Said the spider to the fly, thought Peyton. She wiped her hands on her jeans and rose, adjusting her gun in her holster. He motioned into the office. She stepped before him and found herself in a brightly lit room with a circular table in the center. Besides the table and a couple of chairs, the only other furnishings were a credenza and a file cabinet.
She turned to face him. “What? No couches?”
He laughed. “No, I feel more comfortable working at a table myself. Please sit.” He motioned to a chair, then sat in his spot in front of his ubiquitous yellow legal pad.
Peyton perched in the chair. It was so tall her feet barely touched the carpet. She hated chairs like this. It made her feel like a vulnerable little girl again.
“So, Inspector, good to see you.”
She nodded. She wasn’t feeling the same way about him.
“I’d ask you how you are, but I suspect that would be rather insulting.”
“I’m fine.”
He picked up his pen and folded his hands around it. “You know I don’t mince words, right?”
“Right.”
“Fine is a term a lot of people use when they are anything but fine. Are you familiar with the signs and symptoms of PTSD?”
“I guess. Look, Dr. Ferguson, I’m here because I have to be. Otherwise, I should be at work trying to catch a serial killer.”
“Symptoms of PTSD are difficulty sleeping, angry outbursts, difficulty concentrating, being jumpy or startling easily.”
“I don’t have any of those symptoms.”
Dr. Ferguson started writing on his legal pad.
She waited until he finished. When he did, he sat staring at her for a long time. She stared back. She wasn’t going to play these games. If he wanted to spend the hour looking at each other, they could do that.
“You were kidnapped off the street in broad daylight by a serial killer. You were forcefully subdued, taken to an unknown location, and nearly died of asphyxia. Then the partner who has saved your life twice and has been your constant companion for the last eight years was removed from you and you are now facing a new partner.” He settled the pen on his pad. “Inspector Brooks, do you really expect me to believe you are fine?”
“Yes, because I’m telling you I am.”
“Let’s talk about Inspector D’Angelo.”
“What’s there to talk about? He got a promotion. End of discussion.”
“Do you know why he can’t remain your partner?”
“Because he got a promotion. Clearly, I’m not the one having difficulty concentrating, Dr. Ferguson.”
“We both know sarcasm is your defense mechanism.”
“Fine. Why can’t he remain my partner?”
“Partners develop very close bonds. We’ve talked about this before.”
“Yes, we have.”
“It can be difficult when the partnership is male and female. Add to that an imbalance in power and problems can develop.”
“What imbalance in power?”
“He’s saved your life twice. That creates a situation of debt between you.”
“Yeah, I owe him my life.”
Ferguson leaned forward on the table. “It can cause confused feelings in a person.”
“What does that mean?”
“Humans can mistake those feelings of gratitude for pseudo-erotic feelings, romantic feelings. Defino feels it’s best to separate you two before you make a mistake and act on them.”
Peyton felt anger move through her. Her fingers tightened on the chair arms.
“While these are very normal feelings, allowing them to falsely develop into something can be detrimental to both of you, but in particular, you, Inspector Brooks.”
“Me?”
“After a traumatic event, it’s normal to feel insecure, vulnerable, afraid. You might mistakenly see your partner as a sort of security blanket. Either way, it wouldn’t be a true relationship, and such a relationship is destined to end badly. A break-up like that would further traumatize you. It’s best that the two of you are separated until you can come to terms with the trauma on your own.”
Peyton looked out the window. Who the hell did they all think they were, telling her what to feel, what to do? She could make her own damn decisions. She might have given the last decade to this job, but they didn’t own her, damn them.
“I think we’re done here,” she said, rising to her feet.
“We’ve barely begun, Inspector.”
“I have a serial killer to catch and this psychobabble’s interfering with that.”
“Captain Defino mandated…”
“I don’t care what she mandated. I’ll deal with her.” She turned and walked toward the door, grabbing the doorknob and pulling it open. “Have a good afternoon, Dr. Ferguson,” she said and firmly shut the door behind her.
She didn’t remember the walk down to the elevator or waiting for it to arrive. She was so damn furious. Why had she let herself be manipulated this way? She hated the doctor’s smug way of talking to her, as if her emotions were some deep-seated, hidden miasma of crazy and only he held the cure. As if he was just waiting for her to snap, or dissolve into tears, pleading with him to fix her. Pseudo-erotic feelings! Shit, he’d be shocked at the genuine erotic things she and Marco had been doing lately. From the moment she’d met Ferguson, he’d pried at her about Marco, hounded her about him. Who the hell did he think he was?
The elevator arrived and she stepped inside, punching the button for the first floor. The elevator’s door closed and it began to drop. As soon as it stopped, she walked out and headed toward the front door that lead to Market.
She made it out to the street and started walking toward the parking lot where she’d left the Mustang. Marco hadn’t returned it and he told her to use it for her appointments today. He was back, driving his precious Charger.
The parking structure was a good five blocks away, another thing that made her angry. She set a brisk pace toward it, seething inside. She hadn’t formed erotic feelings for Marco because he saved her life. She’d always had them. She’d just become an expert at suppressing them over the years, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t felt them.
“Miss!” called a voice behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder to see a man moving toward her. He was in his mid-thirties, dark hair, dark clothing. She paused on the corner, marking him. He picked up his pace, pressing through the crowd on the sidewalk.
Peyton felt her heart kick up speed as she stepped off the curb and into the street, moving with the other people trying to get across. The man followed her, jogging now to close the distance. Peyton glanced around. The Janitor wouldn’t grab her again with people all around her, would he? She couldn’t believe he’d try. It was bad enough that he’d done it last time, but even then, someone had tried to stop him. He would never be so bold a second time, would he?
She made it to the sidewalk across the intersection and weaved between the people. When she glanced back, however, the man was still gaining on her. She looked at the businesses on either side. She could duck into one of them and hopefully, he’d leave her alone.
“Miss!” he shouted.
A cold sweat peppered Peyton’s forehead and a drop ran down her back. Her heart was hammering so hard it was pounding in her temples. She felt again the tightness in her lungs as if she couldn’t get enough air.
“Miss!” He touched her shoulder and she spun around, her hand reaching for the handle on her gun.
“What?” Her voice came out as a growl.
He stumbled back, his eyes fixated on the gun, then lowering to the badge showing at her belt. “I’m sorry.”
She realized she was hyperventilating. That’s why she couldn’t get enough air.
“You dropped this. It looked important.” He held out a shiny gold object.
Peyton’s free hand flew to her neck. Her locket. He had her locket, the one Marco had given her for her last birthday.
“Oh, God, I’
m sorry,” she said, trying to slow her breathing.
“Are you okay?”
She accepted the locket from him, removing her hand from her gun. “You scared me. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Are you sure you’re all right?”
She rubbed her fingers against her forehead and nodded tightly. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She motioned helplessly.
“It’s all right, Officer. It is your locket, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and it means the world to me. Thank you.”
“All right. Take care, okay?”
“Thank you. And again, I’m very sorry.”
“No worries,” he said and moved past her.
Peyton stared at the piece of gold in her palm. The clasp was broken. She hadn’t even realized it had fallen. Closing her eyes, she willed her heart to slow. God, she’d almost drawn her gun on an innocent man. He was doing her a solid and she almost drew her gun on him.
Opening her eyes, she placed the necklace in her pocket, then she started walking back the way she’d come, moving briskly through the crowds. They parted to allow her passage. Maybe the wild look in her eyes warned them off.
She located Ferguson’s building, but this time, rather than wait for the elevator, she jogged up the stairs. No one was in the waiting room and the red light was off when she stepped past the glass door. Walking to the wooden door, she forced it open and stepped inside, slumping against it.
He looked up at her with a puzzled expression.
“I need help,” she said, surprised to hear the sound of her own voice. “I need your help, Doctor Ferguson.”
* * *
Marco heard the knock at the door. He settled the wooden spoon beside the wok and picked up the dishcloth, wiping his hands as he went to answer it. He pulled the door open, surprised to see Peyton standing on the other side.
“Hey.” He bent down and kissed her, sliding his arm around her waist and lifting her against him.
She encircled his neck with both arms and deepened the kiss.
He gently pulled away. “Why are you knocking?”
She shrugged.
He reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out the key he’d made for her. “While we’re talking about it, this is for you.”
She dropped down on her heels and took it from him, staring at it. “A key?”
He’d tried to give her one years ago, but she’d emphatically told him she didn’t want it. Even though he had one to her house, she still refused. She said she didn’t want to walk in on him someday in a compromising position.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” She put the key in her pocket. “Thank you.”
He hesitated, she was acting strangely, but he could hear the sizzle of his stir-fry in the kitchen. “Come in. Let me just turn down the fire.”
While he went to the stove, she wandered over to his bistro set and took a seat. He dropped the dishcloth on the counter and turned the burner down to simmer, then settled into the chair across from her.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Fine.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Did you see Dr. Ferguson?”
“Yeah.”
“And did you go to lunch with your mother?”
“Yep.”
“And both went well?”
She nodded, fingering a spot on the table.
He leaned back. “Peyton, you have a tell.”
She glanced at him. “A tell? What are you talking about?”
“When you’re upset, you won’t look at me. You’ve done it for years. What’s wrong?”
“Can we talk about something else right now?”
“No.”
“No?” She seemed surprised.
“If this is going to work, we have to be honest with each other.”
Her jaw hardened. “Well, apparently this isn’t going to work.”
He hadn’t expected that. “Okay. Why not?”
“That’s what Dr. Ferguson said.”
“Did he now?”
“So I walked out.”
“You walked out? Peyton…”
She held up a hand. “I went back.”
“Wait. I’m confused.”
“I got mad at what he was saying, so I left, but I almost pulled my gun on a civilian, so I went back.”
“You almost pulled your gun…”
“He had my locket.” She reached into her pocket and pulled it out, dangling it from her hand. “It fell off, and he found it and tried to give it back to me, but he scared me and I almost pulled my gun, so I went back to Dr. Ferguson because I don’t know why I did that and I can’t go around pulling guns on people, and the clasp is broken. I can’t wear it like this or I’ll lose it and if I lose it, I’ll be devastated.”
Marco closed his hand over hers. “I’ll get it fixed.”
She released it to him, blinking at the sudden tears in her eyes.
He placed his other hand under her chin and turned her to look at him. “Go back to the beginning, okay? What exactly did Ferguson say that made you leave?”
She took his hand in her own. “He said we couldn’t be partners anymore because you’ve saved my life twice and unbalanced the power in our relationship. He said such a power imbalance could cause me to have pseudo-erotic feelings for you, which if I acted on them, would be traumatizing because such a relationship is destined to end badly.”
He didn’t respond.
“And then I come in here and my first instinct is to take you to bed, so what the hell? And to add to it, he thinks I have PTSD. All in all, I’m a screwed up mess and you should be running in the opposite direction.”
He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “Peyton, for the last few days, I’ve been thinking of all the things that made me fall in love with you, and I can’t pick just one thing, one event, one moment, but when I think of all the things I’ve done in the last decade, every significant memory has you in it.”
Her eyes searched his face. “What if we don’t work, Marco? What if we fail at this? What if Ferguson is right? We’re both bad at relationships. We don’t have one long term relationship between us. If I screw this up, I don’t just lose a lover, I lose my best friend, the single most important person in my life. I don’t think I can do that, Marco. I don’t think I can stand it.”
“Sweetheart, I can’t make you any promises. No one can. There isn’t a relationship in the world that is guaranteed. It’s always a risk, it’s always a chance, but you and me, we’ve been on so many adventures over the last eight years.” He leaned close to her, bracing his elbows on his thighs. “All I’m asking is that you take one more with me, Peyton. Whatever happens in the next year, the next five years, the next ten years, right now...right now I want you to take this adventure with me.”
She blinked back the tears, then she stood, grabbing his hand and tugging him to his feet. He gave her a quizzical look.
“You talk like that, D’Angelo, and you’re definitely getting some pseudo-erotic action.”
He smiled and let her lead him into the bedroom.
* * *
Genevieve reached for the towel on the rack and climbed out of the bathtub, pulling the stopper and letting the water drain. She dried the excess water from her body and slipped into the terrycloth robe, belting it tight around her waist, then she leaned over and blew out the candle.
Walking into the bedroom, she took a seat at her dressing table and reached for her moisturizer, squeezing a small amount into her hands. She smoothed it onto her face and dabbed a bit beneath her eyes, then she placed the cap back on the bottle. She left her hair up in its sloppy bun and rose, walking over to her bed and climbing on top. She adjusted the pillows behind her and reached for her laptop. Her editors expected a feature story tomorrow morning on one of the more popular head shops in the Haight Ashbury.
Just as she settled, her phone buzzed on her nightstand. She glanced over at it, not recognizing th
e number. Immediately her stomach dipped and she felt her heart kick up speed. She didn’t reach for it. He hadn’t called her in the last few days, but she felt sure it was him. She’d made a devil’s pact with him and now she wished she hadn’t.
The phone stopped ringing. She drew a relieved breath. She’d been very careful to throw the locks and set the alarm before she’d taken her bath. Her apartment building required a key card to enter the outer door and then once again to get on the elevator. It was ranked as one of the safest buildings in the City.
She sank back against the pillows, trying to concentrate on the feature. She wanted to do a few fixes before she turned it into her editors. After her last Janitor profile, they were clamoring for more like that from her, but she didn’t have anything. Especially not after Inspector Brooks made it clear she wasn’t to publish any more of his story. Still, she didn’t want to lose this job.
The phone vibrated again. She glanced at it. Answer the damn phone scrolled across the display. She shifted in the bed, but she didn’t pick it up. Her mouth had suddenly gone dry with fear. Holy shit! What did she do? It had to be all bad to piss off a serial killer.
She thought about calling D’Angelo. She had his number. He’d be able to tell her what to do, but before she could decide, the phone rang. She shivered in anxiety, wishing he’d give up, leave her alone. What the hell had she agreed to do? What would he do to her now if she refused?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she snatched it up and swiped her thumb across the display. “The deal’s off,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she was. Her heart pounded out a war cadence.
“Did you know Inspector Brooks reminds me of my wife?”
Genevieve went still. “Inspector Brooks?”
“Yeah. My wife was taller, thin to the point of being gaunt, but she had the same fire, the same spice as Brooks.”
“Is that why you kidnapped her?”
“No, although that was fun. She banged and kicked at that van door like a wild thing.”
Genevieve realized she was holding the phone so tight, it dug into her palm.
Murder on Treasure Island (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 7) Page 3