Price remained standing beside him. “The sooner we lock the timeline down, the better.”
“No,” Leland said immediately.
Price’s gaze shifted toward him. “Hale—”
“You’ve got the suspect in custody, the scene is secured, and there’s enough evidence to keep him buried for the foreseeable future,” Leland cut in evenly. “She’s exhausted. You can get your formal statement tomorrow.”
Price crossed his arms. “Memories get less reliable the longer we wait.”
“And trauma victims stop cooperating entirely when they’re pushed too hard,” Leland countered.
That brought a brief silence.
Honestly? Even if they insisted, Julia didn’t think she could. Her head hurt. Her body ached. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the photographs of women who weren’t as lucky as her lined neatly along a wall. The thought of that lock of hair tied with ribbon, her own photo o be added to the collection made her feel sick. Her hand rose to her temple, feeling the strands inches shorter than the others. That was how close she’d come.
A shudder swept through her, not violent but impossible to suppress. Agent Keene saw it, his eyes sympathetic. But Leland felt it. He shifted closer, arms flexing tighter.
“I’ll bring her in tomorrow,” he said.
Not up for discussion. The decision had already been made.
Keene studied him briefly before rising to his feet. “Tomorrow morning,” he agreed.
Price looked considerably less satisfied with the arrangement, but he didn’t argue further and walked away with his partner.
“Thank you,” Julia whispered.
The words barely made it out before her body sagged against him, too tired to hold her head up.
“I’m taking you home,” he said, rising with her in his arms.
She clung to his neck and let her head fall to his shoulder, a soft breath slipping out.
Heads turned as Leland carried her through the crowded marina. Uniformed officers stepped aside while reporters surged forward behind the barricade, camera flashes harsh in the darkness.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“Was this the work of the serial stalker?”
“Mr. Devlin! How long have your investigators been involved?”
Leland ignored it all, made easier by the team closing ranks around them. Dev and Alec moved ahead, clearing a space through the crowd while Rhys and Callan flanked behind them, scanning constantly.
Without breaking stride, Leland stepped over the yellow police tape. Held securely against his chest, Julia buried her face in the side of his neck, shutting everything out.
***
He took her home—not to her place but his, a decision made somewhere between the SUV and his front door without discussion or explanation. Julia didn’t argue; she didn’t have theenergy. The truth was, she didn’t want to be alone. From the way Leland still held onto her hand, she didn’t think he could bear it either.
The house was dark when they stepped inside, untouched since they’d left it. Leland didn’t bother with more light than he needed, guiding her down the hall with a sure hand that said letting her slip away wasn’t an option.
As far as she was concerned, it wasn’t.
“Shower?” he asked.
Her first instinct was to say no; she just needed to sleep. But she felt the phantom pressure of Strickland’s fingers moving through her hair, the cold snick of scissors, the strange weightlessness where a piece of her had been taken. The smell of him still lingered on her skin and clothes—boat fuel, oil, and his cologne, cloying with a synthetic sweetness that made the other smells worse in combination. She’d been trying not to notice it since they left the dock. She hadn’t succeeded once.
“Yes,” she said.
