My fears.
But he can't know, can he?
"Tell me this," he begins again, "apart from these gifts being anonymous, is there any other reason for you to suspect they are from your attacker? Or—let me rephrase that. If it weren't for these anonymous gifts, would you have any other reason to think you were being targeted?"
"There's also…"
Two weeks…
Did the gifts begin to appear at my desk before or after I interviewed the mayor? I strain my memory, but the days before my attack blend together in a monotonous heap.
"There's also what?"
Reed watches me, waiting for my response.
But I fall silent.
Suggesting the highest city official could be behind my attack is a boisterous claim. At best, Reed would think I'm crazy. At worst, he'd expose my story in the course of investigating its relevancy. I would kiss my exclusive goodbye.
"Never mind," I say, running a hand over my face. "I just need to know who's behind these."
"I will look into the gifts. But you should go home, get some rest. When's the last time you got some sleep?"
The question seems innocent enough. He speaks it in a calm, nonchalant way, and yet I still sense an unspoken statement present. It drapes over us in the pregnant silence.
"What's that file on your desk?" I ask, nodding to the spot where he'd moved the folder when we first sat down. "I saw my name on it."
"It's your file."
"My file?"
The words shouldn't elicit worry in me. I should hear them and assume he's talking about the case we are discussing at this moment. But my insides churn with dread.
"We had to look into your past. Victimology is an important part of all our investigations—"
The door of the office opens, and I swing around. O'Brien comes into the room, stopping mid-step when she sees me.
"Reed, you're supposed to be gone already. You're going to be late."
"Ms. Woods, my apologies, but I actually do have to get going. Detective O'Brien will pick this up from here. To address your concerns."
I get to my feet and he steps around the desk to extend a hand. His grasp is firm, but his caramel eyes are warm and convey effortless comfort. The warmth of his skin lingers on mine until I realize the moment has lasted seconds longer than necessary. I release his hand but he hesitates before turning for the door, where his partner waits.
In that moment of hesitation, I swear, by the look in his eyes, he'd stay if I only asked him to.
"Ms. Woods, I'll be right with you," O'Brien says, offering a polite smile before stepping back out into the hall with Reed and shutting the door behind her. Their shadows are visible in the frosted glass of the door and I hear their voices.
I turn back to Reed's desk, snatch up the folder he tucked out of view. I scan through the contents of the file as quickly as I can.
O'Brien and Reed's voices are audible from the other side of the door.
"…and try to keep it together," she says with an almost parental tone.
"I've been practicing my table flip—"
"This isn't funny—"
"—can't let that go to waste."
I turn the pages of the file quicker, past the police reports, witness accounts of the aftermath from Dale and Kathleen, and notes on their interview of me at the hospital. I don't admit to myself what I'm looking for among these pages. The conversation on the other side of the door draws to a close.
"This could end today. Just…don't do anything stupid."
"It'll be fine. Stop worrying."
I rush to the end of the file and find the document I feared I'd see.
One dated six years prior.
My insides do an abrupt flip.
Footsteps sound as Reed heads down the hall and the door handle clicks, announcing O'Brien returning to the office.
I close the file and shove it back where I found it.
O'Brien walks back inside. Thankfully, the sudden way I straighten goes unnoticed as she rubs the space between her eyes before turning her attention to me.
"Sorry about that, if I could get you to sit here at my desk—Ms. Woods?"
I'm already past her desk and on my way to the door.
"Never mind, Detective," I say, pulling the door open. "I'm sorry to bother you."
Her mouth hangs open in question but I step out of the room. I wasted my time coming here. Nothing I say will convince these detectives they have the wrong man. Not if they believe the version of me in that file.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Reed
MY ATTORNEY WAITS FOR me outside of his office, a ball of apprehension peering at me from behind his glasses.
"You're late," he says, "but perhaps it's for the best. I think we should reschedule."
"What? Why would we reschedule?"
"Thatcher's in there," Clark says.
I point to the door behind him. "He's in there?"
"Frankly, I can't believe his attorney would pull a stunt like this, but I'm against it. I don't want you in there."
Clark looks worried as he surveys my reaction. He doesn't seem confident in me and, to be honest, the guy doesn't inspire confidence from me either. He's too twitchy, a drop of a dime away from breaking out into a sweat. But he's what the city could afford, and with my pay being docked, I couldn't do any better myself.
Beggars, as it turns out, really can't be choosers.
Staring at the door, I straighten and run a hand down the front of my suit. This has taken enough time from my life. Every day it stretches onward, I risk losing more than just a case.
"I'd like to properly meet the man I knocked unconscious," I say.
Clark's heavy sigh is muffled by the groaning sound of the door as I pull it open.
The conference table stretches out before me. There are two men sitting on one side of it, and their heads turn in my direction as Clark and I enter the room.
One of the men has sleek white hair that gives the notion of experience when coupled with sharp blue eyes. He smiles politely while simultaneously assessing every inch of me.
The second man's face brings a fleeting surge of recognition. Clearly, I've villainized the memory of him. There's nothing menacing about the man now that his face isn't cast in the harsh shadows of his porch light.
That night, I had no idea who this man was or the money at his disposal. James Thatcher. Son of the CEO and founder of the Thatcher Organization, an international conglomerate known mostly for its lucrative real estate developments. Translation—he's used to getting away with whatever the hell he wants.
His shoulders are squared with an air of entitlement and his unsmiling face is shaved, his complexion smooth and deceptively charismatic. His black hair isn't the careless, ruffled mess it was during our last encounter, but rather a carefully finger-combed style. He's the picture of a rich playboy, groomed and civil. Except for his bad habit of pummeling women with his fists, namely, his wife.
Clark passes me and takes a seat first, straight across from the two men. I unbutton my suit jacket and sit beside him.
When Thatcher's green eyes meet mine, his jaw gives the smallest of twitches. Only then do I peer past the curtain of shiny, privileged exterior to the loosely collared animal inside of him. His large hands rest on the table in front of him in loose fists.
For a moment, no one speaks.
All eyes are on me.
Clark leans into my ear and says, "Let me do the talking."
The two attorneys fall into a pointed discussion while referring to Thatcher and me as though we're not in the room.
Thatcher and I watch each other in silence, though he seems to actively work against speaking. We've never exchanged a word, having never formally met.
But I've met hundreds of men like him. Even though he doesn't look the type to beat women—and they rarely do—I recognize the signs of all the men I've known to do this. They all have the same chip on their shoulder, the same quiet anger cours
ing through their veins. Anger they so easily take out on women and children, and anyone too small to hit them back.
A year and a half ago, this man met the end of my fist—among various other jagged edges I can form with my limbs—and ended up sprawled out on the floor of his own patio.
His injuries have long since healed. The initial assault charges he filed against me were dismissed, and I was sure the situation was handled and forgotten. But a few months ago, I got served. He filed a civil suit for personal injury against the city and me. In a flash, it seems it's all come back to haunt me with a vengeance. As though the spectacle I went through the first time around wasn't enough.
"You don't want this to go to trial, Watson," Clark says to Thatcher's attorney. "No jury is going to sympathize with your client. He attacked an on-duty law enforcement officer."
Thatcher wouldn't win a trial, but he has the means to drag this out until he bankrupts me. Everyone in this room is well aware of this fact.
"Two broken limbs, three dislocated joints, and a concussion. Does that sound like the result of reasonable force when your client came away without a scratch? My client wants to see this through. Because this is bigger than him. This is about a vigilante who oversteps the line of enforcing the law and decides to take it upon himself to delve out punishment as well."
"Vigilante?" Clark lets out a small laugh I'm sure he intends to sound incredulous, but instead sounds caught off guard.
"This gym your client owns, Trident Mixed Martial Arts, conducts self-defense classes highly targeted toward women."
I open my mouth to speak, but Clark answers for me. "What's your point?"
I see where this is going and tension works its way into my jaw.
Watson turns his steely gaze on me. "Detective, why does your gym prey on abused women—"
"Let's not be ridiculous. It doesn't prey on abused women," Clark says. "It's a resource, a place of refuge where, yes, those women are able to learn to defend themselves."
"Place of refuge? Is that what you call it?" Thatcher snaps, staring right at me. His attorney sets a hand on his arm, as though sensing the bubbling of anger. "I know you live there, is that where she is now? In your place of refuge?"
Hatred and accusation froth up in his eyes. It's all there, his fears, his twisted reasoning.
"She left you," I say.
Our attorneys look between us, confused.
"Like you don't know."
He wants to insinuate Lena Thatcher and I were involved in an affair, but nothing could be further from the case. She was a student. One of dozens who participated in a weekly self-defense class, back when I still taught them.
For some time, I couldn't even remember her name. She was quiet and timid, the type who startled if I gave her directions too loudly. And yes, reminded me of my mother. The difference was, unlike my mother, Lena wanted to learn how to defend herself. I kept my distance from her during classes, just because she seemed frightened by me, unable to look me in the eyes for too long. She kept showing up week after week, and I hoped she was confiding in some of the other students, finding some sort of support network.
I didn't know her story, but I had my suspicions. I'd seen the bruises she brought with her. I'd seen how they grew steadily larger and more and more visible.
One night, she did something she'd never done before and approached me at the end of class. She thanked me. I'll never forget the look in the woman's eyes, the gratitude. She thanked me for the classes, but told me she wouldn't be back. Before I could ask why, she turned and left my gym.
That should've been the end of it, but it wasn't.
And now her husband sits across from me, the venom in his eyes giving me the answer to a question I've asked myself for months. If he's coming after me, it's because my gym and the self-defense classes mean something to her. He's punishing her by hurting other people.
Something I've witnessed a man do before. Some women are too broken to hurt directly, some women care about everything and everyone before themselves.
"Where is she?" Thatcher asks through clenched teeth. He looks like he's dying to flip over the table to reach me.
I wish he would try.
"Thatcher, that's enough," Watson says, once again setting a hand on his client's arm before turning his attention back to Clark and me. "We are open to settlement negotiations if it means avoiding what will be a very messy trial—"
I'm on my feet.
"Where are you going? We're not done here, Detective."
"Sebastian—" Clark calls after me, rushing out of his chair.
But I'm already halfway to the door.
"This meeting is over. That asshole's not getting a cent from me."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Reed
MY PARTNER SITS BEHIND her desk, eyes narrowed and fixed squarely on me as I enter our small office. The woman can glare like nobody's business. She can also read me like a book and I can tell she's looking to decipher my thoughts without me having to say a word.
"You stormed out, didn't you?"
I sit behind my desk, straighten my tie, and change the topic. "What happened with Woods?"
"Well, she stormed out, too. Right behind you, didn't you see her?"
"I didn't. You didn't talk to her at all? She's convinced her attack is unrelated to the others."
"We know it is related. Our perp confessed to all four attacks. Parking lot of the Union Tribune. He confessed," O'Brien repeats, like I wasn't in the room when it happened.
"She's still scared. Plus, there are those anonymous gifts."
"Reed, we've got five open cases to slam through and, I'm sorry, but you know she's got a history of connecting dots that don't exist. Oh, come on, don't look so confused—you know exactly what I'm talking about."
She nods over to my desk, to the folder siting just out of my reach, the name Amelia Woods printed on the tab.
"That?" I point to the file. "That was years ago. I don't think it's relevant."
"No, your smaller brain doesn't think it's relevant." She nods down to indicate the crotch of my pants. "And I suggest you stop thinking with it."
Her question takes me off guard. I've never once insinuated I find Amelia attractive, but I suppose if anyone could tell it would be O'Brien. She can read people as if they are scrolling screens of spelled-out intentions.
"Oh, come on, Reed. I saw the way you looked at her. Would you come to this same conclusion if you weren't attracted to her? Find out where the gifts are coming from so we can lay this to rest. My gut's telling me we're dealing with paranoia where she's concerned."
My knee-jerk reaction is to come to Amelia's defense, but that's ridiculous. I have no ground to stand on regarding the subject. I don't know Amelia. I do know O'Brien, though. She's the lead on this case and her instincts are always on point. With what we found in Amelia's record, coupled with her profession and the overall impression she gives off, it's easy to suggest we're dealing with someone who will jump canyons to reach conclusions.
Still…there's something about her case that bugs me.
I keep thinking of how small and vulnerable she looked in that hospital bed, and I wish I could bring her some peace of mind. It only takes me being left alone in the office for curiosity to get the best of me. I reach across my desk and grab the phone. This is around the time he's usually at his desk, doing paperwork. The line rings only twice before his bored voice cuts in, practically spitting out the words, "Trident Martial Arts."
I'll have to work on his customer service skills.
"Travis, it's Sebastian."
The greeting is met with a trickle of silence, probably where he wonders if I'm calling with bad news. Then, "Hey, man. What do you need?"
"I'm curious if a woman stopped by yet, asking about self-defense classes."
"You'll have to be more specific than that."
"Petite, dark hair, name of Amelia."
He mumbles something under his breath, then says, "Oh yeah
, her. She came by yesterday morning snapping at me. What's her deal?"
Yesterday morning. Jesus. She went to the studio straight from the hospital?
"She was assaulted, Monday night. We caught the guy, but I sent her your way. I'm curious, when does she start?"
"Start what? She took off. Wasn't happy I couldn't fit her into the schedule."
"Why the hell not?"
"Class is full."
"Make room."
"Sebastian, I can't. There's only two of us here and we are literally up to our necks."
I run a hand over my lower jaw. But I know he's right. He'd make room for her if he could. It's not like I've been any help. There was a time I was very much involved in the studio's daily operations. But ever since I made detective, my schedule is too erratic. I depend on Travis to keep my business afloat. He's doing a fantastic job at it, handling every necessary aspect. I really shouldn't give him shit.
"You have her info?"
"Yeah, she filled out an application."
I tap a finger on my desk, and then words I shouldn't say spill out of my mouth.
"Call her back. Tell her we have an opening."
"What opening? I know you're not going to hire someone else." He lets out a little laugh and fake-mumbles, "Cheap bastard."
"Real funny, asshole."
He knows how much I worry about the gym, knows I'd hire ten more people if I could. But my situation is tricky. With my pay being docked, I'm depending more than ever on the income from the studio.
"Call her back," I say again. "Offer her private lessons."
"With who?"
"With me."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Amelia
THE AIR IS THICK with a mixture of sweet and musky notes. Wall-to-wall mirrors run along the back wall. Reflected in them is a group of half a dozen elementary-school-aged kids donning white karate suits. Their instructor's a twenty-something-year-old man with prominent brow bones that add a strong and domineering quality to his face. This isn't the guy I met with yesterday. Travis. He's here somewhere, though. He's the one that called me and asked me to come in this evening to arrange private lessons.
Reckless Touch Page 7