The Departed

by Shiloh Walker

  Dez continued to stare at him, her eyes suspicious. He held her gaze, refusing to look away. She finally swore and broke the stare. He held out a hand and said, “Truce?”

  She shot him a dirty look.

  “Like hell. Let’s get this over with so I can get the hell away from you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DEZ ignored the man next to her.

  She wasn’t up to anything else just then. Bad enough that she was in the car with him, bad enough that she knew she couldn’t get away from him yet, get away from this town…she wasn’t ready to look at him or think about anything remotely personal. So she ignored him. She’d stripped herself bare—again—and it had gotten her nothing.

  Not that she’d expected anything different.

  Not from Taylor Jones. Yeah, he had a heart under that ice-cold exterior of his, but damned if he knew how to show it. He wasn’t going to change.

  So she’d do her job. Then she’d get out of town. Get away from him. Let another ghost pull her in, suck her dry. Sighing, she rested her head against the window and closed her eyes, the bone-tired exhaustion sucking at her, trying to pull her into sleep, even though the car ride lasted only minutes.

  The car came to a stop and she straightened in the seat, pressing her fingers to her eyes and rubbing at them. It didn’t do anything to get rid of the gritty ache there, or the throbbing that had taken up residence behind.

  “When was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?” Taylor asked, his voice low and soft in the silence of the car.

  “What do you care?” she asked wearily.

  “Can you answer the question?”

  In response, she unbuckled the seat belt, but before she could climb out, he hit the locks for the door. Clenching her jaw, she stared mutinously ahead at the brightly lit house. The cops were still there, in a careful, controlled mess around the Donnelly household. But she didn’t see any sign of a new car. Had his parents ever shown up? Did they even know yet?

  “We’ve got a job to do, Jones,” she said, forcing herself to keep her voice flat and cold. Wouldn’t do any good to yell. Wouldn’t do any good to get angry. She’d done that before and it changed nothing. “Let me out so I can do it. Then maybe I can try to get some sleep.”

  “Answer my question and I’ll let you out.”

  Groaning, she slumped forward and covered her face with her hands. “Months, okay? I haven’t slept well in months. It’s like I can’t. Are you happy? Now let me out.” She slammed her fist against the door, half expecting another question, but to her surprise, all she heard was the quiet snick of the locks.

  She slid out of the car and headed off into the darkness to the far right. That was where Tiffany had said she’d seen a shadow. Taylor wanted her to try to pick up something—if it was going to happen, it would be here, she figured.

  He caught up with her before she’d taken even a few steps. He paced along at her back and she shot him a narrow look. “This is probably a waste of time,” she said. “I’m not one of your bloodhounds.”

  “So you’ve said. But you do well enough. You catch emotion better than you think.” His face was mostly lost to the shadows, but the moonlight caught his hair, gilding it with silver.

  She looked away, tried not to think about how much she wanted to fist her hands in that hair again. It hurt to think about things like that—she knew she wouldn’t have it again. Need was a vicious ache, in her heart, in her belly. Throughout her entire body, it seemed. Why did she have to want things she couldn’t have? she wondered. Why?

  Doesn’t matter. In the end, it didn’t matter why. It just mattered that she couldn’t and she needed to get the hell over it. Muttering under her breath, she shoved a hand through her hair and stopped just outside the square of light cast on the ground by the busted garage window. Crossing her arms over her chest, she closed her eyes and lowered her shields.

  Anger—

  Determination—

  Fucking have to do it myself—

  Idiots—

  She swallowed and jerked her shields back up, thrown off a little by the strength and clarity of those lingering emotions.

  “Whoa.” She pressed a hand to her brow and glanced over at Taylor. “Yeah, somebody was here, all right. It’s a fucking mess of rage here. I’m not what you need, slick—you need one of your bloodhounds. But it’s going to fade before you get somebody in. Emotions this strong don’t last.”

  He stared at her, his gaze heavy and focused on her face. “Can you follow it?”

  “I can try,” she said. She sighed and pushed her fingers through her hair. “The question is, should I? We don’t know what we’re getting into out there, do we?”

  “Everything points to it being one kid. We even know who.” Then he looked away, his shoulders slumping. “But you’re right. We shouldn’t. Not just the two of us.”

  “The trail will be gone before we got anybody else out here.” Her gut clenched. Everything in her resisted the idea of letting that trail go cold. But she knew better than to wander blindly into the unknown.

  She looked toward the garage, then started toward the house, but as soon as she took a few steps, the trail already began falling apart. Not there, then. He didn’t head toward the house. She circled around, shields down. She shivered a little as she brushed too close to Taylor, automatically jerking shields up between them—hard to work that way with a shield between her and him but nowhere else, an added strain she didn’t need. But she had to do it.

  The trail was strong in one area only. A straight line toward the back of the house, off into a darkness so complete, she wouldn’t be able to see much of anything once they moved away from the house.

  “Back there,” she said quietly, looking at Taylor. Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingertips to them. Exhaustion battered her body and she wanted to sink to the cold ground and just curl up into a ball. Sleep for a week. Longer.

  Instead, she lowered her hands and continued to stare off into the darkness. “But there’s no way we can go back there. We’re not here. Officially. How do I explain I need to go nosing around back there in the dark?” She sighed and rubbed her neck. She wasn’t an idiot—she already knew the answer. “We come back. In the morning.”

  “The trail will be gone,” he said, his voice soft, close…only a whisper from her ear.

  She shivered and eased away. “Most likely. It won’t be strong enough for me to track, I know. But maybe I’ll pick up on something. It’s the best we have.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.” He reached up, curled his hand over her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  She just stared at him in the darkness, wishing she had the energy to argue. She didn’t, though. Wearily, she muttered, “Whatever, Jones. What the fuck ever.”

  As his hand closed around her arm, she jerked away. “I can walk just fine on my own,” she said, her voice cold.

  And she did. One foot after the other, away from the maw of darkness at her back, away from the garage that stank of violence and pain. And away from Taylor—and oddly, even though she kept her shields up, she thought she could almost feel his pain.

  But that couldn’t be right. If he was hurting, it would be like…well, maybe he was letting himself care. Any other time, he’d shoved all that emotion so far down deep, he couldn’t even feel it.

  So, no. He couldn’t be hurting. Not enough for her to feel it. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she stumbled on leaden legs toward his car. She just had to keep it together long enough to get away from him. That was all.

  Then she could fall apart. That was all she had to do.

  She slid into his car, still silently chanting that mantra. Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together…

  She managed to do it until they turned off the street.

  But the warmth of the car, combined with the strange way Taylor had of blocking out everything else, it numbed her. She
never should have felt comfortable enough to sleep in his presence—never. But she did. She was asleep within fifteen minutes. So deeply asleep, she didn’t even wake when he stopped the car. So deeply asleep, she didn’t wake at the sound of her name, or when he came around and lifted her in his arms.

  * * *

  PAYBACKS are a bitch…

  Taylor had no idea who’d coined that phrase, but whoever it had been, he or she had known exactly what they were talking about. Crouching next to Dez in the cold, dark night, he stroked his fingers down her cheek and waited for her to wake up.

  But all she did was turn toward him as much as the seat belt would allow, her lips parting on a sigh, her breasts rising and falling under the battered leather jacket she wore. He closed his eyes and focused on the ground, told himself to get a grip.

  Then he set his jaw and looked back up. “Come on, Dez. You need to wake up now,” he said, louder this time, keeping his voice flat and cold despite the fact that he was more than a little worried. Should she be this hard to wake up? Trying not to panic when she didn’t stir, he reached out and closed his fingers around her wrist, holding it lightly.

  Her pulse beat against his fingers, strong and steady. Her skin was warm against his. Under most circumstances, Taylor knew he wouldn’t want to have some of the so-called gifts his psychics had—he doubted he was strong enough to carry the burdens they did. But in that moment, he wished he had something that would let him connect with Dez, just long enough to make sure she was okay. He knew he could take her to the hospital, but wouldn’t he look like a fucking fool when it turned out she was just sleeping the sleep of the exhausted? Not that he really gave a damn if he looked like a fool, not for her. He was a fool when it came to her.

  But he couldn’t logically take her to the hospital when he suspected she was just exhausted. She’d just told him it had been months since she’d slept well. Months…

  Sighing, he eased closer and slid a hand into her pockets, checking for her keys. She couldn’t be a woman who carried a purse, couldn’t make it easy on him that way. And she couldn’t be easy enough to even have the keys in her coat pocket, either.

  Gritting his teeth, he freed her from the seat belt and rested a hand on her thigh, gingerly checking her right hip pocket. No. Not there. He felt the bulge of them in her left hip pocket and he mentally started to count as he eased in, twisting his body a bit so he could get to them without touching her any more than he had to.

  But then she turned in to him, tumbling against him, her face pressed to his neck, her body a warm, soft weight against his own.

  Aw, hell.

  He eased her back, keeping his hands on her arms even as she made a protest and tried to burrow back against him. “Shhh. It’s okay, baby. Just go back to sleep.” Because she was asleep, because he could, he pressed his lips to her brow before he pulled away, keys in hand. He shut the door and closed his fist around the keys, the jagged edges biting into his flesh. He welcomed the small bite of pain, hoped it might clear his head. It didn’t do much.

  Jogging up the walkway, he unlocked the door and used his master code on the alarm before he headed back out for Dez. He’d put her in bed, then he’d leave. Go home, pretend to sleep, then come back and they’d pretend like this night hadn’t happened.

  Everything still unresolved.

  He opened the door slowly but Dez was curled over the console now and her entire body was tense, trembling. Lines of strain bracketed her mouth and as he crouched by the door, she groaned, harsh and low in her throat.

  Scowling, he reached for her, working one arm under her legs, the other under her upper body. As he started to tug her closer, once more she turned toward him. Was it wishful thinking or did the tension in her body seem to fade? Was she suddenly more relaxed, curling against him, pliant and soft?

  Wishful thinking, he told himself. Just wishful thinking.

  She’d walked away, because he kept pushing her away, and damn it, he needed to figure out the right way to say what he felt when he looked at her or he was going to lose any chance he might have left with her. If he hadn’t already.

  You need to just forget about her, the ugly, cold voice of his conscience whispered. You don’t deserve a chance with her. Even if it were anything you should do, and you know it’s not…

  But the barriers between them, as far as what he should do and what he shouldn’t do, they were gone. Or mostly gone.

  * * *

  FIVE minutes later, he was settled on the edge of her bed, working her free of her coat, trying not to think about anything but that task. Once he was done with that, he dealt with the boots, focusing just on the boots. Not on the long legs clad in denim, not on the round curve of her hips, her ass, the breasts that had filled his hands so perfectly.

  He wasn’t going to think about the scar that marred her neck, or the way she’d stared at him all those months ago, that glint of challenge in her eyes as she said, It’s a scar, Taylor. A fucking scar. And I don’t mind it. Hell, I’ll wear it happily for the rest of my life. You know why? Because there’s a little girl who is alive.

  That scar, the sight of it was like claws in his gut, and she was happy to wear it, and he wasn’t going to look at it, or think about what happened that day when he brought her home from the hospital. Or what he did three days later. No, he was just going to put her boots down and cover her up, then get out of there.

  He managed to put the boots down, side by side, taking the time to make sure they were meticulously straight, the toes lined up perfectly. Then, still not looking at her, he grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed. Sheets rustled and from the corner of his eye, he saw her drawing up into a tight little ball, heard the ragged gasp of breath. It was dim in the bedroom, but he could see her face easily, thanks to the moonlight shining in. It fell in a silvery swath over her face and he could see the strain in the lines fanning out from her eyes, on her face. Saw her flinch, watched her mouth form the word No—

  One of her hands balled into a fist and she jerked, her back arching.

  The resolve to just get the hell out of there shattered and he crawled onto the bed, stroked a hand down her back. “Shhh. It’s just a dream, Dez. Just a dream,” he said softly.

  Blindly, she reached out and he caught her hand. “Sleep, baby.”

  “…can’t…”

  He stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her face. But her eyes were still closed. “Desiree?”

  She twisted on the bed, squirmed. “Everywhere—damn it.” Her voice was husky, heavy.

  “What’s everywhere?” he asked. He laid a hand on her cheek. “Open your eyes and talk to me.”

  She didn’t, though, and he realized she wasn’t really awake.

  “They are.” She sighed and curled closer to him. “All the time. They never stop talking to me anymore, Taylor. I can’t get away from them anymore…”

  He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. Guilt weighed down on him. This was his fault. She’d managed to balance things just fine for years, but then he forced her to walk away, and it had upset the balance she’d found. “Are they here now? Are they talking to you?”

  She was quiet. She was quiet for so long, he wondered if she’d slipped back into that dreamless sleep, but then she sighed. “No. I only hear you…”

  With a satisfied smile, the tension faded from her body and she sank back into a deep sleep.

  Taylor, unable to move, sat there.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FOR so many years, cold had been a part of Dez’s life. The departed felt cold. The long empty nights she spent following leads were often cold. She went home to a cold, empty bed and she awoke to a cold, empty house.

  She was more used to cold than warmth.

  So it was something of a shock when she drifted awake and found herself surrounded by warmth. She stiffened, the breath locking in her throat as she stared at the wall straight in front of her, unable to m
ove, hardly able to think.

  A hand rested on her hip and in that moment, as her mind tried to figure out just what in the hell was going on, it started to move, stroking upward. She shivered, feeling an odd tickling sensation in the wake of his hand.

  “It was a mistake insisting on the three months,” Taylor said quietly, his voice muffled against her neck.

  She lay still, not moving, hardly daring to breathe. Even when his hand rested on the curve of her nape, she didn’t move. “I knew it then, even if I couldn’t have made myself say it. I can say it now. It was a mistake…and I’m sorry.”

  Dez closed her eyes. Swallowing, she asked, “Why are you in my bed, Jones?”

  For the longest time, he was quiet. Then, finally, he pressed a kiss to her nape and replied, “Because I seemed to have a lot of trouble walking away from you last night. I needed to tell you that, needed to tell you I was sorry.”

  “Okay. You told me. You’re still in my bed.”

  He let go and she felt something fall across her neck. Reflexively, she caught it, but she didn’t look down because he’d caught her hip and started to tug, slowly. A gentle, unyielding pressure.

  She could have resisted it, but that would have felt more than a little childish. She settled for keeping her eyes closed—that was only a little childish, right? Even as she lay there clutching whatever it was in her hand, she kept her eyes closed. Even as Taylor guided her to her back and pressed a hand to her belly and even as her heart skittered and danced in her chest.

  She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t dare.

  “I have the hardest damn time putting you out of my head.” Taylor brushed his lips over her cheek.

  She had to bite her tongue to keep from hissing out a surprised gasp. Don’t listen to him. Whatever new game this is—

  Then his lips covered hers. Thought stopped. As his tongue stroked along the seam of her lips, Dez opened for him with a startled moan. What in the…