“Did she remember anything else?” Seth asked.
“Nothing useful.”
“Thanks.”
Jesse nodded and drifted down the bar to serve other customers, leaving Seth alone with his thoughts. He wasn’t stupid. He saw the looks around the office, the careful way Alvarez eyed him ever since Sully’s public suicide. They were all waiting for him to crack under the pressure. They had been ever since Holly died. Maybe he had already cracked, he mused, picking up his glass. He was, after all, off the wagon. So while he was here, why not have another?
Seth held up his finger. Jesse spotted him. He was still too sober by half. One more for the road, and then he had to head home. Tomorrow would come. In all likelihood the results of the DNA tests would be waiting for him.
With that cheery thought, he downed his next drink.
Chapter 42
Marissa pulled alongside the curb. Coming here was crazy. Desperate. She’d tried calling him, but he wasn’t answering his phone. So after leaving three messages, she’d sweet-talked Henry Cahill into giving her Seth’s home address, making some lame excuse about paper work. They’d both known she was lying. She had to see him. She had to look him in the eye when he told her what the volunteers had found.
Marissa’s fingers drummed the steering wheel. Fat drops of rain pounded relentlessly down on the roof of her car and streamed down the windows. A thin film of condensation coated the driver’s-side window, and she swiped it away with the palm of her hand.
A few lights blazed inside the house. Seth’s Nissan sat in the driveway. He was home. And she was stalling. Because she knew she shouldn’t be here.
Surely if Seth had found Brooke’s body, he would have told her by now. Intellectually she knew this was true, but she needed to see him. She needed . . . what, she asked herself again. Assurance? Comfort? Something more?
Marissa stopped the thought before it could fully form in her mind, knowing that the longer she sat there, the less likely she was to act. Without giving herself another second to reconsider, she stepped outside and pocketed the car keys.
The wet wind assaulted her as she sprinted for the porch. Marissa pounded on the green door of the small Tudor. And waited. How would Seth react to her showing up like this? Would he be angry?
She should go. No. She had to talk to him. There’d be no sleep until she did.
It took thirty excruciating seconds for him to answer, each second giving voice to her doubts.
Seth’s bloodshot eyes widened at the sight of Marissa standing on his doorstep.
“I tried calling, but you didn’t answer. What did you find?” she asked, skipping the usual pleasantries.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Dammit, Seth, I know the search party found something. Was it Brooke? Did you find my girl?”
Marissa’s chest ached with the need to know. She couldn’t spend another second agonizing, waiting for her cell phone to ring, waiting for him to show up at her door with horrific news. She couldn’t spend another night wondering if it was Brooke they’d found. Wondering if her daughter was dead or alive. Not knowing was like having a gaping hole ripped through the center of her heart.
Seth shook his head. All afternoon she’d feared the worst. Now a wave of relief flooded through her, so strong Marissa’s knees buckled. Seth reached out to steady her. She looked up into his face.
There was something he wasn’t telling her. He looked haggard. Beaten down. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. She hadn’t pegged him for a drinker, so whatever it was must have shaken him. Badly.
“What is it?” she demanded.
Seth released his grip and stared past her, out into the rainy night.
“What aren’t you saying?”
“Go home, Marissa.”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me.”
He hissed out a sigh and glared at her. His gray eyes smoldered with frustration. Anger.
“Tess is dead.”
Tears flooded Marissa’s eyes. Her hands flew to her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she murmured. “No.”
Without thinking, Marissa wound her arms around Seth’s waist and held on tight. He tensed in her embrace, but she refused to let go. She thought about Tess, with her quick smile and her bright-green eyes, so full of life, and a deep sadness shrouded her heart. Tears spilled over onto her cheeks, dampening the front of Seth’s T-shirt.
Strong hands gripped her shoulders, and Seth gently eased her away. Though she loosened the tight band of her arms, she refused to relinquish her hold. She glimpsed the pain in his eyes as he looked away.
“You should go,” he said again, his voice gruff.
“No,” Marissa said.
She planted her hand on the scarred side of his face. Pushing up onto her toes, she pressed her lips to his. Everything she felt, all of her fear, all of her longing, she packed into that kiss. The salty taste of her tears blended with the sharp tang of scotch. Seth’s shoulders tensed. He pulled back, but Marissa refused to let go. She wound her fingers into his damp hair and pressed against him in another kiss.
Seth’s resistance fled. His strong arms closed around her, pulling her hard against his body. His lips opened, and she felt the raw hunger, the need in his kiss. A rush of heat surged through her at the brush of his tongue.
She was dimly aware of the door closing behind her as Seth pushed her back until her shoulder blades pressed against the wall. He kissed her hard and she pulled him close, reveling in the taste of him, taking pleasure from the sure strength of his body against hers.
The zipper of her jacket purred open, and Seth’s hands closed on her waist. She tugged on his T-shirt, pulling it free from his jeans, and slid her cold hands inside his shirt. A wave of desire overwhelmed her senses. She kissed his neck, his chin, every part of him she could reach. All rational thought fled. And there was only Seth, so warm and so real.
Her hand slid down to his waist, fingers skimming lightly beneath his belt. Seth’s breath caught, and she could feel him shudder. His hot breath fanned her cheek, and he stared down at her.
“Not here,” he said.
Marissa nodded. Seth took her hand, and he led her through the living room toward the back of the house. The bedroom was dark, the shades drawn. Seth turned to her, a question in his eyes. She answered with a kiss. She reached for his belt, but Seth caught her curious hands and locked them behind her back.
His lips blazed a trail down her neck to the swell of her breast. She felt a dizzying spiral of sensations flow through her. She swayed unsteadily and curved her body into him, wanting more, wanting to feel like there was something good still left in the world.
Seth released her hands. He gripped her hips and pulled her against the full length of his body. Marissa nuzzled his earlobe, drinking in the scent of his skin. Sandalwood and scotch. His hand slid inside her shirt, cupping the fullness of her breast. She groaned, wanting him, needing him. She whispered his name.
Marissa fumbled with the buttons of her shirt. Seth brushed her hands impatiently away. He grabbed the hem of her shirt, stripped it up over her shoulders, and tossed it to the floor. His hungry lips devoured every inch of her newly exposed skin. He lost himself in the feel of her, in his need.
Marissa shuddered. Her cheeks flushed, her breath coming fast, she gripped his shoulders as his fingers smoothed her bra away. Her hands knotted in his hair, and she pulled his mouth back up to hers, tasting him. Seth’s hands unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down. She kicked them away and shed her panties.
As she fell back on the bed, Marissa’s long hair tumbled loose behind her. Seth stood above her staring down. In the dark, his face engulfed in shadows, she could no longer read his expression. She raised her hand toward him, her fingers outstretched.
His fingers twined with hers, and she pulled him closer. Marissa pushed up onto her elbows, her kisses seductively soft, the thrust of her tongue slow. Teasing.
Seth eased away and she
heard the jingle of his belt buckle. She reached out and felt his body respond to her touch. A surge of dizzying heat flashed through her, and she pulled him down. Her knees parted and he slid slowly inside her.
Marissa gasped at the exquisite rush of sensations filling her. She arched her hips, matching his rhythm stroke for stroke. Point and counterpoint, they moved to the beat of a song that had no words. Was it a minute? An hour? A year? Marissa had lost all sense of time as Seth’s mouth found hers and she spiraled off the edge of insanity.
She cried out in the dark room, fingers digging into the taut muscles of his back. Seth’s body shuddered in release. Spent, he leaned down and kissed her gently on the mouth. She reached up to touch his face, the stubble on his jaw scratchy against her hand, the puckered skin of his scars like thick ropes of satin beneath her fingertips.
Marissa pressed her lips to his scarred cheek, all the tenderness she felt expressed in her kiss. Seth rolled onto his back, and Marissa’s heart began to slow. She settled into the warm curve of his shoulder. There, in the circle of his arms, hand resting over the steady beat of his heart, she felt safe. Finally, she slept.
#
Marissa opened her eyes. Seth lay on his side, facing her in the morning light, the scars on his face hidden by the pillow. His gray eyes were open. Alert. And she wondered how long he’d lain awake studying her in the morning light. Snuggling closer into his chest, she planted a soft kiss on his neck, wanting desperately to feel safe.
“This is a great way to wake up,” she said.
“We should talk about this.”
His words chilled her like ice water running down her back. She closed her eyes and pressed herself against the warmth of his body, unwilling to let go of the moment.
“Let’s not.”
Seth’s hand closed around her shoulder, and he gently edged her away. The look on his face was sober in the full light of morning. He rolled onto his back and she saw his scars. Marissa pulled the sheet close around her. The rush of air took on a sudden chill.
“This shouldn’t have happened.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me this was a mistake, that you didn’t want this to happen.”
“Marissa . . .”
“Because if you try to tell me that,” she pressed on, “I’ll know you’re lying.”
Seth closed his eyes and ran his hands over his scarred face. His sober gaze met hers.
“Not to overstate the obvious, but I’m the cop assigned to your daughter’s case. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed . . .”
Marissa’s eyes locked on his, refusing to budge an inch, and Seth gave his head a weary shake. Easing up from the mattress, she watched him pull on his boxer shorts and jeans.
“I’m going to make some coffee.”
Once she was alone in Seth’s room, self-doubt set in.
Yes, she was lonely. Yes, Seth was critical to solving Brooke’s case. Yes, getting involved now muddied whatever relationship they might have. But she couldn’t deny the way she felt about him. He was a good man. Strong. Caring. Despite all the complications, what she felt wasn’t wrong, and she wasn’t going to let misplaced guilt spoil whatever it was they had.
With so much chaos and uncertainty in her life, she didn’t want to lose the one good thing that had happened since this whole nightmare began. She wouldn’t let Seth push her away. She didn’t know if she could bear that on top of everything else.
Gathering her resolve, Marissa rose. Instead of donning her own clothes, she pulled his SPD-issue T-shirt over her head. She raised the fabric to her nose and breathed in his scent, sandalwood and cordite, then let it fall loose around her hips. The thick cotton hem brushed against her thighs as she exited the room.
She walked down the hall, getting the first real glimpse of the house. The living room was sparsely furnished, with modest leather furniture and a small flat-screen television. The dining room, or what she thought was the dining room, was absolutely bare. There wasn’t a table, a chair, a rug—nothing to show it was lived in.
Marissa stared at it. She looked around. There were no pictures, no artwork on the walls, no personal touches of any kind. The place had the empty, unlived-in feel of a mausoleum. Seth was a ghost drifting silently through the purgatory that was his existence, not really living. Merely surviving.
The thought chilled Marissa. She turned and continued down the hall.
Seth stood in the kitchen. He stared out the window, his face a granite mask. She studied his profile, taking in the angry red scars on his cheek, the stubborn jut of his jaw, and the downward cast of this mouth. Behind him, on the tidy kitchen cupboard, the coffee maker growled and popped. Dark, rich coffee dripped into the clear glass pot.
He turned at the sound of her bare feet approaching. He looked at her, his expression grim. Resolute.
“I hope you don’t mind I borrowed your shirt.” She perched on a stool beside the kitchen counter.
“It looks better on you.”
She held her hand out, wishing he’d take it. He didn’t. Instead Seth held up one of his own, warding her off. Rejection hit her like a slap across the face. She knotted her fingers together on the countertop. She could leave and they could pretend this had never happened. Well, maybe he could pretend. But she couldn’t. Last night had meant something.
“So, do you want to talk?”
Seth crossed the small kitchen, maintaining a safe distance between them. Propping his hands on the countertop behind him, he met her eyes. Marissa steeled herself for the onslaught of regret and guilt.
“I don’t think you realize what a huge ethical boundary I’ve just crossed. I can’t be objective about Brooke’s case if we’re involved.”
Marissa arched an eyebrow. “So this is about your objectivity? I hate to break it to you, Detective Crawford, but we’re already involved.”
Seth’s hands splayed wide in an exasperated palms-up gesture. “It’s an emotional case. It’s natural to mistake your feelings with the case with your feelings for me. It’s called transference.”
“First, I’m not confused. Second, you’re not my therapist. I know what I feel. I care about you. Do you?”
Seth dropped his gaze to the floor. His voice was quiet, almost inaudible, when at last he spoke. “You know this is impossible.”
Marissa climbed off the stool and approached him slowly.
“I know this is hard and you’re pushing me away. I know that whatever it is between us, you’ve felt it too. I also know that you’re looking for a way to deny it. You say it’s because of your duty, and maybe it is, but looking around here, I think there’s more to it.”
“Like losing my job’s not enough?”
Marissa felt the sting of his words swell. He was right. Just by being here she was putting him in an awkward position.
“Has there been anyone else since your wife died?”
Seth glanced up sharply. The fierce look on his face confirmed her suspicions.
“You need to go.”
“Don’t you think she’d want you to be happy?”
“Go.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Seth smashed his fist into the countertop. The coffee pot tilted, and the pot slid from its base. Glass shattered on the cold tile floor. Marissa jumped back. An instinctive stab of fear shot through her. She remembered Rick’s hand lashing out, connecting with her jaw. She remembered the blood.
She froze.
“Fuck,” he growled, raking his hands through his hair. He blew out a long breath. The struggle to control his frustration showed on his face. “Look, Marissa. Cops make lousy partners.”
“What about ex-strippers?”
“Not everything is about you.”
Coffee dripped. It hissed against the hot plate, filling the silence between them. Seth flipped off the switch. Reaching out, he gripped Marissa’s shoulder gently, steering her clear of the shattered glass.
Once they reached the living room, he dropped hi
s hand. Her skin chilled where his hand fell away. She looked at the empty shell of a house. Everything around her screamed of a man who had survived his wife’s death but had not moved on.
“Look, I’m scared too. I’m a three-time loser at marriage, but I’m right here willing to deal with my issues, while you’re hell-bent on pushing me away. Why?”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
“What does that even mean?”
He turned toward the fireplace. Shaking his head, he pressed his palms against his eyes. Her fingers itched with the need to touch him, but she held back. Waited. When he spoke, his voice was so low she strained to hear him.
“My wife was depressed. She’d just had a miscarriage. Instead of staying home with her, I went to work.”
She looked around the house—unfurnished—and at his scars, and she knew.
“The fire wasn’t your fault, Seth.”
Seth’s face contorted. The pain in his voice was as red and raw as the scars on his cheek.
“She swallowed a handful of pills before she set the fire.”
Seth’s admission sucked the breath from Marissa’s lungs as she thought about how close she’d come to ending her own life. His gray eyes raged like a winter storm, and she wondered how many nights he’d lain awake in bed playing the what-if game.
What if they hadn’t lost the baby? What if he’d stayed home that night? What if he’d handled things differently? There were more unanswerable questions than there were burning embers in a fire. And it was so like Seth to keep all his grief tightly bottled up inside, to internalize his guilt and punish himself.
He was wrong though. It hadn’t been his fault. What happened had been terrible and tragic and no more his fault than that of an all-powerful God in the sky.
Silent tears leaked out onto her cheeks.
“Oh, Seth.”
The jarring sound of Seth’s cell phone shattered the silence. Marissa jumped. Seth crossed the living room and picked it up as Marissa wiped her cheeks.
“Crawford,” he said, his back turned toward her. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”
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