“I am.” He popped bread in the toaster, leaned on the counter. “I wasn’t sure about that, until you. But I’m built for all of this. From my point of view, so are you. So, we’ll see.”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
He studied her, nodding slowly. “Maybe not on all the details. Maybe not. But I’m looking at you, Abigail, I’m listening to you, and where it counts, you’re who I think you are.”
“That’s not…” She nearly told him that wasn’t her real name. How could she become this involved, this reckless? “That’s not something you can know.”
“I know that’s not what you were going to say. I’m good at reading people. It comes with the territory. I know you’re scared of something, or someone. You’ve taken a hard hit or two along the way, and done what you can to shield up. Can’t blame you for it.”
Light poured in the window at his back, shot a nimbus around his hair. Dark hair, still tumbled from the night, from her hands.
“I don’t know what to say to you.”
“You’ve got a lot of secrets behind your eyes, and a hell of a lot of weight on your shoulders. I’m going to keep believing that one day you’re going to share those secretsand that weight with me, and we’ll figure out the rest once you do.”
She only shook her head, turned away to put the omelets on plates. “We shouldn’t be talking about this, especially now. You’ll be late for your meeting, and I have two new contracts to work on.”
“Congratulations. Why don’t I pick something up for dinner tonight?”
“I have the lasagna.”
“Even better.”
She put the plates down when the toast popped, then sat with a jerk of temper. “I didn’t invite you.”
“We’re past that.”
“I don’t know how to be past that.”
He brought the toast over, set a slice on her plate as he took his seat. “This looks great.”
“You change the subject, or you agree rather than debate. Because you’re so certain you’ll get your way in the end.”
“You’re good at reading people, too.” He took a bite of omelet. “Tastes great. You could make a living.”
“You’re frustrating.”
“I know it, but I make up for it by being so good-looking.”
She didn’t want to smile but couldn’t help it. “You’re not that good-looking.”
He laughed and ate his breakfast.
When he’d gone, she considered her options.
She couldn’t tell him, of course, but hypothetically, what were the probable results if she did?
She was wanted for questioning in the murders of two U.S. Marshals. As a law enforcement official, he’d be obligated to turn her in. It was highly doubtful she’d live to give testimony. The Volkovs would find a way to get to her and eliminate her, most likely through one of their law enforcement plants.
But, hypothetically again, if Brooks believed her, and believed her life would be forfeit should he do his duty, he would be less inclined to fulfill that duty.
She tried to imagine being able to talk to him about John and Terry, about Julie, and everything that had happened since those horrible nights. She simply couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t theorize on how it might feel to be able to talk to him, to anyone, to share the burden.
He was kind, she thought, and dedicated to justice, to doing the right thing for the right reasons. In many ways, in basic, vital ways, he reminded her of John.
If she told him, if he believed her, he might be, like John, driven to protect her, to help her. And wouldn’t that put his life at risk?
Yet another reason to keep her own counsel, to go on as she’d gone on for a dozen years.
