Page 108 of The Last Close Call

Rowan glanced at the clock, and it took her a moment to grasp the meaning of the flashing numbers. Was it really 1:55? Or had they had a power surge?

She tossed back the covers and immediately regretted it as chilly air hit her skin. She got out of bed and grabbed the first article of clothing she spotted on the floor—a black T-shirt. Slipping into it, she glanced around dazedly. Phone. It would be in her purse. Which was where? She turned, looking around the dim room. Her gaze landed on an open laptop computer sitting on the dresser near a tangle of power cords. Her purse sat beside it, even though she distinctly remembered dropping it on the floor when they’d stumbled into the room together. Jack must have put it there.

She rushed to the dresser, unzipped her purse, and pulled out her phone. It was 5:28. She’d slept here all night.

She set the phone down on a pile of papers, and the glow of the screen illuminated a picture. Rowan stared down at it, transfixed by the familiar scene. She knew the chairs, the table, the wind chimes. It was Olivia Salter’s back porch. Rowan had sat around that exact table, and the porch had looked the same as this picture—except for the yellow crime scene tape stretched across the back.

Rowan picked up the photograph and looked at the one beneath it. Her breath caught. Olivia’s living room. She recognized the furry pink beanbag. There was an evidence marker on the beige carpet next to it—marking God only knew what. Dread filled Rowan’s stomach as she set the picture aside and looked at the next one in the stack. This one showed the corner of Olivia’s tie-dyed bedspread and more beige carpet. Then a close-up of carpet, along with another evidence marker. Rowan squinted at the little white object in the photo. A metal ruler had been placed beside it for scale. It looked like a wad of gum or—

A tooth.

A human tooth on the carpet.

Rowan moved the photo aside. Next was a smaller picture—a Polaroid—and it took her a second to recognize Olivia. She sat on a hospital bed, gaze downcast. Rowan recognized her wavy brown hair, but the entire side of her face was purple and swollen like an eggplant.

Rowan dropped the Polaroid. Her stomach flip-flopped.

A voice near the door sent a shot of panic through her. She glanced around frantically and snatched her clothes off the floor, then she dashed into the bathroom. She pulled the door shut just as the door to the adjoining room opened.

Jack was back.

Shit. She turned on the faucet to give herself cover.

Revulsion gripped her. That snapshot was from the night of Olivia’s attack. Had Jack taken the picture? Or some ER nurse? A hot lump clogged Rowan’s throat as she tried to get her mind around the image of Olivia beaten almost beyond recognition. Rowan had known what had happened. She’d heard about it through friends. But hearing and seeing were two totally different things, and she never should have touched those crime scene photos.

Her stomach roiled and she leaned on the vanity. God, she felt sick. Clammy. She had to get out of here.

A tap at the door.

“Rowan?”

“One sec.”

She splashed cold water on her face, then turned off the faucet. She glanced in the mirror and was shocked by her reflection. Her hair looked like a tumbleweed. Mascara was smudged beneath her eyes. She grabbed a rumpled towel off the counter, dampened it, and did her best to clean up her face. Then she smoothed her hair and attempted to tame it by twisting it into a bun. She didn’t have a hair band, but it would hold long enough for her to make her escape.

She grabbed her jeans and underwear. The denim was still damp, but she pulled everything on and smoothed the front of the T-shirt. It was Jack’s, but he’d have to do without it for now.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Jack leaned against the wall across from the bathroom. He was fully dressed, right down to the holster on his hip, and she took a step back in disbelief. His hair was damp, and she realized he’d showered at some point while she had remained sound asleep in his bed after their sex binge.

He stepped over and put his hand on her waist. “Morning.” He kissed her forehead.

“I can’t believe I slept.” She ducked around him, searching for the rest of her clothes. He’d turned the lamp on, and she darted a glance at the pile of crime scene photos on the dresser. Would he know she’d gone through them? There was a new stack of folders sitting atop the pile, and she wondered if he’d put them there intentionally to shield his work from view.

“You okay?”

She turned around. “Fine.” She grabbed her socks and boots and went to the chair closest to the door to pull everything on.

He came to stand beside her, folding his arms over his chest as he watched her zip her boots.

“My shift starts in a few minutes,” he said.

“I know. Sorry.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t plan to stay here. I know you’ve got work. Okay if I borrow this?” She motioned to the T-shirt she was wearing.

---