“They didn’t want you credible anymore.”
“Yes. They wanted to destroy me just in case I asked that question of someone else.”
“But they didn’t destroy you.”
Her hands stilled, and her gaze focused on him. “No. They didn’t.”
* * *
HER HANDS SHOOK when she didn’t keep them pressed to the table. She finally gave up and put them in her lap.
Tom had excused himself after she’d given him Captain Kerrigan’s name, but a uniformed member of his team had been standing next to the door before it closed. Funny that he’d excused himself as if she were his guest instead of his collar.
That had been unexpectedly humiliating. Tom had made sure her coat had covered her cuffs, but it hadn’t mattered. She’d known. She’d known that the man she’d just had sex with had forced her into handcuffs and walked her into a waiting US marshal vehicle.
And he wanted her to trust him.
She might have laughed, but she was afraid she’d start crying.
When the door opened, she hated that she jumped, but she was expecting Agent Gates to burst in at any moment, an armed team at his back. Not that he’d need one. She was humiliatingly easy to overcome.
But it wasn’t Agent Gates; it was Mary, her face set in yet another glower. Isabelle glared back. Mary was the one who’d driven her here, after all.
“I read your file,” Mary said.
“Was it a cliff-hanger?” Isabelle snapped.
“I understand that you’re angry.” Her voice was a calm contrast to her tight face. “But you can trust us.”
“If you’d paid attention to my file, you wouldn’t say something that ridiculous to me. I met you a week ago. You’re yet another cop. That’s all I know about you.”
“But that’s not all you know about Tom.”
She clenched her hands into fists. “Isn’t it?”
Mary’s hand sounded like a shot when it hit the table. “No, it’s not. He’s going to let you leave. Did you know that? He’s going to help you leave, and if he does that, he’ll be fired. Over nineteen years as a marshal down the drain. For some woman he met a week ago.”
For one quick beat, Isabelle’s heart softened toward him. But Mary could say anything; that didn’t make it true.
“I’m not even sure that part matters,” Mary said. “He’s already in big trouble. He kept you a secret, and he got personally involved with you, a woman who’s neck deep in a murder investigation.” She leaned forward until she was halfway across the table, her eyes blazing now. “So when I say you can trust us, I mean that Tom Duncan, a good man and my very good friend, will probably lose his lifelong career because he wanted to help you. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
She leaned back and took a seat in one of the chairs, but her eyes never left Isabelle.
Isabelle blinked, shocked into silence. Had he willingly put his career in danger? Or was this another ploy? Why would he take those kinds of chances? It made no sense. “I didn’t ask for help,” she finally said.
“Right. I know you didn’t. But doesn’t it mean something that you didn’t have to ask?”
The door opened again, and it was Tom. Isabelle felt a little numb watching him. A little removed. Her whole world was foggy and confused.
He collapsed into the chair next to Mary and started filling her in, but Isabelle didn’t hear much of what he said. He wasn’t looking at her now, so she could watch him. He didn’t look sincere or convincing or earnest. He didn’t look as if he was trying to talk anyone into anything, and God, she’d seen that look a hundred times on the faces of a hundred cops.
Tom looked tired. Worried. He looked like a man who was trying to solve a problem. The problem of her.
She hated him. She really did. But she’d trusted him from the start. Either her instincts were good or she was completely broken, in which case, what did any of this matter?
And she didn’t want to run anymore. She wanted this over. She wanted to be done with it for good. Maybe she could trust him. And if she couldn’t, there’d never be anyone to trust. Ever.
She licked her lips, but her mouth was so dry it didn’t work, so she swallowed hard and licked her lips one more time so she could speak. “He gave me a gun,” she said.