Page 8 of Into the Veins

“I’m honored.” Genuine curiosity slid through him. She’d let him into her life, if for tonight, when she’d made a point to keep her independence and stay detached from others. “Why me?”

“I was afraid you would freeze to death in the street if I didn’t let you stay here tonight. Besides, it’s not like we’re going to see each other after this investigation is concluded. I’m sure you’ll do whatever it is you have your heart set on next as soon as the victim’s father pays your fee, and I’ll still be here. Protecting the citizens of this county and solving crimes.” Blair uncrossed her arms and maneuvered around him toward the back of the house, and it was only then he realized how long they’d pushed off reality talking about her art. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

A rock of uninhibited disappointment sank to the bottom of his gut at the thought of chasing the next adventure, turning his back on Seattle, on investigating, but he’d left entire lives he’d built behind before. He’d do it again. And again. As many times as it took to drown the suffocating deprivation his parents had ingrained throughout his life. Hours alone, no one to talk to, rely on. He’d become a master of isolation by the time he’d been six years old, and when he’d had the chance to escape, he’d taken it. Sworn never to subject himself to that kind of loneliness again. Never to settle. Dreams of experiencing everything life had to offer, of chasing whatever career interested him, traveling, meeting new people—it was the only way to feed the restlessness that’d been there from the beginning.

Colson followed the sheriff from the front room through a square archway with bright molding into a small but bright dining room before bypassing the kitchen toward the bedrooms. Nearly the same dove gray paint used in the Faulkner estate charged calm and confidence through the home as Blair motioned him into the first door on the left and flipped on the overhead light.

A single queen-size bed, two nightstands, warm hardwood, and an oversize picture window along one wall. Fresh flowery bedding and brightly colored-pillows intensified the toxic exhaustion pulling at him. The barn-door style closet, stained in a deep brown, punctuated the warmth of the room, contradicting his initial impression of the woman in the doorway.

“It’s not much, but there are extra blankets in the closet in case there aren’t enough on the bed, and the guest bathroom is across the hall if you want to clean up.” Blair crossed to one of the nightstands and tugged what looked like a phone charger from the depths of the drawer. A layer of hair slid across her back, stark against the deep color of her uniform, as she turned to face him. “One of my old chargers should work for your phone. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with the clothing you came in.”

Not much? No. This was everything. Colson couldn’t remember the last time anyone had gone out of their way to ensure he had a place to sleep, let alone a charger for his phone. The last thing she wanted was someone like him coming into her personal space, but she’d risen above her hatred of private investigators—however momentarily—and opened her home to him. “I can’t imagine it was easy to offer me your guest room for tonight, but I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, you’re familiar with the victim. You have information pertinent to my homicide investigation. My job is to protect the people of this county, and I can’t do that without utilizing all the resources available to me.” Simple diamond studs reflected light from the nightstand from a single piercing in her ears as she diverted her gaze to the floor. Blair leveled exquisite emerald-green eyes on him and exposed the small birth mark under the right side of her jaw. “But in case it wasn’t clear, this is a one-time deal. You’re here to help me catch whoever poisoned Rachel Faulkner and make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else. Nothing more. If you so much as approach my bedroom door tonight, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you.”

There was the sheriff he’d admired at the crime scene. A hint of exhilaration flooded through him at the challenge, but he’d respect Blair’s warning. Colson played down his smile and slid his hands into his pockets. “Duly noted.”

“Good. I’ll give you a few minutes to get settled.” Heading for the door, Blair wrapped long fingers around the knob. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. We can go over the case then.” She closed the door behind her.

He stood in the middle of the room, taking it all in. No television. No books. No art. The walls threatened to close in as he searched for something—anything—to keep his mind occupied. The thought of slowing down, of denying his craving for knowledge and activity hammered in rhythm to his pulse. Colson unpocketed his phone, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he scanned through photos he’d snapped the day he’d taken the case to find Rachel Faulkner.

Will of Poseidon.

The Hallberg-Rassy sailboat exemplified the highest quality and sturdiest construction for his solo journey around the world. Comfort, safety, easy handling, and the ultimate adventure he’d dreamed of as a kid. Wide open ocean highlighted the bowsprit granting easy access to and from the deck. The boat’s electric anchor winches facilitated smooth maneuvering while the large steering wheels would make it easy to control in the roughest of conditions. After he claimed his fee, it’d just be him, his boat, and the open ocean.

He’d planned every minute, every stop, every meal, every outcome. Ten weeks sailing in anything from snow with ocean spray cruel as icicles to wind belts pummeling him as violently as a prizefighter. He’d eat, sleep, navigate, and handle problems and setbacks himself, including medical emergencies and any structural damage sustained during gut-churning storms. The boat would be both his haven and the greatest threat to his life, but it’d be his.

Colson swiped his thumb up the screen and the images he’d taken of the boat disappeared. He tapped his Recents icon and scrolled to his client’s private number, his finger hovering above the screen.

He could still feel the roughness of the paint Blair had used on the ceramic soup bowl. He pressed his thumb into his index and middle finger to hold onto that feeling a bit longer, the grittiness against his skin. The care she’d put into her art shouldn’t have impressed him as much as her work catching one of the most violent and sadistic serial killers the country had ever seen, but it did. The moment he’d held the mug, a curiosity had developed. By the book yet creative. Secretive yet honest. Detached yet warm. Insensitive yet concerned for his well-being. Blair Sanders was exactly what he’d expected from the King County Sheriff’s Department’s finest and nothing like he’d anticipated at the same time.

He’d gone to that scene to confirm his suspicion Rachel Faulkner hadn’t disappeared of her own free will. But he’d walked away with a greater purpose he hadn’t intended: a need to solve the puzzle Blair presented. He’d always been fascinated with puzzles. Only this one, he was sure, wouldn’t result in an answer he could rely on, and it wouldn’t be enough to stop him from collecting his fee and getting the hell out of Dodge. The itch to move on had tunneled deep into bone long before he’d taken on Rachel Faulkner’s case. He couldn’t stay here. Not even to take on the challenge the sheriff provided.

Colson tapped the contact number on his screen and raised the phone to his ear. The line rang once. Twice. Then connected. He didn’t wait for a greeting, attention on the bedroom door. “We need to talk.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The click of the guest bedroom door shot attentiveness down her spine.

Blair busied her hands by giving the chicken noodle soup she’d whipped together another stir. An old family recipe from her maternal grandmother’s cookbook she’d uncovered in a box of items when she’d summoned the courage to clean out the family storage unit a few years ago. The carrots needed time to soften on their own, but she wasn’t ready to confront the man who’d somehow pulled the past from the box she’d shoved into the back of her mind. She added another pinch of salt and pepper as soft footsteps registered over the simmering bubble of the chicken stock in the pot. “The soup won’t be ready for a few more minutes.”

“Solves murders, sculpts, paints, and cooks. Is there anything you can’t do?” A hint of Colson’s signature scent—the slight earthiness she’d equated to him over the course of the day—overlaid the bite of garlic and onion clinging to her hands.

“My mom—January’s mom—tried to teach me how to knit once. It was a disaster that ended with both of us in tears and a giant knot of yarn stuck in my hair. She had to cut it out afterward.” She couldn’t help but smile at the memory, however traumatic it’d been at the time. Todd and Janet Reese had been there for her when she’d needed a family the most. In a matter of hours, they’d transformed from her best friend’s parents into the only people who’d take her in after her own had been murdered. Even now, they ensured she had enough groceries on a weekly basis, that she was taking care of herself with the long shift hours, and insisted on family dinners Sunday after Sunday to catch up.

“Dr. Moss sent the toxicology report from Rachel Faulkner’s autopsy. You were right. Strychnine.” Blair added the shredded chicken she’d baked earlier to the pot, careful not to agitate the broth enough to burn herself. For the twelfth time. The heat kicked on overhead, skimming across her bare legs and feet. Habit. The moment she’d walked through the door, she’d pried herself out of her uniform, donned one of her sculpting shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, secured her weapon in the safe under the bed, and tied back her hair, needing to leave her cases on the other side of the door. “You’ve built quite a resume with all your skills. Wasn’t there something along the way you discovered you weren’t good at?”

Colson reached around her for a small pile of pickled artichoke hearts on the cutting board she had yet to add to the soup, his chest pressing into her arm. That simple touch seemed to absorb the heat coming off the surface of the stove. He slipped one of the artichokes between his lips and flashed a closed-lipped smile that would shock any woman. Any woman except her. “Not that I can remember. I’ve always had a knack for learning. Skills, languages, facts, procedures.”

“You speak more than one language?” Blair dumped the artichokes into the chicken stock and gave the soup another stir. She scooped a spoonful of the broth from the pot and tested the flavor. Anything to distract her from the weight of his attention. “You must’ve travelled a lot as a kid. Were your parents ambassadors or need to travel for business?”

“Not exactly.” His voice dropped an octave as he maneuvered around her small kitchen peninsula and took a seat at one of the barstools on the other side. A heaviness entered his expression that hadn’t been there before, and a knot of dread solidified in her gut. “My father owned a string of grocery stores, which took a lot of his focus, and my mom got involved in a ton of multi-level marketing schemes that required constant hours with little pay off. She sold it all trying to build a business for herself. I was left to myself most of my childhood. Everything I learned came from library books, TV, or school.”

“They left you alone? All day?” Her heart jerked in her chest at the image of a smaller version of the man on the other side of the kitchen lonely, isolated, in need. She’d lost her mom and dad at a young age and had had to adapt to being on her own once in a while, but her parents had been there when they could. There’d been Sunday church, dinners in front of the television, and play dates at the park on the weekends. “Did you have any siblings to play with or friends? Weren’t you allowed to leave the house?”

“Not unless you count my imaginary friend,” he said. “Looking back, I remember spending hours in my room, fantasizing what it’d be like to become a private investigator, a snake handler, or how I’d help catch killers for the FBI. I imagined all these places I would go, and all the people I would talk to. I wrote every single one of them down in this old notebook I had, and when I was old enough to be on my own—”

“You became those things.” Admiration flooded into her consciousness, and realization struck. The career changes, the almost distracted demeanor, the undeniable enthusiasm, and wisecracking. How many hours had Colson been left to himself as a child, wondering, dreaming, building an imaginary alter ego and life? A tendril of desperation rang in his words. The idea of staying in one place, of settling down, had to terrify him. The background check she’d run on him after his ambush at the crime scene this morning confirmed how long he’d been employed as a PI. Six months in one place had to amount to an eternity for that little boy who’d vowed to escape his childhood home. The itch to move on must’ve already set in a long time ago.

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