Steps crunched on the rough asphalt. Not Ana’s heels. Long, certain strides. He was close. I could feel his presence right behind me like a shadow.
I braced myself for the words that would inevitably come.
“We need to talk,” Alec said, in a quiet voice. “I don’t know what came over me yesterday. I’m sorry.”
He knew better than to touch me but he was so close I could smell his aftershave.
“You’re sorry?” I whispered. The words came out shaky. Not because I was going to cry. For once, I was past that point. This time I was shaking from anger. Anger at him for toying with me, for ignoring months of tension, then kissing me and acting like it meant nothing. Anger at Major for forcing us to work together, though he knew something was brewing between us. But most of all, I was angry at myself for being so stupid and so weak.
I whirled around to face him. “So what, you just change your mind from one day to the next and I’m supposed to accept it just like that?” I snapped my fingers. How could he do this to me? He’d said he’d wanted to kiss me for so long. He’d said nobody understood him like I did. Had he been lying?
“I—” He shook his head. “I lost control and that can’t happen again. I talked to Major—”
“You told Major?!” I’d thought what happened was something sacred between him and me, something special.
“No, he already knew. It wasn’t that hard to guess with me gone in the middle of the night and all. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” He took a deep breath. “You have to forget what happened yesterday. It’ll only endanger the mission.” His tone was so controlled, so completely unemotional that I wondered if this didn’t mean anything at all to him. How could he switch his emotions on and off like that when I felt like I’d lost control altogether? “It shouldn’t have happened. It was a mistake.”
You’re a mistake. That’s what he meant. After everything we’d been through, I’d thought that he of all people wouldn’t hurt me like this.
“Yes,” I said harshly. “You’re right. It was a mistake.” Refusing to look at him, I breezed past him, but he reached out and touched my shoulder. I jerked back. “Don’t touch me ever again.” I wanted to hate him, but even now the look in his eyes stirred something inside me.
He lowered his arm. “I’m very sorry.” Before I was out of earshot, I heard words I was sure weren’t meant for me to hear. “For more than you’ll ever know.”
Inside, the corridors had cleared. The next class was about to begin and I was still shaking with emotions. I had no clue where to find my backpack. It wasn’t where I’d dropped it.
I walked to my locker, trying to stop my throat from constricting. I was not going to cry. Not here, not now, and certainly not because of him. He didn’t deserve my tears.
I opened my locker and leaned my head against the door.
“I picked up your stuff.”
The voice was familiar. I jerked my head up, not caring how upset I looked. Phil Faulkner stood in front of me, holding my backpack. Had he been following me? Had he been watching Alec and me? I took it from him with a curt “thanks.” I knew I should have said more but making small talk was the last thing I was in the mood for.
“What happened?” His eyes—that creepy watery blue—were too inquiring, his expression too sympathetic. Something wasn’t right with him. He was always watching me, always hovering nearby. His hand twitched toward my own but then he let his arm drop to his side. I tried to take a step back but bumped against the wall. I brushed past him, careful not to touch him. “I really need to get to class but thanks again.”
That night, I busied myself with online research, though I didn’t expect to find anything. Other, more experienced agents had perused the case files ad nauseam and surely would have noticed if something was off, but I needed to distract myself from the hollow sensation in my belly. And maybe a less trained eye would actually do the trick. I simply had to catch the killer so Madison could finally rest in peace.
The FEA database contained some seriously disgusting and creepy photos from the crime scenes, shots so disturbing it was clear why I hadn’t been given them before.
One was a headshot of the janitor, Mr. Chen, who’d been killed in the backyard of his house. Blood trickled from his ears and nose, and his eyes were wide and bulgy. His expression—pained and tired—made me think that he’d struggled a long time before death. The killer hadn’t used a wire to strangle him and the FEA hadn’t yet figured out how exactly he’d done it. I tried to zoom as close as possible to the marks around his throat and changed the resolution, but a photo didn’t give the same impression as seeing the body would have done. Still, the line around Mr. Chen’s throat was distinguishly different from Madison’s. Whatever had been used hadn’t cut into his skin and the bruise looked as if something like a silk shawl or something similarly soft had been used. I couldn’t imagine Yates or Devon to carry around a silk shawl . . .