Page 44 of Healing the Heart

Detective Owens’ desk was a disaster, cluttered with stacks of thick case files, and she counted at least three half-empty coffee cups. He motioned toward a hard metal chair, positioned tightly against the end of his desk, and invited her to sit. He didn’t extend Noah the same courtesy because he couldn’t. Surrounded by at least a dozen equally cluttered desks, all with a single chair next to them, there was barely enough space to breathe.

The room hummed with voices, other detectives on the phone or interviewing other witnesses and, judging by the man with his hands cuffed behind his back, criminals. Accurately sensing her anxiety, Noah curled his hand around her shoulder and squeezed in reassurance. Without wasting a moment, the detective launched into his questioning.

Aside from if she’d recalled anything new from the night before, his questions were mostly to confirm the information she’d already given him. Then he handed her a tablet and hadher scroll through a few dozen mug shots of “potential perps” that fit her description of the killer. Each face stared back at her, their expressions somber, some scowling, all of them frightening. She never imagined she would have to do this—ever. But none of the faces looked familiar, and she handed the tablet back to him with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Next, he had her sign her official statement, and she was done—for now.

Thankfully, the detective compensated for his lack of desk organization with efficiency in other areas and it only took an hour. Noah stood by her the entire time, providing his silent support.

It was an incredibly surreal experience, to be sure. She kept wondering when she would snap out of the crime thriller she’d gotten caught up in and return to her normal, mundane life. It hadn’t happened when Noah once again loaded her into the sleek black SUV and headed toward her Culver City home.

She must have dozed off because she remembered nothing after he took the on-ramp to the Santa Monica Freeway until he pulled into a parking space in the side lot of her apartment complex and cut the engine.

Noah looked at her from the driver’s seat, his blue eyes filled with concern. “Can you make it inside?”

“Yes, but not beyond that. The toast and coffee have definitely worn off.”

“Stay there,” he ordered. “I’ll come around and get you.”

Despite his high-handed manner, or maybe because of it, a pleasant warmth suffused her body. How long had it been since a man opened doors for her, worried that she was eating, and held her hand when escorting her? The answer that came instantly to mind was never.

Noah opened the door, and she slid to the ground. When her feet touched down, her legs didn’t want to fully cooperate. Shegripped the door handle, and him, to steady herself. Startling her, he swung her up in his arms.

“You shouldn’t. You’ll—”

He grunted, and, with a firm squeeze, cut off her protest. Then said in a low, unyielding voice, “I know you’re exhausted, but if you’re going to insult me by suggesting you’re too heavy for me to carry, you need to rethink that pretty damn quick.”

Sleep deprivation hadn’t erased all instincts for self-preservation, and she was too tired to fight about it. Wisely, she remained silent and rested her head against his shoulder. With him holding her close, she felt more than heard the hum in his chest. Was it in approval of her heeding his warning, or the same contentment she was experiencing with his powerful arms enveloping her? Either way, she surrendered to the moment, closing her eyes to savor the journey.

Much too soon, he set her down in front of her door so she could fish her keys out of her jeans pocket. When he took them from her, she leaned heavily against him, fatigue dragging her down as he let them in. But his fingers barely brushed the knob when the hinges creaked, and the door swung inward.

“I didn’t leave it open,” Fiona exclaimed in alarm. “I’m OCD about things like turning off the stove and locking doors, and I always double-check before walking away.”

Noah pushed her to the side, out of the doorway, and with his gun in hand—it was like it had materialized out of nowhere, she hadn’t even seen him move to un-holster it—he ordered, “Wait here.”

For once, she didn’t think about arguing. Her stomach in knots, she waited and listened as seconds then minutes ticked by.

“It’s all clear.”

Startled, Fiona practically jumped out of her skin.

“Sorry, kitten. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

That hardly mattered. She knew she had bigger problems just by looking at him. Like she didn’t have enough already. “Someone broke in, didn’t they?”

“Yeah.” He took her hand again, squeezing more firmly than all the times before. “You better brace for this.”

“It’s that bad?”

His expression grim, he nodded and led her inside.

Her once-neat-as-a-pin living room now lay in ruins, the lamps in shattered bits on the floor, the furniture overturned. Whoever did this had taken a knife to the cushions and slashed them to ribbons, the white stuffing strewn all over the floor. They’d hacked her pillows to bits, left the chenille throw from the back of the couch in tatters, and even shredded the pages of the books on her coffee table. What was left of her coffee table.

It was bad, but the message scrawled in ominous red paint across her once-pristine ecru wall had her trembling in horror.

Fat cunts with big mouths get d-e-a-d.

“Oh my god!” she gasped. It was the second time she’d gotten that threat and was a chilling reminder of why Noah stood beside her, gun in hand, an arm around her waist, holding her up. “It sounds like...”

“What?”

---