“Maybe not,” I force out, taking a quick step back in case just being in his gravity will pull me down to my knees without my consent. “But Melissa Parker’s kidnapping is. The assault on Ezra Jordan is. And the fact that everyone connected to those cases leads back to you…” I let the sentence trail off, watching for a crack in his stony facade.
But this man’s poker face could make a Vegas dealer weep.
“If you have questions, I suggest you speak to my lawyer.”
“Barnes was not helpful.”
“Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse.”
“You promised me the truth.”
“That was yesterday. Today is—a new day.”
The catch in his voice causes me to frown. Rooke is too good at suppressing his emotions, butsomethingjust happened.
Something important.
“Look…” I summon the last dregs of my courage and try for a smile. “We both want the same thing.” I shrug, hooking a thumb behind my belt loop like I seduce men all the time. “Why are we making this so fucking hard?”
Rooke smiles, but there’s nothing sexual about it. It’s a cold, cruel smile, like he’s about to crush a bug under his heel.
“The best things in life are worth fighting for,” he says, but it sounds rote, like it’s a line he uses all the time.
His eyes flicker away from me, and he scrapes a hand through his hair as he tilts his head, like the conversation is boring him.
I’m losing him again, and I have nothing left to lure him back with.
I’m almost thankful when my radio crackles again, welcoming an excuse to gather my thoughts.
I hold up a finger and turn away slightly to check the transmission. It’s mostly static, the dying storm fucking with the signal.
Until a few fragments burst through.
“—all units—10-54—23 Pinnacle Lane?—”
Possible dead body.
23 Pinnacle Lane.
I know that address. I wrote it down in my?—
My hand pats my empty pocket.
Damn it.
“—multiple victims?—”
“Everything okay, Fox?” Rooke asks from the sofa. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, hands meshed and dangling down.
“—Jordan residence?—”
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
I spin back toward the room, hand moving to my sidearm on instinct?—
—but it’s not there anymore, because I left it in the fucking car.
Rooke’s already moving. He closes the distance between us in two strides, and I barely get my arms up before he’s on me.
