by Isabel Wroth
Callum looked my way, made a question of my name, and it was a petty pleasure to see Moran turn an embarrassed hue of magenta.
“I'm fine. Coffee?” I opted to pretend Moran wasn't even there, thrilled to notice Callum had already prepped the pot for tomorrow morning's coffee.
He was thoughtful that way, even if he wasn't staying the night, he programmed the timer to ensure I had a pot of coffee ready every morning.
I think it was partially a habit for himself, but I was grateful to share the benefit of his preparedness.
Focused on watching the dark liquid fill the glass pot, I didn't notice the men still glaring at one another behind my back.
When I turned back around with a steaming cup in my hands, Callum stared at Moran like he was attempting to set the guy on fire with the power of thought, and Moran was doing a wonderful impression of a rock.
“Don't stop on my account. Moran was just getting to the good part,” I drawled mockingly, giving the tight-lipped jerk a toast of my mug.
“Moran was just about to fuck off,” Callum corrected harshly, and with a furtive glance my way, Moran turned on his heel and left without another word.
I waited until the door shut firmly behind him, not giving Callum a chance to apologize or tell me how full of shit his partner was.
“He's right, you know? You'd be much better off with a normal woman.”
“You mean a 'yes' girl?” Callum countered with a smooth growl, his eyes flashing at me as he came closer and crowded me against the counter.
Pulling my mug from my hands before I had a chance to take even one sip, he said,
“A girl who'll never tell me no, who'll have my ties ironed and dinner on the table every night by the time I come home?
“A girl so self-absorbed we can't eat that meal without her taking photos of it to share with her half-million followers?
“A girl who never argues, never tells me when I'm being a dick and can't understand the horror of the work I do every day but shoulders on in silence with a plastic smile on her face because that's what normal women do? Is that who I’d be better off with?’”
Callum planted his hands on either side of me, leaning in until our noses were nearly touching. Any closer and my eyes would cross.
“As opposed to a woman like me? Yeah, I mean a 'yes' girl. Moran is—"
“Full of shit and should mind his own fucking business.”
“He's your friend, Callum,” I murmured gently, unable to keep from touching him.
The leather of his jacket is cool and thick in my hands, but the muscle beneath is rock solid. I feel his heart beating, the heat of his body reaching out to me, and I’m still so damn cold.
Usually, I liked the chill. It meant I could snuggle under blankets and wear thick sweaters with fluffy socks while I worked.
But today, even in my favorite pair of black jeans and my lantern-sleeved fisherman's sweater, I felt frozen to the bone.
“He's full of shit,” Callum repeated stubbornly, reaching behind me to slide his hands into my back pockets, pulling me up on my toes, and leaving me off-balance enough to force me to cling to his shoulders.
“I've been with normal women, and if being with you means a handful of psychic moments every six months, some scandal, and a couple dead bodies, I'll take it gratefully.
“I might bitch about it at the time because I'm worried about you, but not one thing that's happened has convinced me that being with you is a mistake.”
“Cal, don't—”
“Do you want me out of your life?” he demanded, unwilling to release me or allow me to avoid the question. I tried to spare him the inevitable, but my lips wouldn't form the right word.
“No.”
He laid his brow against mine and sweetly nuzzled at my nose. “Good, cause I'm not going anywhere. I know where you are right now, Jo. I was in the same place for three years until you came along and helped me find my sister, and I refuse to let you suffer like that all alone, because you're not normal, and I love you.”
Pop!
Like a pin to an overinflated balloon, the strength I'd mustered to try and tell Callum he should drop me like a hot potato and run, whooshed out of me on a gusty sigh.
Tears I wasn't ready to cry pressed at the back of my eyes, and I knew once the dam ruptured, there would be no going back to the safety and numbness of lethargic depression.
So, I clung to this strong, stubborn man who loved me. I let him hold me steady when it felt like my toes were curled over the edge of a crumbling precipice.
“Now, if you've changed your mind about me moving in for reasons that have nothing to do with your parents, what happened this weekend, or psychic related issues, that's fine.
“My lease is up in two months, and we can reconvene again then. But if you don't have a good reason other than those three things, you're shit out of luck. No take-backs. Understood?”
Throat tight, I nodded mutely, leaning into the trail of kisses Callum strung along my cheek.
“Good, Let's have dinner, and I'll tell you what happened today.”
THERE WAS SOMETHING unbelievably sexy about watching Callum grilling chicken on the griddle, the sleeves of his army green thermal pushed up to his elbows, expertly flipping the asparagus in the pan while he told me about the progress Sheriff Davidson made today in Katya's case.
It hadn't taken the coroner upstate long to determine the cause of Katya's death as blunt force trauma to the back of her head.
No news on the weapon used or who'd delivered the fatal blow, but it had been a quick and mercifully painless death.
“It'll take the lab up there a few days to find and identify any trace left behind in the bones that might say what the weapon was. Jo, you with me?”
Callum's concerned question made me lift my head from where I'd been resting my chin on my up-drawn knee, offering him a tepid smile.
“Yes.”
He grunted, glancing from my face to the pencil I held poised over a sketchpad. “Good. Thought you were having a psychic moment and ignoring me.”
An indelicate snort left me, but Callum winked to let me know he was teasing and went back to finish dinner. Marcy is an excellent cook, so I wasn't surprised that Callum picked up a few things.
The chicken was perfectly tender and flavorful, the asparagus was crisp and delicious, and the mashed potatoes were smooth and creamy.
“Helena shot me a text earlier to say she’s still alive and to inform me the interview will air tonight at eight.”
I froze mid-bite and looked at Callum askance. “So soon?”
He shrugged, sliding his foot from his stool to mine to hook around my ankle. Even when we were otherwise occupied, Callum always found a way to connect with me like that, and I loved it.
“She doesn't fuck around, and you gave a great interview.”
“Lots of practice,” I muttered darkly, licking the potatoes off my fork before going in to stab a spear of asparagus. “Once my work started getting popular, mother had reporters in the house almost once a week. So, has Sheriff Davidson questioned my parents in Katya's murder?”
Callum nodded slowly, his sock-covered toes finding their way up my ankle to sneak under the cuff of my tight jeans.
“He came down to my precinct this morning, and another pair of detectives I work with went to your parents' hotel room to haul them both into the station in handcuffs.”
I smiled at the proud, gleefully vengeful way Callum made that sound like a victory. I couldn't wait to see tomorrow's headlines and pictures of my parents being frog-marched out of the Waldorf Hotel.
“Davidson did alright. Asked all the right questions, kept your parents separated and off balance. Your dad seemed truly shocked to know Katya's remains had been found in the yard.
“He was pissed as hell when Davidson started asking questions about Elliot, and before he lawyered up, he adamantly stated he'd bought the plane ticket for Katya to go home and handed it to her himself.
“Pops offered to help the sheriff run your parent's financials to track down that plane ticket purchase and to get proof Katya walked through the gate and boarded a plane to Russia. Davidson agreed, and after your mom also lawyered up, he and I started the search.”
“You suspect they're lying,” I said, laying my fork down on the plate with a clink, my appetite vanishing, despite the deliciousness of the meal.
Callum tilted his head while he gave me a thorough once over with his far too observant gaze.
“It's been twenty years, but they both had their facts perfectly straight. Even though it was a rough time, twenty-year-old memories are never that sharp.”
I could have argued with that, because my memories of the last time I'd seen Katya and Elliot were crystal clear.
I remembered the clothes they wore and the way Katya wore her hair. I remembered the silence of the car and the uncomfortable glances my father kept shooting me in the rear-view mirror, and how afraid and angry I'd been as we drove through the gates of Dr. Banes' facility.
“Historically, when two suspects are questioned separately for the same crime, the details of their stories will vary. One will remember the victim wearing a blue shirt, the other one will say it was red.
“It's extremely rare for two suspects to use the same phrases or have the same timeline plotted out in the same manner.
“If I were a betting man, I'd say they're both involved with Katya's murder and have spent twenty years waiting to be questioned.
“Davidson thought so too. He's holding them for the next seventy-two hours. I don't want you to think I'm interrogating you, but I do have some questions.”
I made a face at him, reaching for my glass of wine to down the contents and pour more.
“If you believe there's a chance I know something that might solve Katya's murder, you can interrogate me all day long.
“She was a good person. Good to me and my brother. She didn't deserve to be killed or buried out there alone.”
“No, she didn't. A normal woman would be upset with me for implying her parents were murderers, you know?”
My man got a sidelong glare for that, and damn him, he was smirking gently at me.
“A normal woman wouldn't have given those parents reason to send her to a nuthouse, thereby making her willing to believe said parents were capable of anything.”
His brows gave a bounce as he shot a finger gun at me. “Touché. When you were talking with Helena, you mentioned how upset your parents were about not only losing the influx of cash when you were granted emancipation but about being denied access to any of the houses they'd bought. How upset were they about no longer living at the mansion?”
I leaned back in my chair, lifting my feet to set carefully in Callum's lap, and thought back to the day I'd sat down with a judge and explained how I no longer wanted my parents to have access to my money or to the homes they'd purchased with funds from my account without my consent.
I was the sole provider for the family but hadn't ever been consulted on what was bought or paid for. The money from the sale of my paintings had gone into a bank account with mine and my mother’s name on it.
Every painting that sold, the money went into that account first, then into an account that belonged to my parents.
Rebecca Martin, the housekeeper hired once I'd come home from the asylum, sat beside me during the initial court hearing.
Her brother-in-law, my very first ball-buster, was a high-powered criminal prosecutor, who helped guide me through the process of asking for bank statements to say where my money had been going while I was—for lack of a better term—wrongfully incarcerated.
Once the judge had seen all that evidence, he'd ruled in my favor across the board and cut my parents off completely.
That day, I sat in a chair on one side of the courtroom beside my lawyer while my parents were in the opposite position with their lawyer ... it hadn't been pretty.
“When the judge made his decision, both my mom and dad blew up, calling me an ungrateful brat and some other choice names, but I couldn't say they were angry about one house versus another.
“I stayed in my room when they came to pack up their things. Two deputies stood outside my door just in case. I heard a lot of muffled shouting, but I didn't see them leave.”
Callum wrapped his big hand around one of my feet, squeezing up and down the length in a wonderful massage.
“What did your parents do before they had you?”
“Both of them came from money. My mom was a trust fund baby, I think she only went to college for a few years before she met my dad and they got married.
“He graduated with a business degree but didn't do anything with it—that I know of—other than handle the sale of my paintings and the finances that went along with it.”
Callum finished his dinner and though I wasn't hungry, he'd gone to the trouble of cooking for me, so I forced myself to eat.
He waited for me to finish before he asked any further questions, but not before forbidding me to do the dishes.
“Your hands are still cut up, baby. Don't worry about it. You said you did a painting of Katya.”
“I did.”
He glanced at me while he pushed up his sleeves and started to fill the sink with soapy water.
“You still have it?”
“No, it was offered for sale at a charity auction. I do remember Mother being very surprised at the amount the painting sold for, and she was rather pissed because every cent went to the Art Start program.”
Callum made a thoughtful sound before falling silent, his brow furrowed as he washed the dishes and processed the information I'd given him.
When he was finished, he dried his hands, poured me another glass of wine, and finished the rest off himself. I watched him come around the counter to pace back and forth in front of me.
The sound of Callum's palm scraping against his five o'clock shadow made me tilt my head to truly appreciate the familiar expression that went along with his brain trying to rearrange all the puzzle pieces I'd given him to complete a picture.
“You wouldn't be able to find out who has the painting, would you?”
“Sure. I've donated a painting every year to the same auction. The women who run it keep extremely detailed records.”
“I'd like to see it.” The gravity in his tone and the steady seriousness of his gaze, made me put down my glass and head to my office.
It took me a few minutes to find the direct number of the auction organizer, Patricia Tellford, and leave her a message.
“Patti is very strict about business hours, so I expect she'll call back sometime after eight to ... morrrr ... ow.”
In the five minutes it had taken for me to find Patricia's number, make the call, and leave a message, Callum had gone into the bedroom, pulled out my spare blankets, folded them over the back of the couch, taken his shirt off, and unbuckled his belt.
I'd commented on the rodeo-esque feel to the buckle a while ago when I realized no matter if he was wearing slacks or jeans to work, Callum wore the same belt and buckle.
His nickname at the station was Bull, as in Pit Bull on account of his stubbornness and tendency to sink his teeth into a new case and not let go until he’d shaken every clue out of it he could.
The chrome, oval-shaped buckle with a bull very similar to the Red Bull logo stamped on the front, had been a gift from his sister.
Currently, it hung to the right of his fly, and I couldn't help but notice the first button of said fly, was undone.
He looked like a poster boy for some kind of sexy cowboy spread in GQ—rippling muscles on display, jeans slung slow on his trim hips, suggestively undone by just that one button.
Even suffering the emotional fallout of everything that had happened at the mansion yesterday, I'd have had to be dead not to react to my man when
he looked like that.
My heart kicked out an unsteady tattoo, a cyclone of butterflies took wing in my belly, and I could feel my skin prickle with the anticipation of his big hands caressing my body.
My knees even felt a little weak as I was inexorably drawn toward him, like he had his own gravitational force field, which I was helplessly caught in.
“What are you doing?” I slurred slowly, fixated on watching the muscles in his chest and arms flex while he got the blanket arranged just so.
“It's almost time for your interview to come on. I figured we could snuggle up with dessert and watch it on the iPad,” he told me, seemingly oblivious to my hungry stare.
My tongue came out to wet my suddenly dry lips. “The iPad. Uh-huh. Um, I do have a TV, you know?”
Callum straightened up and looked around the open living room in confusion, his gaze skating right over the spot where the TV was hidden.
Idly, I realized the many nights he’d spent in my place, we’d been engaged in other activities that didn’t include watching movies.
“Where?”
I walked around the couch to the white pony wall that divided the living space from my art space, flipping back the lid to peel the remote from its Velcro strip, and pushed a button.
With a soft whir, the TV rose up out of its hidden compartment, and I turned my head at Callum's low whistle.
“Damn, baby. That's not a TV. That's a home theater system. You get the sports channels on that thing?”
“Uh, no. But that's ... that's easily remedied. I'm not complaining, but why did you take your shirt off?”
Callum's smile was innocent, but wickedness flickered in his eyes. “I splashed some water on myself by accident while I was doing the dishes.”
A likely story...
“I see.”
Callum sat down on my plush white sofa, his innocent smile fading to one of eager delight when I put one knee on the couch and threw a leg over his hips.
His hands immediately went to my butt, giving my cheeks a good squeeze before rubbing up and down my thighs while I looped my arms around his neck and got comfortable.