Page 128 of Wicked Sin

“Did I? When?”

“Sometime yesterday, maybe? It took a while.”

“Bite your tongue,” I growl as I ease her into my lap.

“I’d rather you bite it.”

I kiss her instead. Gently. Biting will come later.

“This is going to be rocky,” she whispers. “However I find a way to tell my story, it’s not going to be easy.”

“I’ll be there. Every step of the way.”

“It’s okay if that part of my life is separate. I can quietly come and go from here. If you’re going to be undercover—”

“No.” I cut her off with my words, and then my mouth. “That’s not happening. That was some insane wish I had when I didn’t know what else I wanted from life. I’m more than happy being a detective. I’m ecstatic to come home to you every night. I will put in leave time to go with you to Washington, and hold your hand in a big, scary courtroom. Or in a television interview if you go that route instead. Whatever you want.”

She wraps her arms around me and leans into me, pushing her face into my neck. My ribs ache a bit, but they can fucking deal.

I have Taylor back in my arms. I don’t care how much it hurts. I feel invincible right now.

“I kept a lot of secrets from you,” she whispers.

“They were yours. You didn’t need to crack your heart open for me.”

“No. But I needed to do it for me.” She kisses my neck and sighs.

The moon is rising now, and the path back to the car is pretty well lit. “We should head back.”

“Don’t want to,” she mumbles. “Let’s stay here forever and share all our secrets.”

I chuckle gently. She doesn’t need to convince me. “Deal.”

She carefully stands up and walks down to the water.

Then she turns back and waves at me. “Come on,” she calls. “Let’s dip our toes in.”

Deal.

41

Taylor

A weekafter I come home, I’m cleared by the doctors to go back to work.

It’s surreal to return. Luke drives me. I still don’t have a car.

I still don’t have any money, really, and I won’t for a while. When your mother shoots you and then dies, any effort you might have been able to put toward convincing the FBI that your money isn’t dirty gets a touch more complicated.

Everyone is there. The executive director, the volunteer coordinator, the coordinator of counseling services, and they have flowers and an edible arrangement.

“We were worried about you,” my boss says. “It was so scary to think of someone targeting one of our own.”

One of their own. Not one of the Dashford Reid daughters, not a socialite, not a fucked up sexpot.

A fellow crisis worker. A fellow woman. A colleague.

I belong here. I wanted to, desperately, before the attack. I did my best to be social and friendly, but I was never sure they liked me back.

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