all of this, but please stay,” she said sleepily. “For a little while.”
She fell asleep a little while after I agreed. Left alone with my own thoughts, I decided on a shower. Once under the hot jets of water, images of her filled my mind, but they weren’t the kind I wanted to be thinking. All I could think about was the look on her face when she sat in her kitchen as all the people she knew saw her raw and bare, beyond vulnerable. She held in more tears than she’d let out in front of everyone, and I was in awe of her strength in not crumbling completely.
She was ashamed and embarrassed, but she didn’t show any fear. She wasn’t afraid to be hurt or humiliated; she was upset about not being allowed to do the job she loved to do.
My shower didn’t last nearly as long as I wanted it to. Within minutes, the warmth of the water was gone and what felt like ice pelted me from above.Damn old houses. I’d have to talk to Dean about checking on the hot water heater.
I dried off quickly and redressed in the clothes I’d flung all over her kitchen. Looking at the table, I laughed, loudly. I’d forever remember her on it with her perfect ass in the air sliding over me every time we’d sit there from now on. Just wait until we had Dean here for dinner; I wouldn’t stop with the uncomfortable jokes. I lived for making people feel awkward.
Roaming around the apartment, I scanned over the belongings she had that weren’t ruined from the break-in. One entire wall of her living room was lined with shelves, holding books and picture frames, even some small pewter figurines. There was a triangular desk in a corner, home to her laptop, strangely untouched in the home invasion.
Looking at it from the corner of my eye, I noticed a yellow manila envelope on the floor—between the back of the desk and the wall. I pulled it up and turned it over, reading the label on the front.Brad Dietz, Private Investigator. Inside were another two pictures we’d missed. Personal ones, where Brooke’s back was arched and her eyes were lidded, straddling a faceless man in the backseat of a car.Who ever had these photos done was having Brooke followed by a PI?
Angrily, I tossed the pictures down on the desk. A strange red tint stuck to the tips of my fingers, and I brought them to my nose and sniffed. Spray paint. The same spray paint that was tagged all over her walls. I’m sure they’ll find prints on the evidence they brought to the lab. That shit was viciously sticky.
But why was someone following her?What did it have to do with Captain Anderson or the cadets? Was Anderson following her? Pulling out my phone, I quickly Googled Brad Dietz and saved his address in my browser. Was Anderson tailing her to see what she was doing? Who she was spending her time with? Was he jealous? Could the same person have killed the cadets or were they unrelated?
A soft creak in the wood floorboards caught my attention. When I looked up, Brooke was standing in the doorway, watching me. She wore a huge sweater that hung off one shoulder and a pair of ripped up jeans, making her look child-like and vulnerable.
“What are you looking at?” Her voice was haunted.
“More pictures,” I shrugged, pointing to where I’d found them.
She didn’t like that.
“Not the pictures really, the back of them. And the envelope I found them in.”
“Envelope?” Her hand clasped at her chest.
“Yeah, it’s got an address for a private investigator. I think maybe Anderson was having someone follow you.”
She stiffened, muscles suddenly rigid. “It doesn’t make sense,” she whispered the words, as if she herself was having trouble believing them.
“I don’t like this Brooke.”
Her skin paled and outside the whoop of a siren chirped.
