Light Within Me

by Fall, Carly

  Maybe he was new to the Reno PD and she had briefly seen him when she visited there. She knew just about all the cops. Hell, she had even dated a few. She hadn’t heard any rumblings of a new guy in town, though, and she was certain that a man like him would have made her turn her head, even if she had seen him just in passing. Perhaps he was an outside investigator?

  She had to find out who the guy was. Maybe she could get an interview with him on the murders—sort of an outside perspective instead of the “no comment” the cops always threw her way. If he were new to the Reno PD, she would be getting an earful of no comment. But if not, this might be the piece she needed to save her job. And if she met him face to face, she would probably be able to figure out where she had seen him.

  She reached for the phone and hit the number-four speed dial—a direct line to the detective’s office at the Reno PD. Not many people had the number, but dating a cop or two had its perks.

  “Summers.”

  Shit. Just the person she didn’t want to talk to. Tim Summers, her ex-boyfriend as of a week ago. The breakup had been somewhat mutual, but more her than him.

  “Hi, Tim,” she said.

  “Abby? Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, baby. How you been?”

  They chatted briefly about nothing. She really hated these small-talk conversations. She wasn’t good at them and considered them a waste of time. But she had found out with experience that sometimes they were necessary.

  “So what can I do for you, Abby?”

  She felt strange asking her very new ex-boyfriend about information on another man who had caught her interest in a photograph at a crime scene.

  “Well, I was hoping I could talk to Detective Wilson,” she said.

  There was a pause. “Is this professionally?” Like it was any of his business. She almost said as much, but remembered this was one of the reasons why they had broken up. The guy had a jealous streak a mile wide.

  “Yes, Tim. I’m looking at some photographs from the murder scene yesterday. I see he caught the case, and I wanted to talk to him about it.”

  Another pause. “Hang on.”

  A click, and she was forced to listen to elevator music that sounded like it had been composed by a tone-deaf five-year-old. She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. She felt a headache coming on.

  “Wilson,” the voice barked, making her jump.

  “Hello, Detective,” she said, “my name’s Abby—“

  “I know who you are, Abby. You broke my boy Tim’s heart last week. Guy has been useless ever since you dumped him.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say to that. She figured she didn’t need to go into the details of the relationship, like how his boy Timmy bored her to tears, literally, and she wondered if she would ever meet someone she felt any type of connection to. And how she felt she was slowly, but surely, slipping into a depression that she wasn’t certain she would emerge from. She was terribly lonely and just wanted to feel like she fit in somewhere—anywhere. She was an unhappy nomad, without a clan or a real friend, who desperately needed to stop dating cops and find a therapist. Yes, better to ignore Detective Wilson’s statement about Timmy boy’s heart simply because she didn’t want to spill the toxic ooze that was clogging her own.

  “So what do you want?” the detective asked after a pause. Okay, there wouldn’t be any small talk with this one, which was fine.

  “Well, I was looking at the crime scene photos from the murder yesterday and—“

  “No comment.”

  “I wanted to know—“

  “No comment.”

  “Listen, I just—“

  “Abby, do I need to spell it out for you? N. O. Comment.”

  She took a deep breath, tired of the asshole cutting her off. Yes, she might be on the precipice of a depression, but she still had a little fire kindling in her gut.

  “If you would quit being so rude and let me finish my sentence, you would understand that I’m not trying to get any details of the investigation, Detective,” she said coolly.

  He paused. “Then what do you want?” She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was curious, as well as suspicious.

  “I’m looking at these photos, and there was a big guy there with dark hair. I have a picture of you talking to him. Who is he?”

  The detective burst out laughing. “You’re calling me to get the name of the big boy at the crime scene? Jesus, Abby. Let my Timmy’s heart heal before you move on to the next one.”

  Abby felt her face flush, which caused her tongue to tie itself in knots. “It’s not—I’m certainly not . . . that wasn’t why . . .”

  The detective laughed again. “Relax, honey. Just riding you a bit. His name’s Noah. Last name is . . . where the hell did I put that card? Here it is. Johnson. Noah Johnson. He’s one of the best murder investigators and criminal profilers in the US. Let’s see . . . and his phone number is . . . hold on, I got it around here somewhere. Here it is . . .”

  As he read off the digits, Abby scrawled them down on a Post-it note. “Thank you, Detective,” she said, ready to get off the phone.

  “Sure, honey. Just don’t let Timmy see you out with the guy. He’s still got it for you. Noah may be big, but bullets still make holes in big guys.” She heard a click and hung up her own phone, deciding that she would pretend she didn’t hear that last line.

  She studied the picture of the detective and Noah. She squinted, certain she had seen him before. “But where?” she asked herself out loud.

  “Excuse me?” James said, then sniffed.

  She turned around, trying not to cringe outwardly. She forced a smile as she met his dark eyes. “Nothing, James. Just talking to myself.”

  Chapter 8

  Noah heard his cell phone ringing. He peeled one eye open and saw that he had indeed fell into the bed last night instead of the floor.

  High five.

  He was sprawled out on his bed sideways, his cell phone just a foot or so away. The fucking thing sounded like a blow horn to his alcohol-injured brain. He picked it up and looked at the number. It wasn’t one he recognized, so he put the phone back down and gingerly raised himself from the bed. He felt like he had been in a high-speed collision with a bus. Or a semi. Yeah, probably a semi.

  And the semi had definitely won.

  He groaned and made his way under the sheets. His phone started blaring again.

  “Fucking shit,” he muttered, and picked it up. Same number. Still didn’t recognize it. He decided to answer it anyway. If it was a wrong number, he could tell them to piss off and he could go back to his hangover.

  “What.”

  “Um . . . hi. I’m . . . I’m looking for Noah Johnson.”

  The female’s voice on the other end instantly calmed his raging headache. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

  “Yes?” Just keep talking, sweetheart, he thought. Keep talking until you have talked this beastly pain away.

  “Well, is he there?”

  Oh, right. Might be a good idea to let her know she was talking to the right person.

  “Sorry. Yes. I mean, I’m here. Shit. I’m Noah.” He had obviously destroyed some of the brain neurons that connected his thought process to his mouth.

  “Hi. My name’s Abby. I work for the Reno newspaper, and I was wondering if I could talk to you about yesterday’s murder. Just for a few minutes. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  The sound of her voice sent waves of relaxation and peace over his brain, bringing the pounding to a low hum. How did she do that? What was so special about her voice that it actually calmed a headache? It wasn’t until she stopped talking that he realized he was supposed to answer something.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Jesus, he was certain his tongue had grown hair overnight. “What did you say?”

  This time he listened to the words, and his brain worked well enough to put them together and actually hear something beyond the tone o
f her voice. And then it registered. Reporter. No. Negative. Abort the phone call. Hell, no.

  “No.” He made it a priority to stay away from anyone or anything having to do with news organizations. He needed to remain anonymous so he could continue his work somewhat under the radar.

  She sighed. It was a pretty sound, he decided, but it conveyed a lot of frustration.

  “Look, I don’t want details about the murder. I get that you can’t comment on an open investigation, and I won’t ask you to. Detective Wilson told me you’re a murder investigator, sort of freelance. I was interested in hearing more about your job, the work you do.”

  He shut his eyes. He bet Wilson also gave her his number. Prick. Sending a reporter on his trail did not bode well for the detective. Payback would be nothing short of a bitch. “No.”

  Just as he was about to hang up, she said, “Please, Noah.”

  It wasn’t a desperate plea, but a simple statement. It made his finger stop a second before it reached to the OFF button. Before he knew what he was doing, he was making plans for later in the afternoon to meet her at a small coffee shop he liked in Sparks, an area between Reno and Fernley.

  He hung up the phone and rolled over. Before sleep overtook him, he realized he didn’t know what she looked like. He figured it would work itself out. He shouldn’t be meeting her anyway. At least she had gotten rid of most of his headache, though, so he supposed he owed her.

  Chapter 9

  Abby arrived at the coffee shop twenty minutes before their scheduled appointment. She was nervous, but excited. She hadn’t been excited about anything in a very long time. She had a few so-called friends who she met for coffee every once in a while or saw in her spinning class, but she kept her guard up around them. She just never felt comfortable enough to open up to them. She still talked to her old college roommate, Candace, every now and then, who she considered a true friend. Candace had embraced Abby—weirdness, shyness, idiosyncrasies and all.

  Abby fell into the shy side, and she knew that the depression lingering around her was due to the fact that she was so terribly unhappy with everything in her life, both professionally and socially. Her heart was beating a little quicker, and she was looking forward to laying eyes on the man from the pictures. She was certain she knew him, but from where? That was the hundred-thousand-dollar question she didn’t know the answer to. She hoped she would be able to place him when she saw him face to face.

  So, yes, she was excited for this meeting.

  She had worked on her list of questions, making sure they did not point to any specific crime, but more about the man himself and his job. She wanted to know why he was in this line of work, and how he had gotten there. She thought it would make an excellent feature for the crime section of the newspaper, and maybe save her job. She also hoped that once she met him, she would know where she knew him from. The fact that she couldn’t place him was an uncomfortable itch that needed to be scratched. She thought about her weekly routines and where she went. Did she know him from the gym? The grocery store? The little bookstore over on Fourth she frequented? She just couldn’t figure it out.

  A black Escalade screeched to a halt in front of the coffee shop. As a tall, lumbering male got out of the car, she recognized him from the picture. Although she hadn’t been able to see his full face in the photo, she knew him by his size. She was shocked at the pure raw power that radiated from him. She watched as he walked into the shop and stood at the door for a minute looking around. He took off his sunglasses and looked around again. His dark eyes landed on her, but she found herself frozen in place. He ran his hand through the dark waves of hair, and she couldn’t help but notice the flawless face, the high cheekbones, the strong jaw covered with more than a day’s worth of scruff.

  His gaze met hers again, and she found it within herself to give him a quick wave. A small smile crossed his face as he walked toward her.

  No, he didn’t walk.

  He rolled.

  It was a wall of sheer energy moving toward her, and she had the thought that he resembled some force of nature, like a hurricane or tsunami.

  He wore jeans, leather boots, and a black shirt with Tapout blazed in white lettering hugging his wide chest. As he approached, she found herself thinking how she was woefully unprepared for this meeting. She was certain she was going to say something stupid, like that time she had met an old acquaintance at Target. He had told her about his new job and mentioned that it was very lucrative. She had stumbled around her words, then came up with the brilliance of, “You must be making good money!” Like she didn’t know what lucrative meant. Or the time Candace took her to a party and she was so nervous about meeting new people she had called the hostess by the wrong name the entire night. She had also spilled her vodka and cranberry juice on the white rug when she tripped over her own feet.

  Or maybe she would try to sit down in her chair, miss it, and end up sprawled on the floor, like she had done in one of her classes in college. And then there was the time she had met a man at a meeting and extended her hand to shake his. Only he was missing his hand. She became so flustered she offered to fist-bump instead of shake. The list of her social mishaps was long and painful for her to think about. And the more she thought about what she shouldn’t do, the more nervous she became.

  She felt herself shrinking within her body. She had to take a deep breath so she didn’t drown within her own insecurities that were bubbling up at a terribly fast rate, reminding her what a high level of idiocy she could attain in a very short period of time.

  Beyond her own uncertainties, there was that uncomfortable itch of recognition turned into an anthill of irritation scratching at her skin. Not only was she sure that she had seen him somewhere, but she felt a draw to him that bordered on insanity. Her heart began to beat harder, and she actually felt a sheen of sweat on her brow. She had the brief vision of the magnets in her middle school science class, slamming together when spaced just a few inches away.

  You are one.

  What?

  She tried to clear her thoughts as he approached the table. She would deal with the craziness in her head at another time. Right now she needed to focus. Say hi. Shake hands. Get the interview. Hopefully save her job. Then, mission accomplished.

  He arrived at the table, and somehow she got to her feet. “Noah?” she said, like she didn’t know.

  He nodded.

  She checked to make sure he had a hand to shake, then stuck hers out and gave him her best “I am a professional smile” she could muster. “I’m Abby. Thank you for meeting me.”

  As Noah took her hand, he felt as though he had just hooked himself up to a battery charger. His heart actually skipped a beat when their hands touched.

  He loved the feel of her soft, cool hand. It was so dainty and fragile inside his big paw. She stood about six feet tall, he noted, but she also had on high heels. Her bone structure was delicate, her skin a milky white with a splash of brown freckles over her nose and cheeks. Her mouth turned up slightly in a smile, and her full lips had just a hint of pink coloring. Her large brown eyes stared into his. When he let go of her hand, she shyly brushed a lock of auburn hair behind her ear and studied the table as she sat down.

  He watched her fold herself into her chair. Her skirt rode up a bit, and her long, slim legs tucked themselves under the table. He pulled the chair out across from her and looked her over again as he sat down. She might have been the prettiest thing he had ever laid eyes on. He let his eyes travel from her face to her neck and down to the V of her white blouse, which promised a glimpse of cleavage if he got the right angle.

  “So, um . . .” she began. He immediately adverted his eyes back to hers. By the look on her face, he had been busted.

  When their eyes met, her cheeks got a little pink. Was he making her blush?

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Have we met before? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  Noah let his eyes scan her face again. He would ha
ve most certainly remembered meeting her before.

  “I don’t think so,” he said quietly, holding her gaze. The color on her cheeks deepened, then she looked down at her pad of paper.

  After a moment of silence, she said, “So, I prepared a list of questions. Like I said on the phone, I’m not looking to get into specific crimes. My interest is in you.” Noah watched as she seemed to flinch at her own words. “I mean, I’m interested in your job, how you became a special investigator, what your job entails, etcetera. I envision it being a feature piece in the crime section of the paper.”

  He nodded and sat back. If he had to assign a word to this meeting, it would be weird. Not that he was any wordsmith or anything, but there wasn’t another word to describe it. Never, ever, on Earth had a woman gotten his attention the way this blushing, beautiful woman did. Sure, he had seen good-looking women—he did have eyes after all—but none of them had affected him like Abby. What was it about her, he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he felt something within him come alive for the first time. He didn’t know what the feeling was, but it was like a Phoenix rising from the ashes of his almost-dead soul.

  How dramatic.

  Take that, Shakespeare.

  He had taken six Excedrin and slept most of the day, so as far as his hangover went, it was hovering in mid-range. Definitely on the north side of “Oh my God, I may die,” but on the south side of feeling good. He hadn’t eaten since last night, and he heard his stomach give a growl of protest at the neglect, which was getting difficult to ignore. But really, it was the simple physics of a serious hangover. When you drank as much scotch as he had the night before, what went down was certain to come up, and he wasn’t big on the whole exodus of food from his gut that came with an epic hangover.