Clean. That was one way to describe it. Empty was more accurate. A bed, a dresser, a lamp. Nothing personal. Nothing that made it a home.
Because this apartment wasn’t a home. It was just a place Carson slept between shifts. A holding pattern while he waited for the next case, the next victim to save, the next chance to make up for failing Lily.
“I’m going to make coffee,” he said. “You want some?”
“Please.”
She followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he measured grounds into the ancient coffeemaker. He could feel her watching him. Could sense the questions she wasn’t asking.
“You can ask,” Carson said without turning around.
“Ask what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking so loudly I can practically hear it.”
A small laugh escaped her. “I was just wondering...do you live alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Ever been married?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
She was quiet for a moment. “That’s a lot of nos.”
“I’m not good at relationships.” Carson turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. “I work too much. I get too involved in cases. I’m not great at letting people in.”
“I noticed the photo,” Nora said softly. “You and your dad. At your graduation.”
Carson’s jaw tightened. He didn’t talk about his family. Didn’t let people into that part of his past. But something about the way Nora looked at him—understanding without pity—made the words come easier.
“That was right after I graduated from the academy. Dad was proud. But you can see it in our faces—my sister Lily had been missing for two years by then. Every family moment was shadowed by her absence.”
“I’m sorry.” Nora’s voice was gentle. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“It’s like having a wound that never heals. You learn to function around it, but it’s always there.”He crossed his arms, defensive. “That’s why I became a cop. Why I push so hard on cases like yours. If I can’t save Lily, maybe I can save someone else’s sister. Someone else’s daughter.”
“Someone else,” Nora repeated quietly. “Is that all I am to you? Just another victim to save?”
The question hit harder than it should have. Carson met her eyes and saw the vulnerability there. The need to understand what this was between them.
He should lie. Should tell her yes, she was just a case. Keep the boundaries clear. Stay professional.
But looking at her—standing in his kitchen, trusting him with her safety, asking him to be honest—he couldn’t do it.
“No,” he admitted. “You’re not just another victim.”
“Then what am I?”
Those doe-like eyes took hold of him completely, and Carson felt the internal pull to cross the room and take her into his arms—
The coffeemaker beeped, breaking the moment. Carson shifted gears fluidly and turned to pour two mugs, buying himself time to figure out what the hell to say.
What was Nora Bell to him? A victim he was protecting. A woman who made him feel things he shouldn’t feel. Someone who looked at him like he was worth believing in.
