Page 101 of Fatal Pattern

He caught up to Tori as she pushed through the maze of desks. Around them, the station continued its routine. Phones rang. Printers churned. A drunk in holding sang off-key somewhere down the hall. His hands wanted to reach for her, pull her close, promise they’d figure this out. But Tori needed space to think. Always had.

They stopped at the elevator bank. He pressed the down button and searched for the right words.

“You did good in there. Real good.”

She turned to face him. Her eyes locked on his, something broken flickering behind them. “He remembered our room. The purple pajamas. Everything.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to reveal Sergeant Acker carrying a stack of case files. He stepped out, glanced at Tori, then at Blade.

“Heard you caught a break on your case,” Acker said.

“Something like that.” Blade pressed the down button again. The elevator had already moved on.

The elevator returned. They stepped inside. The moment the doors slid shut, Tori collapsed against him. He wrapped his arms around her and held on despite the fire shooting through his bicep. Her head found the exact spot where Hoult’s knife had bitten deep. He gritted his teeth, swallowed the pain.

They stood like that for a full minute before she remembered and jumped back. “Ay. Your cuts.”

“It’s fine. I think we both needed that.”

She ran a finger under her eye, checking her reflection in the mirrored ceiling. “What would a girl do without waterproof mascara?”

Blade didn’t think she needed mascara at all, but he didn’t mention it.

His phone buzzed. A text from Harlee.

Found Madison. She’s fine. Took personal days. Her parents just retired and moved down from New York. She’s been helping them unpack a condo in Boca. Very Florida.

He exhaled and held the phone out for Tori to read.

She let out a breath too. “Good. She deserved to stay out of this.”

“Yeah.” He pocketed the phone. One less thing to carry.

The doors opened to the main lobby, where civilians waited on hard plastic chairs and desk sergeants processed paperwork.

Kiara stood near the information desk. Her blond hair shimmered in the afternoon light streaming through the glass doors. She wore a navy dress that he’d complimented last week, back when their biggest concern was where to eat. She looked so normal. So untouched by the violence that had consumed his last forty-eight hours. At least she hadn’t seen him hugging Tori in the elevator.

Her eyes locked on his across the lobby.

“Hey.” Kiara waved and crossed toward them.

They stopped beside a bulletin board covered in community announcements. A child’s laughter drifted from somewhere near the front desk. A mother bounced a drooling toddler on her hip while she filled out paperwork. Dealing with basic problems. Parking tickets. Noise complaints. Things that could be fixed with the right forms and the proper signatures.

A simple apology would never make up for the debt he owed this woman. He’d dodged her calls. Left her hanging for days without a word and canceled dates time and time again.

“Kiara—” His throat tightened. The words he should say—denials, explanations, promises—all died before they reached his lips. She deserved better than lip service. She deserved better than him.

“You look terrible.” Her green eyes swept over him, probably cataloging the exhaustion.

“Thanks. That’s what every guy wants to hear.”

She didn’t smile at his attempt at humor. “I heard you were attacked. How are you doing?”

He shifted, his bicep protesting the movement. “Stiff, but fine. How are you doing?”

She blew out a breath, her hands fidgeting with her purse strap. “Yesterday, I was called into HR. Someone filed an anonymous complaint about me accessing the sealed IA file after hours. I was placed on indefinite administrative leave. They took my credentials and walked me out.”

“Kiara, I’m so sorry.” He moved in, half a step, as instinct overrode reason. “I’ll make a call. Tell them it was my fault. I twisted your arm, pressured you—”