Page 24 of Carter

“I don’t know. I think it would be nice to have someone forced to be nice to me.”

Now he chuckles. Yep, I’m definitely winning over here.

“I don’t think we’d be close if we hadn’t gone through what we did.”

I remember then that he said he lost someone too.

“You said you lost someone. A parent?”

“Both.”

“How long?”

He flinches like the question hurts. “Twenty years ago.”

I huff a laugh, a heavy pit settling in my stomach. “So I can look forward to feeling like this forever?”

“No,” he says again, this time more adamantly. “I mean, it’s always there, but you learn to live with it. Each day gets easier. It just… never goes away.”

“It’s been almost three years…”

The detective nods. “I’d like to speak from experience, but our situations are very different. I was only sixteen when it happened. I had two little brothers that I gave all my attention to, so I could hide from the pain. I did that for a long time, and maybe I still do.”

“So, I need to find something to keep myself busy? Because I do that. I work full time. Volunteer. Go to group. I do everything I can so I’m not home alone and left with my thoughts.”

“Those are the moments I call my brothers. Or, surprisingly, they call me.”

“I don’t have anyone to do that with.”

“You can call me.”

“What?”

“Call me. When you’re home alone and feeling like shit, you call me. Any time.”

His expression is so serious I feel like he might start grilling me with questions about the murder, like I’m a suspect. But I know that’s not what’s happening.

“No, I’m not—”

“Why not?”

“Because you…”

Because he what?

He watches me carefully, and his face softens slightly, an understanding look crossing his face.

“I don’t even know you,” I finally say.

“Does that matter? How well do you know the people at group? You open up to them. I’m here to help, Carter. If you need someone to talk to at three in the morning, call me. I’ll probably be up. And I can promise you, my brothers won’t be.”

That… that has my chest tight. Because I realize that he isn’t saying this for only me. It’s for him too. And maybe he doesn’t realize that, but I do. So I agree. What harm could it do?

Our food finally comes, and the tension that was in the air lessens. We eat and have normal, calm conversations like anyone else would.

“Do you have a favorite animal at the shelter?” he asks as he reaches for his coffee—it’s the second cup. I note how large his hand is, making the cup look like a child’s toy. Strong. Rough. Capable. Hands that could fix anything. Maybe break anything, too.

I immediately look away, realizing where my thoughts are heading. That’s never happened before. I’ve never looked at someone like that. Not since Ryan…