“Oh,” I chuckle. “How silly of me.” Heat creeps into my cheeks.
The detective settles back into his chair and rubs a hand over his face. He is pretending the outburst never happened, but the slight tremor in his fingers gives him away.
I take a slow sip of the latte. The warmth soothes my throat, but it does nothing for the tightness in my chest.
Zayne’s eyes flick to the steam rising from my cup.
Not to the detective, or the photos.
Just me.
“Let’s try this again,” the detective mutters as he opens the file again. “Let’s see if this one jogs your memory.”
He spreads the photographs across the table once more.
Zayne doesn’t look down this time.
His eyes remain locked on me, unblinking.
My stomach flips.
“Focus,” the detective snaps. “On the pictures, not her.”
Zayne smiles.
It is small, barely a shift of his lips, but it crawls across my skin and raises goosebumps along my arms.
The detective leans forward. “What’s so funny now?”
Zayne finally lowers his gaze to the photographs. He taps one with his finger.Once.
Then he looks back at me and taps again.
The same rhythm he used with Jane Doe.
My mouth goes dry.
I clear my throat.
The detective lifts the photograph and walks out of the room, as if he noticed something I somehow missed. I stay where I am, trapped in the stare of a monster who refuses to look away.
I swallow and adjust my glasses. I part my lips, ready to ask anything just to break the silence, when the detective reappears.
He stops at the doorframe, leaning in just enough to see me.
“Dr. Beckett, you coming?”
My job is to get inside the mind of the man sitting in front of me, not to be part of the investigation itself. But maybe this is part of it after all.
“Yes,” I say as I stand.
I walk toward the door and grab my coat from the hanger beside it. Just as I reach the threshold, a deep, sharp, husky voice stops me.
“You forgot your coffee, freckles,” he says. “Again.”
He chuckles softly.
I try not to smile.
