Page 64 of Swerve
?Dean Karnazes
THE SUN THROWS a strip of light through the narrow break in the living room curtains. Knox opens his eyes to the glint, turning over on the leather couch and wincing at the stiffness in his neck. He tries to stretch out, but the sofa’s length prevents it.
He glances at his watch. Barely six a.m. He considers going back to sleep, but his brain is already playing back the events of last night. He thinks about the girl who’d been murdered and wonders again if he might have done something to prevent it. Picked up on some hint of what was to come. But then he didn’t think the girl herself had feared the guy or had any premonition of her fate.
He runs a hand through his hair and stares at the ceiling, a familiar sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. It was the same feeling he’d known too many times in Afghanistan, the result of guilt and blame, constant companions of the battlefield, whether he’d deserved it or not.
He vaults off the couch, heads for the half-bath near the kitchen and uses the toothbrush and toothpaste Emory had given him last night. He splashes water on his face, makes an attempt to tame his sleep-crazy hair, and then decides a run is the only thing that will subdue the tangle of anger inside him.
He lets himself out the front door, trying to be quiet enough not to wake Emory. From the back of his Jeep, he grabs a duffel bag in which he keeps a change of clothes and running shorts and a shirt.
Inside the house, he quickly changes and lets himself back outside into the crisp spring morning. He takes off at a brisk pace, intent on blanking his mind for the next forty-five minutes.
The McLean neighborhood is exclusive. Judges, senators, old money, each house he passes as impressive as the last.
He picks up his pace, his breathing increasing with the effort. He tries to concentrate on the sound of his shoes hitting the asphalt, but the questions won’t leave him alone.
The guy in the Range Rover. Sergio. Was he just some pervert who might have snatched Mia and Grace on a whim? A guy who otherwise lived a normal life, dating normal girls like Madison? Or was that part of his cover?
What would have made him think he had no choice but to kill her? It seemed an extreme choice given that the most she could have told him was that a cop was asking questions about him. And it wasn’t as if she had given them any information at all.
Had she told him that? Had he not believed her? Had she known something he wasn’t willing to risk her divulging at some point? Possibly. Likely. Why else would he have killed her?
He kicks the pace up again, sweat running down the sides of his face. He wipes it away with the bottom of his shirt, glances at his watch to see how far he’s gone. Three miles. He crosses the street and heads back the way he came.
And now he’s thinking about last night, about the awareness between him and the woman who’s supposed to be his client and nothing more. Had he imagined it? He didn’t think so. Not that his own judgment where women were concerned was anything resembling reliable. Relationships weren’t an option. He’d sacrificed his marriage to his own need to sabotage whatever good might be left in his life.
As for the senator’s wife, he’d be the first to admit his judgment was severely lacking. But she was a woman who’d expected nothing more from him than what she’d asked for.
Emory Benson was a different thing altogether.
And he wasn’t going there.
Maybe he wasn’t a complete lost cause.
~
HE’D LOCKED THE front door when he left the house, so he has no choice but to knock when he gets back just before seven-thirty.
Emory opens it, peering around the edge of the door and then opening it wider when she sees that it’s him. “Good morning,” she says, running a hand through the ponytail at the nape of her neck. He’s noticed she does this when she’s uncertain about something.
“Morning,” he says, stepping inside. “I hope I didn’t wake you when I left.”
“No,” she says. “I set the alarm. But good for you, getting a run in this early.”
“It’s how I face the day,” he says, trying to insert a light note in his voice. “How did you sleep?”
“Not much, actually. My brain doesn’t want to turn off. I think exhaustion finally got the better of me.”
“Yeah,” he says, suddenly aware of his sweaty clothes and the fact that he’s probably smelled better. “You mind if I get a quick shower?”
“No,” she says. “You can use the one in my room. There are towels on the rack by the tub.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you for staying last night. I went to bed thinking about that guy, and I don’t think I would have slept at all if you hadn’t.”
“No problem.”
