Carolina, using her father’s connections to make the differences she sought, he wondered. But he already knew the answer to that.
First, she’d already accomplished what she wanted in South Carolina. Her MHIT program had started in Charleston and was now firmly established there.
Second, she was running.
And with good reason.
She’d told him about Elizabeth Davenport, her patient who had committed suicide, but Nina hadn’t told him about her sister. The sister who had committed suicide years before her patient had. There hadn’t been the same amount of press coverage there’d been on Elizabeth Davenport’s suicide, likely because, unlike Lester Davenport, Nina’s father had swept everything under the rug. But the brief reference to the event and her sister Rachel’s subsequent obituary hadn’t been difficult for Simon to find, either. All he’d had to do was conduct a search of Nina’s and her father’s names, and it had come up. Anyone who cared to look for it could access information about the tragic event. One article had even included a picture, not of Rachel, but of a teenage Nina, sitting on the stoop of a house, looking scared while police officers and medics talked close by.
He recalled the photograph he’d seen in her foyer. The picture of her laughing and embracing a girl that looked eerily like her. A girl that had to have been her sister. What had losing that sister cost her? Especially given that her sister hadn’t died because she was sick or murdered, but because she’d chosen to die. Chosen to take her own life, regardless of the fact that Nina had obviously loved her.
He barely knew Nina, yet it made no difference. His heart ached for her.
He generally thought of psychologists and psychiatrists as bleeding hearts and, given Nina’s background, it was probably truer than normal. She’d made excuses for Lester Davenport’s actions, writing them off as grief over losing his daughter. It was a grief she and her family were intimately acquainted with and explained why she’d been so reluctant to cause Davenport trouble without concrete proof he’d left that letter for her. Hell, she hadn’t wanted to cause him trouble even assuming he had left the letter. She’d suffered tragedy early on in her life and it was no wonder she was trying to make positive changes for those suffering from mental illness. With that kind of emotion driving her, how could she possibly see that her well-meaning compassion and yearning to help a disadvantaged group of citizens could be dangerous? To other civilians. To cops. To herself.
And just what was he going to do about that?
He was still contemplating the question when she walked into the SIG detective pit. His gaze took her in hungrily, but the visual stimulation wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch her again. Explore her body, inside and out.
“Detective Granger,” she greeted him, her voice breathless.
He looked up in time to catch her blushing and he knew immediately she was remembering the kiss they’d shared. He didn’t have to remember. It hadn’t left his mind for one freaking second. She must have seen the rush of desire that washed over him because she glanced away and shifted uncomfortably.
“Am I—” She cleared her throat. “Am I dressed appropriately?” She wore heather-gray slacks, a purple-and-black top and a purple sweater. Black ballet flats with a jaunty ribbon completed the elegant package. “We didn’t really talk about it, but I assumed slacks would be fine. Do I pass muster?”
Right. As if his gaze had been roving her body simply to assess her clothes rather than to appreciate the woman underneath. But whatever. He could give her that illusion. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers against his chest. “You look fine,” he said, and thought, No truer words have ever been spoken. She looked amazing. And he needed to stop thinking about how great she looked—how much better she’d look if they’d just made love—and focus on the day ahead. “Have a seat. I’d like to go over some things before we head out.”
She nodded and took a step toward the chair beside his desk. Before she could sit, however, two men walked into the room. Commander Stevens and Gil Archer.
Lana’s father.
Simon couldn’t help it. He stiffened, something that Nina obviously noticed.
Her features grew quizzical and she turned to face the other men. They were about the same age, fit despite their graying hair and both wore suits. The only striking difference between them was that Gil was a few