Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Satisfied that no one was there, she took her hand out of her coat and turned around. The woman was standing in the bedroom window, staring out at the river, and slowly running a hand through her hair. The expression on her face was unsettling. It was flat. Blank. How could someone go from zero to ninety and back to zero that quickly? Where was Matthew? Bernadette didn’t like it and once again reached inside her trench coat. Her fingers landed on the butt of her gun, but she never had a chance to unsnap her holster or even look behind her.

WINDING UP LIKE a batter, he brought the paddle around and slammed it against her back. The splash her body made as it hit the river gave him some satisfaction, but he was disappointed she hadn’t uttered a word. A scream would have been rewarding. Standing on the edge of the deck with the paddle still locked in his hands, he looked into the water with hopeful anticipation. If she resurfaced, he would push her back down. If it got real ugly, he might have to drop his weapon and use his hands to hold her under. Perhaps he’d have to go in himself. The water would be cold, but it would be worth it to get rid of her. She was going to ruin everything.

The rumble of a car pulling into the yacht club’s parking lot made him glance nervously over his shoulder. He gave a last look to the smooth, black surface and told himself she was gone for good. Taking the paddle with him, he shuffled off the Good Enuf and went to the end of the dock. He cranked his arm back and flung his weapon into the water. The thing would be far downriver in no time. With any luck, so would her body.

Chapter 27

IT SEEMED TO take forever to fight her way to the surface. When Bernadette finally bobbed up, she was gasping and coughing up putrid water. She didn’t holler for help; it took every bit of energy to stay afloat. Her back and her lungs ached. Splashing madly with her arms, she made no progress in any direction; all she did was tread the cold water. Her limbs were starting to lose sensation, and she forced herself to stop thrashing around. Kicking her legs like a frog, she did a sloppy breaststroke to the edge of the small houseboat. Panting and shivering, she hung on to the wood trim of the Good Enuf while trying to throw her right leg up onto the deck.

“Hell,” she wheezed, her leg slipping off the edge and falling back into the water. Spasms of pain radiated across her back. Low to the river while she was standing on top of it, the deck now seemed insurmountably high. She felt as if she were trying to clamber up the sheer sides of a cruise ship. Something beneath the surface of the water brushed past her body, and she tried not to think about what it could be.

When she got to the deck on the other end of the boat, her fingers bumped up against a narrow horizontal bar. She locked her fist over it and brought her other hand around to pull her body in front of the ladder. It took every ounce of her remaining energy to set her feet on the ladder and climb up one rung and then another. Her numb foot slipped on the third rung, and she nearly fell backward into the river. Slowly, she returned her foot to the third rung and stepped hard, propelling herself up and out of the water. The impact of her body against the boards sent another ripple of pain across her back.

Dripping and cold, she stayed facedown on the Good Enuf. A wind blew across the deck, and she groaned into the wood. Shivering uncontrollably, she got on her knees and crawled to the patio doors of the houseboat. She reached up with one hand and pulled on the handle. Locked. She used the handle to pull herself to her feet. While she rested her forehead against the glass door, she thought about the walk back across the bridge. Between her sore back and her wet clothes, she’d never make it. She dipped her trembling hand into her soggy coat pocket and felt nothing. Her cell had been lost during her tumble into the water. It wouldn’t have worked anyway.

Another gust whipped across the deck of the boat, and she twined her arms around her shivering body. She wondered if she should peel off some of the wet clothing, then told herself that was a bad idea. She remembered something from a survival class taught at Quantico. Paradoxical undressing. That’s what they called it when hypothermia victims removed clothing even as they were freezing to death. She’d be damned if they were going to find her dead and naked.

Lifting her face off the patio door, she looked to the lighted windows of Matthew’s boat. She couldn’t go there for help. He was most likely the one who’d batted her into the river. What had he used to hit her? It felt like a concrete block.

She scanned the water’s edge for safer options. On the other side of the Good Enuf was a medium-size craft with two levels, both of them lit. Beyond that were two smaller boats that looked dark and vacant.

Hugging herself, she hobbled across the deck of the Good Enuf and stepped onto the dock. With the greatest of effort, she put one foot in front of the other and made it over to the double-decker houseboat, the Three-Hour Tour. Lighted plastic pumpkins stood sentry, one on each side of the entrance, and the door itself was plastered with cardboard cutouts of tarantulas. As she raised her fist to knock, she remembered her nightmare about spiders crawling over her while she beat against the door of a houseboat. Did that mean this was the wrong place to go for sanctuary? Screw the dream, she thought, and brought her fist down on the wood. She knocked again and yelled, “Hello? Is anyone home?” She heard a deadbolt being turned on the other side.

The door opened a crack. Long bangs and a big nose peeked out at her from the other side of a security chain. Gilligan’s double. “Holy crap,” he sputtered, taking in her wet figure.

“I f-fell in,” she chattered.

He took down the security chain and opened the door wide. “Get inside.”

“Thank you.” As she stepped over his threshold, she glanced down at her feet and realized that her shoes were gone.

He closed the door after her and ran over to his couch. He snatched a purple Minnesota Vikings throw off the cushions and draped it over her shoulders. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

She shook her head. “No. I just gotta get out of these c-clothes.”

Taking a couple of steps back from her, he ran a hand through his dark mop. “Maybe I should call the cops.”

“No,” she said, and felt herself start to totter.

“What’s your name?” he asked, crossing his arms as if he were the one who was cold. “What’re you doing out here at night?”

“Is it the pizza?” a young woman yelled from another room.

“No!” he yelled back, nervously tucking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “She fell in. Someone fell in. Get in here, Lor.”

A petite brunette dressed in yellow pajama bottoms and a Sponge-Bob T-shirt thumped into the room. She took one look at the visitor huddled near the door, a throw hanging from her shoulders, and blurted, “Holy crap. Who’re you?”

“I’m … I fell in,” Bernadette said, holding the throw tight around her body.

The woman went over to Bernadette and put an arm around her. “You look ready to pass out.”

The guy seemed relieved to have the woman on the scene. “Get her outta those clothes, Lor.”

Lor started steering Bernadette to a door at the side of the living room. “Bathroom’s this way. You can take this stuff off while I get you some sweats.”

“What happened? How’d you fall in?” the man asked her.

“I … had this really bad blind date.”

“I’ll bet it was Jason down at the end,” the man said as the two women walked side by side.

“I don’t want to get into it,” Bernadette said.

“It was Jason, all right.”

Lor stopped and snapped over her shoulder, “Wally! Give the Jason crap a rest, would you?”

“I left in a hurry,” Bernadette continued. “I got all turned around and thought I was walking to shore. I stepped right off the dock and into the water. I don’t know how it happened. I got so flustered.”

“Jason does that to women,” said Lor, pushing open the door to the bathroom. “He’s such an asshole. I can’t believe someone fixed you up with him.”

Bernadette felt guilty about tarnishing some innocent person’s reputation. “It wasn’t Jason,” she said as she stepped into the bathroom.

“Do you want me to phone someone for you?” Wally asked from the living room.

Bernadette knew who would come get her, but she didn’t want her hosts to make the call or overhear it. “There’s … this other fella,” she said through the door. “It’s kind of awkward.”

Lor got the hint and came back to the bathroom with a cell. She hesitated, studying Bernadette’s face. “Don’t call China or any shit like that, okay?”

“Promise,” said Bernadette, taking the phone and closing the door. Though she was beginning to warm up, she remained wobbly and sore. She dropped the toilet lid and sat down on it. After punching in his number, she held the phone to her ear with one hand and crossed her fingers with the other.

He picked up after five rings. “Garcia.”

She was never so relieved to hear his voice. “Tony. Thank God.”

“What’s going on? Where are you?”

The swampy taste of the river climbed up her throat, and she felt nauseous. Bending over, she whispered into the phone, “I’m at the St. Paul Yacht Club, on Harriet Island.”

“I know where it is, but what—”

“The boat is called the Three-Hour Tour. I’ll have them unlock the gate for you. It’s Gate G. The lower harbor.”

“What are you doing on a boat? What happened to dinner with the brother?”

“I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

“What did you do?”

Bernadette heard a knock at the bathroom door. “One second,” she said into the phone, and set the cell on the bathroom counter. She got up off the toilet lid, wincing from the back pain, and shuffled over to the door while clutching the throw around her. She felt like an old lady. She opened the door and took an armload of clothing from Lor.

“Keep the works,” said the young woman. “It was all headed to Goodwill.”

“Thanks.”

“The ex-boyfriend coming to the rescue?”

Bernadette paused, amused by the role assigned to Garcia. She smiled. “Yeah. He’s on his way. I told him the name of your boat. If you could unlock the gate for him.”

“I’ll send Wally,” said the young woman. “You need anything else?”

Bernadette adjusted the clothes in her arms. “No. This is great. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, wait,” said Lor, bending over to retrieve something from the floor. She passed a plastic garbage bag to Bernadette. “For your wet clothes.”

“Thanks again.”

“I’ll let you get dressed,” she said, and closed the bathroom door.

Bernadette sat back down on the toilet lid with the phone. “Are you there?”

“I’m the ex-boyfriend, am I?”

“This is a really long story,” Bernadette whispered into the cell.

“I’m in my boxers, so it better be a good one.”

“It is,” she said, and hung up.

Bernadette dressed quickly. The gray sweats felt warm, dry, and comfortably baggy. The woman had even included a pair of wool socks, some well-worn running shoes, and an old ski jacket. While Bernadette stuffed her wet clothes into the garbage bag, she eyed the gun and holster she’d set on the bathroom counter. She’d heard the Glock could survive getting run over by a tank. A dip in the river should be nothing.

Lor tapped on the bathroom door. “How’re you doing in there?”

“Give me one minute,” Bernadette said while tucking the damp holster and gun into the bottomless pockets of the sweatpants. These people had been more than generous, and Bernadette decided to meet Garcia at the gate rather than impose upon them any further. She pulled on the ski jacket and was glad to see it hid the bulge of her gun.

The door popped open and Lor stuck her head inside. “Want me to toss your clothes for you, or are you gonna try to salvage them?”

Bernadette had removed her ID and her wallet. As far as she was concerned, the rest of it, even the coat, was a loss. She never wanted to set eyes on the stuff again. She handed the heavy bag to Lor. “Trash it.”

“That’s what I figured,” said the young woman.

BERNADETTE MANAGED to get off of the Three-Hour Tour without giving Wally and Lor a name, real or fabricated. She figured they were thrilled to rid themselves of the nighttime drama as quickly as possible. As she thumped down the dock, she adjusted her grip on her gun. If her assailant showed up for another try, she wanted to put a bullet in the sneaky bastard. Before she started up the steps that would take her back to the park, she stole a quick look at Matthew’s houseboat. All the lights were off now. He and the woman either had gone to bed or had left while she was inside the Three-Hour Tour.

In her mind, she went back and forth over whether Matthew was indeed the villain. He could have seen her and slipped outside to push her into the river, but what excuse would he have given the woman for leaving the boat? Pardon me a minute while I drown an FBI agent, and please freshen up my drink while I’m gone.

Garcia was just pulling into the parking lot in his Pontiac Grand Am. Spotting her standing in front of the fence, he navigated his heap over to the sidewalk. “Hey, lady, need a lift?” His face darkened when he saw the gun in her hand.

She dropped her gun in the ski jacket’s pocket, opened the passenger door, and hopped inside. Slamming the door hard, she said: “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Garcia turned out of the park. “Why did you have your piece out? Why are you dressed like a bum?”

She reached over and turned up the heat. Looking through the windshield, she noticed the crack was gone. “I see you finally fixed the—”

“Let’s hear it.” He turned the car north onto the Wabasha Bridge and headed for downtown. “Let’s hear it, Cat. Spill it.”

“Not yet.” She looked through the passenger window. The nighttime river would never again seem beautiful and mysterious. She’d tasted it. Nearly drowned in it. A bit of it still clogged her ears and clung to her body. The romance was gone. “I need some time.”

“Time for what?”

“How about we wait until we’re inside?” she asked. “Can we save it until my place?”

“You’d better have beer,” he said, bumping off the bridge and heading for her loft.

“I have beer,” she said, using her index finger to work water out of her ear.

He braked at a red light and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a swamp in here.”

“Maybe you need to put up one of those air fresheners,” she said.

Chapter 28

WHILE SHE SHOWERED off the stink of the river, Garcia sat on her couch with the remote in one hand and a beer in the other. The instant she cracked open the bathroom door, he punched off the television and looked expectantly in her direction.

“Keep your shirt on,” she said as she tightened the belt around her bathrobe and headed for the kitchen.

He punched the set back on and started surfing the channels. “You’re walking like a grandma.”

“Thanks. You want another beer?”

“I’m good.” He stopped at a program about insects.

“Ants communicate primarily through chemicals called pheromones.”

He dropped the remote on the couch. “Ever wonder how they get those close-ups? I mean, how do they get right into the ant hole—right into the ants’ faces—without disturbing the little turds?”

“What is it about males and nature shows?” she asked, frowning at his selection. “It’s either that or the History Channel.”

“We like war and bugs.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Eureka! This hardworking forager has found a supply of food, a wedge of apple discarded by picnickers.”

She went to the cupboards to check her store of hard liquor and saw a dusty bottle of Jack Daniel’s hidden behind some ancient vodka. “Eureka! The hardworking agent has found a supply of good booze.” She took down the bottle and a shot glass. “Will you be pissed if I call in drunk the rest of the month?”

“She leaves a pheromone trail along the ground as she makes her way home. Before long, the other ants are following this very same pheromone route. Returning home, they reinforce this same path. This in turn attracts more ants.”

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Never mind,” she said, pouring a shot.

“A new obstacle—a fallen twig—blocks the established route to the food supply, so the foragers deviate from the path to find a new trail. If successful, the victorious returning explorer leaves a new trail marking the shortest detour.”

Glancing into the kitchen, he saw her down a shot while she was standing at the counter. “Are you getting lit?”

“The trail is no longer reinforced and slowly dissipates once the food supply is completely exhausted.”

“I’m drinking until the liquor supply is completely exhausted,” she said, and held the bottle up to study the level of whiskey.

He aimed the remote at the bugs and shut off the set. “What happened to you tonight, Cat?”

She poured a second shot and took the glass and the bottle over to the coffee table. She dropped down next to him on the couch. “Someone tried to drown me.”

“What? Who? How’d you end up down by the river in the first place?”

She tipped back another shot and shuddered. The heat of the whiskey sent a pleasant warmth rippling through her body. She set down the glass and rewound to the beginning of her story. “Matt and I had dinner at that fancy restaurant, the one on Wabasha Street with the tall windows and the froufrou curtains.”

“Nice place.”

“You’ll see how nice when I turn in my expense account,” she said.

Garcia sat back against the cushions. “Sounds like he was he trying to soften you up.”

“He wanted me to lay off his big brother and his big files,” she said. “He went on and on about what a great human being Luke is, how he started this suicide hotline and that clinic. While he’s giving me this sales pitch, Little Brother is getting bombed on high-end vino.”

“What about you? Did you drink with him?”

She paused, feeling insulted by the question. “I had a sip or two of wine.”

He glanced at the whiskey bottle.

“Seriously,” she said. “Two sips.”

“I believe you.” He set his St. Pauli on the coffee table. “Did he tell you if the doc knows Wakefielder?”

“Matt claimed not to know the guy. I’m not sure I believe him.”

“Did he give you anything on the dead girls?”

“He said Klein’s mother killed herself and Klein tried to kill herself before his brother took her on as a patient. He said he never heard of Zoe Cameron. Again, I don’t know if I believe that.”

“Did you get anything useful off him?”

She rubbed her hands together. “I—I got a sense that something isn’t right in that family. Something between Matt and Luke. Something … strange.”

“Where does the yacht club fit into this strangeness?”

“It’s coming,” she said. “After dinner, I was worried that he couldn’t drive and suggested he take a cab. He told me he lived in walking distance.”

“So you walked him home.”

“Followed him home, to his houseboat. He lives on a houseboat, or at least crashes there after partying.”

“He didn’t see you tailing him?”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” she said. “I was careful.”

He rubbed his face with his hand. “God, Cat. Why did you tail him? Based on a feeling?”

She ignored his questions and kept going. “I was standing on a neighbor’s boat—don’t worry, they weren’t home—and I saw him arguing with a woman who’d busted into his place. Old girlfriend or something.”

“Back up,” said Garcia. “You saw him? How did you see him? Were they arguing outside?”

“I was watching through the window. They had the shades up and the lights on inside, and it was hard not to see.”

He slapped his hand over his eyes. “Christ.”

“How was it different from any other surveillance? How was it different from the stakeout of the prof’s house? We tap people’s phones and we keep tabs on their—”

“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hand to halt her diatribe.

“Anyway, they both suddenly disappeared from the window,” she said. “After a while, she popped back up, but I didn’t see him. I got worried.”

“Why?”

“She—the girlfriend—practically scratched his eyes out when they were fighting. I literally saw blood. His face was bloody.”

“If you were that worried, maybe you should have intervened or called the police.”

“I thought about that.” She looked down at her hands. “But I didn’t have the chance. While I was standing there watching, someone came up behind me and whacked me on the back with a shovel or something. I went in. Went under.”

“Shit.”

She grabbed the Jack Daniel’s, poured a third shot, and laughed nervously. “I’m telling you, Tony, it was cold.”

He rubbed her shoulder through her robe. “Are you okay?”

“My back is still sore, but otherwise I’m fine.”

“I want you to go see a doctor.”

She gave the idea a dismissive wave, tipped back the third shot, and swallowed hard. “I crawled onto the neighbor’s boat. Practically crawled down the dock. Found a houseboat with the lights on. Banged on the door. I made up some story about accidentally walking off the dock. Didn’t give them my name or anything. They gave me a change of clothes and let me use their phone.” She paused. “I need a new cell, by the way.”

“Who hit you? Did you get a look?”

“I don’t know,” she said, cupping the empty whiskey glass between her hands. “They were gone by the time I came up for air. It could have been Matthew. Maybe he saw me through the window and sneaked off his houseboat. Came after me. That’s why I couldn’t see him in the windows. On the other hand, it could have just as easily been a neighbor who’d had too many break-ins already and thought I was another burglar. Or maybe it was another bum.”

“Another bum?”

Rolling the glass between her palms, she fumbled an explanation. She hadn’t intended to tell him about the basement fiasco yet. “Something happened downstairs.”

“What happened? Downstairs where?”

“The basement here.” She felt a knot in her gut as she remembered the scumbag’s body on top of her own. “These two tramps came after me. One of them jumped me.”

“Shit. When?”

“Late Thursday night, after you left. I went back down to try another round with the scarf.” She felt guilty seeing his stressed face. “But I’m okay. They were drunks. I kicked the crap out of the one who tried to grab me. The cops came and hauled them away.”

“Who were they?”

“Nobody. Bums. Drunk bums. They got in through that busted front door.”

“Great. When were you going to tell me about it? Were you going to let me find out from my cousin at the cop shop?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Christ Almighty.” He got up off the couch and paced back and forth in front of the coffee table. “You’ve been physically assaulted twice in a forty-eight-hour period. Do you really think you should be going in to work Monday morning? You need some time off.”

“So I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself?” She picked up the whiskey bottle to pour a fourth shot, had second thoughts, and set it down. “If you’re worried that I’m going to get all wiggy and go postal at the office, think about it. Who am I going to shoot? Creed’s already dead.”

“Funny.” He stopped pacing and stood in front of her with his arms folded. “I want you to see a doctor first thing in the morning. Urgent care or the ER or whatever.”

“I’m fine.”

“You complained about a sore back.”

“I’m on the verge of something with these drownings,” she said. “I am not going to put the investigation on hold so I can put my feet up.”

He pushed the Jack Daniel’s bottle off to the side and sat down on the edge of her coffee table to face her. “I got an update from the ME today.”

“What did he say?” She pointed at him. “What about the lithium? Did he find lithium in Klein’s wineglass and in her system?”

“He did.”

“Crime scene crew. What about them?”

“Hairs and fibers from Klein’s and Hammond’s. It’ll take the usual eternity to do the DNA deal.”

“What color hair?”

“Blond.” Garcia’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t even ask before. Is Matthew VonHader—”

“A towhead? You betcha. So is Luke VonHader.”

“Hmmm. With the prof, that makes three blonds.”

“What about prints?” she asked.

“They’re thinking the killer used gloves.”

“Evidence of sexual assault?”

Garcia shook his head.

“He used a condom, then. Or he drowned them, dried his hands off, and left to have sex elsewhere.” She chewed her bottom lip. “What is Minneapolis PD releasing to the media?”

“They’re going to issue a statement saying the tub deaths were homicides. Period. No mention of the river deaths and certainly no mention of Zoe Cameron. If reporters ask whether the tub deaths are related to each other …”

“They have already asked; they’re not that obtuse.”

“… Minneapolis is going to say that possibility is being investigated, which is the truth.”

“Have the cops or our folks mentioned Klein’s neighbor to the media yet? Has anyone hinted to the press that he gave us a description—albeit a crappy one—of Klein’s late-night date?”

“No. That’s still being held under wraps.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” She stood up, crossed the living room, and went over to the windows facing the riverfront. “I’ve got an idea.”

Garcia got up and joined her at the windows. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

The sight of the Mississippi made her shudder. She buried her hands in the pockets of her robe, turned away from the water, and rested her back against the glass. “Ask them to hold off on releasing the description.”

“I might be able to get them to do that. It’s so general—big blond dude—it’s useless.”

“If word gets out that we have a witness who saw Klein with someone the night of her death, it could put one of our blonds on the move. If the newspapers and TV run a description of the suspected killer—even a vague one—it could really light a fire under someone to get out of town. I want people to think we’re all clueless. I want Wakefielder to think we’ve backed off.”

“Lots of these serial killers get angry if they don’t get some sort of ink. They live to string law enforcement along and read about it in the papers.”

“That’s not what this maniac is after. He’s not into it for the glory. It’s all about his sexual gratification.”

“I’ve seen some freaky stuff in all my years of law enforcement. Torture and sex. Cannibalism and sex. Satanic worship and sex. Rottweilers and sex.” He shook his head. “But this water and sex …”

“It’s not just water and sex. It’s about drowning and sex.” She felt her skin crawl under the terry cloth. Almost unconsciously, she pulled her robe tighter around her body. “Really, if you think about it, that old nautical tale about those sirens or whatever they were. They lured sailors to their deaths. Isn’t that about drowning and sex? This is the flip side of that.”

“A man luring women into the water.” Garcia turned and looked at the river through the tall windows. “I hate to ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“If Matt did it, do you think he bumped you into the river to get off on it?”

Her upper lip curled. “I wish you hadn’t asked, but I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t stay around to watch. I think he knocked me in to get rid of me, or because he was furious with me. Both.”

His brow furrowed. “You really think he’s the one who knocked you in?”

“The more we talk about him, the more I want time to find out,” she said. “I haven’t ruled out the prof or the shrink as players in this. But I want to surprise little brother at his boat and check out his reaction. He may have tried to steer me away from Luke because I was getting too close to home.”

He walked into the middle of the living room and turned around. “The water thing. Besides the fact that he hangs out on the river, which is fascinating as hell in light of your theory, any other indications he’s got some kind of water fetish? Drowning fetish?”

She remembered the way Matthew had stood along the rails that night, staring out onto the water for a long time. It had seemed such an odd thing for a man out walking alone to do. Garcia would pencil in that observation under the “feelings” column, however, and summarily dismiss it. She left her resting spot against the windows and walked over to him. “Just get the cops to sit on that stuff about the witness and his description.”

“For how long?”

“Until I can pay a visit to my favorite drinking buddy. Ask him if he wants to go for a swim. Maybe he’ll make me breakfast on the river tomorrow.”

“Take your gun.”

“You think the Glock is okay after going into the river with me?”

“Hell, yes. I’ll put in for a new one if you want, but shit. People fire it under water, which is a real dumb-ass idea. I heard about this one dude who put his Glock in a bucket of Drano, just to see what would happen. It came out good as new. He ran a hundred rounds of ammo coated with Gorilla Glue and had no failures.”

“Give me a break. I read about that online.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“The part about the Drano maybe, but not the Gorilla Glue.” She lifted his wrist and checked his watch. “Time for you to go home, unless you plan on sleeping here.”

“Best offer I’ve had today,” he said.

Feeling her face heat up, she let go of his wrist. “I was joking.”

“Seriously, are you okay by yourself tonight? You’ve been through the wringer. I could—” His eyes fell on her sofa.

“Oh. Right. Great idea.” She took a step back from him. “I can’t imagine anything more distracting than having you right downstairs. I’d never get any sleep.”

His brows arched. “Distracting?”

“You probably snore. You look like the type that snores.”

He took a step toward her. “You’re right. I do snore.”

They stood inches apart, staring at each other for several seconds. Bernadette finally broke the silence. “Well …”

“Yeah.” He took his coat off the kitchen chair and put it on.

They walked to the door together. “Thanks for pulling my backside out of the hot coals. Again.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

As soon as the door snapped shut behind him, she made a beeline for the whiskey bottle to pour one last shot before bed. For a lot of reasons, it was going to be a long and sleepless night.