patterned in bright colors. Interesting-looking pottery sat on the fireplace mantel, and the sofa was an earth-brown and decorated with yellow, red and orange throw pillows, which matched the rug.
The décor reflected her, not just her heritage but her warmth. There was a sense of love here, a sense of family, even though he knew it was just her and her son.
He followed her through the living room and down the hallway. They passed what he assumed was Max’s room, painted a dark blue and with a variety of law-enforcement posters and emblems on the walls.
He could smell her bedroom before they reached it, that exotic scent that had teased his senses since the moment he’d met her.
Her room was not frilly, and he hadn’t expected it to be. She wasn’t a frilly kind of woman. The bedspread was deep green, and the curtains at the window were beige with a thin green stripe. The top of the dresser held an array of photographs of Max at various ages, but it was the painting hanging on the wall opposite the bed that drew him.
It was obviously a John Merriweather, and it was equally obvious that love had been in each brush stroke. The subject of the painting was Amberly and Max, and John had done an amazing job capturing two of the people who were obviously very important in his life.
Amberly grabbed a large suitcase from the closet and began to fill it with clothes. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched, unsure what to say to alleviate the fear, the pain that must be roaring through her at the moment.
She was not only having to abandon her home but also leave her son, because somebody was playing games…potentially deadly games.
“You lied to me when you told me your bedroom was nothing more than a bed and a dresser,” he said to break the silence. “I pictured a bare mattress on the floor.”
She flashed him a tense smile. “I still want to paint the walls in here, a nice pale green, and I’ve had that bedspread for the last ten years. This just feels like my uncompleted room in the house.”
It didn’t take her long to fill the suitcase, then pull out an overnight bag and disappear into her bathroom. He didn’t want to think about how frightened he’d been to see that dream catcher hanging over her picture, but he knew one thing clearly—he didn’t want to let her out of his sight…not now…not until they had the killer behind bars.
“I’d like you to drive back to Mystic Lake in my car and have you stay in my guest room until we get to the bottom of all this,” he said.
She stuck her head out of the bathroom door, her expression one of surprise. “I just assumed I’d park myself at a motel someplace in the area.”
“I don’t want you alone anywhere,” he replied. “I’d feel more comfortable with the buddy system, and I want my buddy under my roof.”
She disappeared back into the bathroom without answering. Was she remembering that moment in his guest room when he’d awakened her from her nightmare?
His desire to keep her close had nothing to do with any lust he might feel for her; it had everything to do with his need to keep her safe and sound.
She exited the bathroom with her overnight bag. “Okay, I’m in for staying at your place.” Her gaze didn’t quite meet his, and he thought he saw a tremble possess her lower lip.
“This shook you up pretty badly,” he said softly.
Her gaze met his. “I’d be lying if I said anything else.” She sank down on the edge of the bed and set her bag next to her. “Seeing it right here, in the place where I live, in the place where my son sleeps and eats… I don’t think I’ve really processed it until now, while I’m packing up to leave everything.”
He heard the emotion in her voice, thick and raw, and he wasn’t sure if it was fear or sadness or a combination of both. “It’s going to be all right,” he said as he shifted from one foot to the other. “We’re going to get this guy.”
She nodded, her head still down. She looked broken, and he ached for her. From the moment he’d met her, he’d noticed she radiated an inner strength, a wealth of spirit that drew him to her. But he found himself equally drawn to the woman seated on