Page 32 of The Italian Reckoning
“What?”
“When was the last time you had a holiday? Take some time off, Sarah. Go to a spa, get some treatment or something. You need to stop jumping at ghosts. Do you want me to call the station therapist?”
All fire to argue back dies inside me within a few seconds. How can Brant be so blind to something that’s so obvious tome? How can he not see that we’re being taunted and it’s only a matter of time before the next body turns up with the exact same M.O. as Belle?
“Sir—”
“Take a few days off, Sarah,” Brant sighs, returning to his work. “That’s an order.”
“And he lookedat me like I’m the problem!” I rant an hour later to Bobby as he works quickly to secure my coffee. “And to make matters worse, I had to walk here from the station because my fucking tires were slashed. Who does that? Who slashes the tires of a car parked outside the fucking police station?”
Soft tsking reaches my ears as an elderly woman glares daggers at me then quickly leaves the cafe.
Shit.
“I’m sorry.” Sighing deeply like I’m deflating, I lower my voice and lean against the counter. “It’s been one hell of a day. A week. A whatever.”
“It’s what I’m here for,” Bobby replies, setting the paper cup down in front of me. “I can’t speak much on your work, of course, but is there nothing else you can do to get him to listen to you?”
“No.” My hand closes around the cup and I briefly close my eyes, soaking up the warm radiating from the coffee. “I feel like I’m going crazy. They won’t listen to me until the next person gets hurt, and then it’ll be allwhy didn’t you do something sooner? How do you make everyone else focus on something that seems insanely obvious to you?”
“Well, if I were you?” Bobby leans on the other side of the counter and flashes me a smile. “I’d try to focus onwhyit feelsobvious to me. I’d go back to the start and treat it like a new problem just to see if I get the same result the second time.”
“But how do you stop the thoughts from your first time influencing the second—”Wait.
Outside the window, just past the head of one of Bobby’s customers, sits a bike. It’s parked up across the street, and a glimpse of it makes my heart skip a beat.
I know that bike.
And I know the figure sitting on it with red piping around the visor.
That’s my biker.
Without a word, leaving Bobby to call out in surprise at my abandoned coffee, I storm out of the cafe and charge across the street as a mixture of emotions clash together in my chest.
Anger that my day has gone so shitty and it feels like no one believes me. Panic that my days are numbered and I’ll end up with a bullet in my head before long. Frustration that my mystery motorcycle guy refuses to tell me who he is and now he’s parked outsidemycoffee spot.
I’m tired of being in the dark.
“Hey!”
His head lifts from the phone in his hands and he watches me approach him at breakneck speed.
“Why are you here?”
He doesn’t say a word.
“I’ve come here every day for over a year and never seen you, and now you’re parked outside like this is some kind of regular spot? That’s bullshit. Who the hell are you and why are you always around?”
Again, he says nothing. His head tilts a fraction to the left and my heart skips a beat. It’s infuriating that all I see is my own reflection in his stupid visor. I’m sick of this. I need answers.
The moment I reach for his helmet to yank it off his head, he catches my wrist and swiftly spins me around while sliding off his bike. The moment I’m facing away, he lightly shoves me to create distance, but I stand my ground and spin back to face him. Reaching for his helmet once more, I’m able to grab the sides. Before I can lift it, he sweeps an arm around my waist and picks me clean up off the ground, setting me on the other side of the bike and creating distance once more.
“Show me who you are! I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you following me like some kind of dark shadow, sick of you not talking or telling me who the hell you are!”
Lunging across his bike, I grab the collar of his leather jacket and pull him toward me until he’s almost bent over the saddle, then I grab at his helmet and tug. This time, he throws himself forward and slides over his bike into my arms. I’m unable to support us both so we topple to the ground with a grunt, but I refuse to let go of his helmet. I tug and he twists, he pulls my arms down, and I shove him away and roll over with my hands on his helmet. He rolls with me and catches my wrists, pinning them both to the ground as he hovers over me.
“Stop,” he says gruffly, and the muffled yet rough notes of his voice send an unexpectedly exciting thrill straight through me. Suddenly, my heart is no longer racing from frustration or anger. Heat pulses through me in waves and my cheeks flush so rosy that I can see them turn red in the dark reflection of his visor.
