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Feeling multiple sets of eyes on her, Lexie folded her arms.
“You’re attracting a lot of attention,” she said, subtly indicating the mass of crowded tables trying to hide the fact that they were staring, no doubt hoping to overhear some morsel of new information.
Nico followed her gaze. “Small town, I guess.”
“They’re frightened.”
“I know.” Nico lowered his voice. “Are you?”
Lexie knew her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m trying not to be,” she whispered.
Despite the onlookers, Nico took her gently by the arm and led her to a quiet corner where he stood close enough for her to smell his cologne. It was deep and bold, with just a hint of spice. The scent was intoxicating. She wanted more. Wanted to lean into it—into him. Let him envelope her in his strength like he had that first night he came here and make her forget about everything else.
“Listen,” he said, taking a card out of his wallet and scribbling a number on the back. “If you need anything, day or night, I want you to call me. Okay?”
“Nico, I can’t—”
“Please,” he said, tucking it into her fingers. “It would make me feel better, knowing you have it.”
Lexie grinned. “You give your private cell number to all the girls who save your life?”
“Nah. Just the ones I can’t stop thinking about.”
She bit her lip and looked away. At least the attraction wasn’t one-sided. Not that anything could come of it. For one thing, he now had a murder to deal with. For another, Kyle.
“I have to go,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Okay.”
The way he looked at her made it seem like he wanted to say—or do—more, but he backed away from her with a quick squeeze of her arm and left.
Lexie stared at the small white card he’d given her. It was a simple design. Professional. Exactly what she’d expect from a man like him. On the front in a no-frills font read the words Detective Nico Dominici, Boston Police—obviously his former details—followed by his work phone number and email.
She touched the black ink on the back, pondering the implications.
Did him giving her his private number mean what she thought it might?
She hoped so. And yet, she hoped not.
The following morning, Nico tried to ignore the knot in his gut that seemed to tighten as the day went on. Hours ticked by faster than usual. His patience wore thin as every potential witness yielded nothing except troubled and sympathetic looks, accompanied by words like, “She was such a sweet girl. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Around four p.m., he returned to his office, sat down at his desk, and rubbed his aching brow. The furrow felt set like cement.
Ever since yesterday, his mind had been ablaze with ridiculous notions of Isabelle Moss’s death somehow being his fault. For hours he’d lain awake last night, forcing himself to believe that his past had not followed him here, that the deaths were completely unrelated, and that it was just his guilt talking, nothing more. Still, the small, stubborn shard of his subconscious that refused to let it go had eventually won out, and after finishing his last dead-end interview with a random resident, he jumped in his car and drove straight back to his office to prove to himself that it wasn’t true.
Nico logged into the national crime database and typed in the case number from memory. Pulling up the old case file, he hesitated for a few seconds before he opened it.
The images did not shock him, not after he’d dreamed about them night after night for longer than he cared to admit. Sara Riley, daughter of George and Esme Riley, stabbed to death in an apartment in Boston. He still remembered the crunch of broken glass under his boots from the shattered mirror and debris surrounding her body. Could still recall her terror-stricken voice over the phone as she whispered for him to come, to help, to hurry . . .
Nico blinked and swallowed hard, exiting the file.
Running a hand through his hair, he sat back in his chair.
Fuck it.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the one person he trusted as much as himself.
Detective Rhett Wilde answered on the second ring, his greeting clipped and to the point. “Wilde, here.”
