The song ends and “Jingle Bell Rock” starts, which is far too peppy to slow dance to. It breaks the spell, and we pull away from each other just enough for Corinne to tip her head back to look up at me. Her face is so beautiful, and the sight always takes my breath away. I can’t look away from her gaze.
Tugging her hand free from mine, she places both flat on my chest. When she rises on her tiptoes, I hold my breath as she brings her face nearer to mine. Closing my eyes, I feel her lips brush against my cheek.
“It’s getting late,” she murmurs. My eyes pop open when I feel her stepping away from me. “I think I’m going to head to bed.”
I study her, analyzing her words and tone. It’s not an invitation at all, merely a statement that our night together is at an end.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated because I was sure she was getting ready to kiss me, and I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to stop it.
Corinne smiles warmly. “Do you mind turning off the gas to the fireplace and unplugging the tree before you head to bed?”
“Of course not,” I murmur.
“Happy Christmas Eve,” she says. “I’ll cook a big breakfast for us in the morning.”
And take you back home, are her unspoken words. She’d only gotten me to commit to staying for one night, after all.
I merely incline my head. “Happy Christmas Eve. Sleep well, Corrine.”
She turns, heading down a short hallway to the right of the staircase that leads to her master bedroom. It had been on the tour earlier when we arrived, and it’s a haven. It’s all windows, ambient lighting, and soft bedding—a place where anyone could spend days lazing in bed, watching the snowfall.
I can’t ignore how much of me yearns to experience that with her. Maybe it’s the snow glowing under the outdoor lights, the soft twinkling lights, or the feel of her lips on my cheek, but I feel a sliver of what might be the grace of Christmas filling me.
It gives me hope.
?
It’s hours later, but I can’t sleep. Believe me, I’ve tried. No matter how comfortable the guest bedroom is, I can’t stop my mind from racing.
Warring, really.
There’s a side of me that wants to think maybe I can have something with Corinne while the other part loudly proclaims I’d be a fool to believe it.
With a sigh, I roll out of bed. I’m easily able to see where I’m going by the illumination from the floodlights coming in through the shades. Half an hour ago when I checked out the window, the snow still fell so heavily it looked like thick white blankets.
From my duffel, I pull out my iPad and return to bed, propping my back against the headboard. I fire it up, scroll to my secure FBI portal, and log in.
It’s been a while since the last time I did this, but I pull up the Richard Katz file. I’ve had no reason to look at it lately as his last appeal was denied. Now we’re just waiting for an execution date.
After a few taps on the screen, I find the part of my report I’m searching for. It’s the entire reason Corinne should hate me instead of ever look at me as a hero, friend, or lover.
It’s an interim entry I made not a month before her parents were murdered. We had narrowed down our suspect pool to just three men—and Richard Katz was on the list. All three were asked to give interviews, and two lawyered up. Richard Katz had gladly agreed to talk to me, though. While most would see that as a sign of innocence, I’d recognized a smug arrogance that didn’t sit right with me.
Oh, he’d been charming throughout the interview. An unbiased observer probably would have described him as an incredibly likable guy. In fact, when we’d interviewed his friends and coworkers, they’d all had nothing but good things to say about him.
But sociopaths are good at that. Everyone loved Ted Bundy, too. No one who knew him could believe how evil he’d truly been when his atrocious crimes had been revealed.
Katz seemed completely at ease during our interview—which lasted almost six hours—and he volunteered whatever information I asked. He even had a moderately good alibi for the third murder that checked out. His cell phone had been in use, pinging off a tower more than forty miles away.
When all was said and done, the other two men seemed more suspicious as they’d lawyered up and couldn’t provide alibis. But in my heart of hearts, I’d known Richard Katz was The Salt Slasher. Yet, I’d had no way to prove it.
I’d had no probable cause to hold him. DNA testing had been held up in the months-long limbo that it had been then, and currently still is, our system of too many kits to test and not enough lab resources to get it done quickly.