Page 13 of Can You Take It?

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Not just that. I have a crazy schedule, and relationships don’t exactly fit in. Besides, I’ve seen the kind of shit I deal with, and I wouldn’t want anyone I care about to be dragged into it.”

I nod, taking in his words. It’s starting to make more sense. The guy’s got a demanding job, and it’s not exactly nine-to-five.The life of an FBI agent isn’t one for the faint of heart, and it’s no wonder he doesn’t have time for romantic entanglements.

As Richard keeps driving, I steal glances at his side profile. He’s not just good-looking; he’s the kind of good-looking that could make hearts stop. Dark, tousled hair and piercing powder blue eyes that could melt glaciers. But I’m not about to admit that out loud. The man’s the definition of eye candy, and it’s hard to tear my gaze away.

But, of course, he catches me ogling him because he glances in my direction, and a sly smirk curls at the corner of his lips. I quickly look away. Maybe it’s the stress of the day, or maybe I’m just stuck in a car with a guy who’s way too easy on the eyes.

Clearing my throat, I decide to change the subject, mostly to stop embarrassing myself. “So, earlier… when you said ‘it could be bad,’” I start.

He glances at me, that smirk still playing on his lips. “I didn’t say that.”

I roll my eyes, but my pulse kicks up a notch. “Well, something like that.”

“Mhm,” he hums

“Well, it couldn’t be that bad.” I stretch out in the passenger seat, adjusting the seatbelt.

He shoots me a look out of the corner of his eye, and his lips twitch into a humourless smirk for some reason. “You think so, huh?”

I shrug. “It’s just a job.”

“Yeah, it’s just a job. A job where you walk into houses and find body parts scattered across the kitchen. Or when a kid calls 911 because they heard their parents get shot, and by the time you get there, they’re hiding in a fucking closet covered in blood.”

I blink, turning to face him fully now. “Okay, so… maybe it’s a little bad.”

“A little?” He lets out a sharp laugh, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’ve pulled bodies out of rivers so bloated, you can’t tell who the fuck they were. Ever smelled decomposing flesh? Trust me, once you do, it sticks with you.” His eyes stay on the road, but I can tell he’s back there in his head, walking through those crime scenes like it’s just another Tuesday.

“Yeah, well, monsters exist. It’s not exactly news.”

“Monsters, yeah. But they’re not the worst part. It’s the aftermath. It’s the survivors—the ones who make it out but wish they hadn’t. The ones who keep living with that shit inside them.”

I cross my arms, masking the sudden unease settling in my chest. “What, like PTSD or something?”

His eyes flick to me. “Orsomething.”

“What?” I ask, leaning in slightly.

“There was this girl once… Lyla. She was trafficked, smuggled in from Sweden. Ended up trapped in a house for seven months. No one knew she was there. By the time we found her, she was...” He trails off, shaking his head as if to scrub the image from his brain. “Well, she wasn’t in good shape. She was scared out of her mind, barely talked. We put her in witness protection. We couldn’t ID her. No records, nothing. She didn’t want to talk about who she was, where she came from. Probably Lyla wasn’t even her real fucking name.”

I frown. “Why couldn’t you ID her?”

“Because she killed herself,” he says mechanically.

For a moment, I sit in silence, just watching him. He keeps talking, filling the car with more cold details about the case. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to keep it together, but it’s eating me alive. How the fuck can he be so emotionless about this?

I cross my arms, pretending to look out the window, but I can feel the words bubbling up, and before I know it, they slip out. “She didn’t kill herself. You did.”

His head jerks slightly, like I slapped him, but he doesn’t look at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I clench my fists in my lap. “She was cooped up in a fucking house for seven months, and then you put her in another cage. You didn’t help her, Richard. You just moved her from one prison to another.”

“We put her in witness protection. That’s the protocol.”

“Fuck your protocol!” I snap, louder than I intended, but I don’t care. I’m too angry. “You should have asked her what she wanted. Maybe she didn’t want to hide away. Maybe she needed to see the world again, to be free. You didn’t give her that chance.”

His jaw tightens, and he says nothing, just keeps driving like my words don’t mean shit. Like they’re bouncing off some invisible wall he’s put up. “You didn’t save her. You fucking killed her.”

Still, nothing. Just the same cold, dead stare.

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