Deadly Past. Kris Rafferty
a handsome, flirting, brown-eyed technician, they awaited the test results. Charlie sat in the corner on a tiny chair, grimacing. He’d been grimacing ever since she’d flirted back with that sexy tech, but she couldn’t prove causation. His discontent could be from sitting on that tiny chair. It made him look like a G.I. Joe crammed into a dollhouse. He didn’t fit.
Whatever had his panties in a bunch, he was ignoring her, so Cynthia pulled her iPhone from her suit jacket pocket. Charge was at twenty percent. Too much was going on to risk it dying again, so wasting it on Instagram didn’t seem sensible. She slipped it back in her pocket and then leaned for another entertainment magazine, grabbing it from the wall rack without falling off the table. No small feat. She pretended to read as she studiously did not swing her feet, despite an overwhelming urge to do just that.
“This is such a colossal waste of time.” Cynthia flipped a page, unable to concentrate on the photos of lavishly dressed actresses attending red carpet events, while Charlie sat there, all silent, huge, sexy, and disgruntled. He was perfect, it was distracting, and he had a full charge on his phone. The man was carelessly scrolling, swiping up, looking at who knows what.
Not for the first time, she wished she didn’t want him so much, but just looking at him made her girly parts clench. He was the smartest, bravest, kindest person she knew, and he made her laugh. He was her best friend, and wanting more from him was selfish and greedy.
Wanting more would kill their friendship.
In relationships, when one of the people involved feels indebted to the other, that debt colors everything. Even a kiss. She had no idea how far Charlie might go to appease his sense of obligation, and she had no intentions of exploring his limits, because when she kissed a man, she liked to know his tongue was in her mouth because he couldn’t help himself, instead of wondering if it was there because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
He wasn’t her type, anyway. Slap a kilt on him and he looked ripped from the pages of Outlander. No, one of the later books, after the Battle of Culloden. Battle worn, with scars to prove it, he was more fierce than pretty, and her tastes usually ran toward the pretty: like Benton or Modena, members of her FBI task force. Now, they were seriously good-looking men. Though Charlie’s size was a turn-on, and his pale blue eyes were dreamy…. Still, not her type. So why was she squirming, feeling aflutter just looking at him?
The exam table paper ripped beneath her butt. She peeked at Charlie, wondering if he’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. He’d noticed she was acting weird, too.
“You’re not human,” she said. “You should be nervous thinking about what we’ll find at the crime scene.” Like evidence that could land her in jail.
He compressed his lips, averted his gaze. “I’m more concerned with the CAT scan. Stop being nervous. I’ll tell you when it’s time to be nervous.”
“Don’t tell me—” Her back straightened and her jaw jutted out. “Who said I’m nervous?” His calm patience was pissing her off.
“Are you human?” he said.
His cheek kicked up when it took her a moment to realize he’d thrown her words back at her. His cleverness earned him a scowl. Then her shoulders sagged under the weight of her fears. “Yes, I’m…” She glanced at him. “I’m human.” She slapped the magazine closed and set it on the table next to her. “What if we find something at the crime scene that points to me? I could lose my career over this.”
“Did you kill anyone?” His expression and tone suggested he’d already answered that question for himself, and he’d judged her innocent.
“Not yet.” She narrowed her eyes, throwing out that threat. “I didn’t kill anyone. Probably. Are you suggesting no innocent person has ever been convicted?” His impatience was marked, yet Cynthia thought the question pertinent.
Grabbing the edge of the exam table, she found herself rhythmically tapping her pale pink, manicured fingernails on the wood underneath the table’s cushion-top. She calculated the odds of her falling on her face if she hopped off the table, and then calculated them again on a sliding scale with three-inch heels added to the equation. She was getting antsy.
“Try to be patient,” Charlie said, scrolling on his annoyingly charged phone.
She hated sitting there, looking like a little girl who might, at any moment, begin to swing her feet. FBI special agents with degrees in criminal psychology do not swing their feet while sitting on exam tables. In fact, it was impossible to project confident, capable, and professional while atop this plastic cushion with crinkly paper, swinging feet or not. The very act of sitting there put her at a disadvantage. Unfortunately, Charlie occupied the only other seat in the room. His tiny seat.
“I have every reason to be nervous. Blind justice, and all.” She studied the aseptic room with its waxed shiny floor, its high-gloss white walls. Everything had the look and smell of something that was bleached frequently. “Our criminal justice system runs on evidence, Charlie.”
His smile barely touched his lips, but it was there when he glanced up from his phone. “Yeah? Do tell.” Charlie’s world revolved around evidence, and Cynthia was caught preaching to the choir.
“It’s only a matter of time before they find my blood at the scene,” she said, “or my prints on bullet casings.”
His brow furrowed for a moment, and then cleared just as quickly. “I’ll figure it out.”
The way he said that had her worrying. Terrance’s death had a grip on him, even now, ten years later. She had no doubt he’d go to extraordinary lengths to repay the debt he felt he owed for “allowing” Terrance to drive drunk. Cynthia, for her part, would make sure Charlie never got that chance. She wanted no part of his risking his career to “figure it out.”
“If evidence can clear me,” she said, “Benton will find it. I trust him to do his job.”
“I trust him, too.” He returned his attention to his phone, but he no longer scrolled, or seemed to be reading, which meant he was just avoiding her gaze.
“Is there a but implied there? I mean, it sounds a lot like you’re implying a but.”
“No buts. I trust him.” He finally looked at her, and then slipped his phone into his back pocket. “l learned to trust him during the Coppola trial. The syndicate is dead, Coppola is in jail, and that’s because Benton knows what he’s doing.”
“True.” She glared at the shiny tile flooring again, allowing her hair to fall in damp, loose waves over her face. It took forever to air dry after a shower if she didn’t take the time to blow dry it. There hadn’t been time this morning, what with both her and Charlie impatient to get out of the house, so it was unruly. Cynthia preferred her hair pencil straight, sliding over her shoulders like silk, swaying when she walked, with not a wisp, not a stray hair moving out of alignment. Yet, here she sat, on an exam table, with unruly hair. Not aligned. “Six Coppola syndicate WITSEC witnesses. I can’t keep silent, Charlie.”
“You will. We follow the evidence, as always, and it will lead to the real unsubs. As always.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You open your mouth before we can clear you, we’re off the case. Or do you have an alternate idea? I mean, one that doesn’t require you to confess to murders you didn’t commit?”
She hopped off the table, unable to sit there any longer, and boom! Her heel zigged when it should have zagged. Her knees buckled and forced her to grab the cushion-top to regain her balance. Charlie shot forward, intense, like a parent hovering over a toddler: hands out, poised to catch.
“I’m fine,” she said. Charlie was really close, and chose to remain so, though he’d dropped his hands.
“Get back on the table before you fall on your face,” he said. Cynthia waved him off, then felt guilty when he compressed his lips and scrubbed his face with his hands. He looked exhausted, and it reminded her that he’d been up most of the night, worried because she hadn’t answered her phone. Guilt, guilt,