Page 72 of Nowhere Good

“Yes. I f-f—found, I—” She ran her hands aggressively over her face. “God, what is wrong with me? I can’t even speak.”

“It’s okay. Take your time.” He tried to sound as patient as he could, but he felt like he was on the tip of a roller coaster, waiting for it to drop. He was desperate to hear her words. What do you know, Claire?

“I—I—f—”

But she didn’t finish her sentence. Maybe this was too much pressure—he was asking too much of her. At the same time, her reaction was bizarre, out of character. He’d never seen her stutter like this.

When tears fell down her cheeks, he panicked. What did he just do?

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. On instinct, he lifted his hands, but stopped himself from touching her. “I’m just trying to find the truth.”

“Oh, God. I can’t—I can’t breathe.”

She pushed out of the car and fell into the night, stumbling onto the driveway. Seth hurried out after her as she clutched onto her chest and heaved for air. He appeared before her, hovering his hands over her arms, wondering if he should touch her, but he was afraid he’d cross a boundary or make it worse.

“I—I don’t know what to do,” he managed. He hated the way his own voice sounded, so shaky and uncertain.

He’d caused this, so he needed to fix it.

Think, damn it.

When she gasped for another breath, his body made the choice for him. He placed his hands on her arms. It came naturally, bringing back memories from what felt like an entirely different life. His ex-girlfriend used to have panic attacks, bad ones, and this would help. All she’d needed was to be held and told it’d be okay.

Claire wasn’t his girlfriend, but she didn’t push him away. Her body trembled and threatened to collapse, but he supported her weight.

“You can breathe. It’s okay.”

“N-no.” She practically hiccupped the word. “I can’t, it’s so cold—I can’t breathe—”

“You can.” When she didn’t resist him, he gently pulled her toward him until her forehead rested on his chest. He placed his palm on the small of her back, holding her close enough to smell her shampoo—like strawberries and summer—and close enough to feel her bones shake like she’d been dunked in a bucket of ice, despite the night’s warmth. His heart squeezed.

What happened to you?

He tried to keep it together, to be a calm presence for her. And as she relaxed, he did too. The moonlight above trickled over them, the crickets trilled from the garden nearby, and the world outside—and all the ugliness in it—seemed to fade.

“See? You’re okay,” he whispered.

When her breathing fully calmed, he let her go. She peeled herself from him and rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms, her face splotchy and red. Selfishly, he missed the feeling of her body against his, and he wished he’d held her tighter, less clinically, just to know what it was like. She looked at him, mortified.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m sorry—I have to go.”

She fled from him. On impulse, Seth snatched her wrist and stopped her. She stared back at him with big green eyes, brimming with tears. His actions confused even him.

He didn’t get handsy with people. Especially not women. Especially not on a case.

Yet he didn’t let go. Her wrist felt small and cold in his hand, but it was growing warmer by the second. Seeing the victim earlier—and thinking she was Claire—rattled him, and he resisted the urge to squeeze her tighter. She kept staring at him, rightfully waiting for answers.

“Listen, I need you to let me check inside your place. Otherwise, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

She frowned, her voice still panicky as she said, “What? You think the killer’s here?”

“I don’t know where he is or what he’s capable of,” he said, trying to mask his true fear. Realizing he was still touching her, he dropped her wrist. She held it with her other hand and took a wary step back from him.

“If Dillon comes home, he’ll freak,” she said.

“It’ll only take a sec, then I’ll leave. I promise.”

She chewed on her lip and bounced on her heels. “Fine. Come in.”