Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,112

hand, not worrying anymore about what this was between them. Right now, what he needed was somebody to hold his hand, so she did it. “Other than last night,” she told him, “when I hit the wall about three hours before bedtime, which you noticed, I’m fine. Bought some new clothes, see? Purple sweater. It’s not even navy blue. Dyma would be proud. Annabelle’s a fun shopping date. Also, I don’t have to wear your underwear anymore. Talk about awkward.” Trying to smile herself, to remind him that there was more than this moment.

“You look good,” he said. Another half-smile. “I was thinking about sitting on one of those chairs they have, watching you come out of the dressing room, telling you to go find a smaller size. That would’ve been a way better time.”

“Ha,” she said. “I’ve been trying to do what somebody told me. Embracing my curves. Telling myself they’re my superpower.” She abandoned that and asked, “Are we waiting for somebody?”

His face sobered. “Detective Johnson. Sorry I had to call you. I just …” He dragged a hand through his hair, probably messing up his extensions. He hadn’t even done the elastic today, and the wavy golden mass fell around his face. He wasn’t looking too-handsome anymore, and he definitely wasn’t looking pretty. Still a Viking, but a battle-scarred one. A man who’d seen too much and was sickened by it, who longed to lay his sword down but knew he couldn’t, because there was more to be done. “I don’t want my sisters to have to do this with me,” he said. “Or maybe I do, but I can’t handle thinking about anybody else’s—feelings.” Another attempt at a smile. “Sounds bad. I’ll try to think about your feelings.”

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t. Sounds completely reasonable. Did you see your dad?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to tell you now, though. I’ve got to sort of stumble through it with Johnson, I think.”

“All right.” She looked around. “Can I say—this is about the least cheerful place I have ever experienced. I’ve never been in a jail before. I’m depressed, and I just got here. I’m also related to nobody in the place.”

Except, of course, there was Danny. Dyma’s father had spent two years someplace very much like this. She shivered. He’d brought it on himself, and she knew it. That didn’t make it any less horrible. What would it be like, to make the kind of wrong choice at nineteen that you had to pay for in a place like this? To have nightmares about it the rest of your life, probably, and have it follow you just that long?

“You think this is bad,” Harlan said, “you should see the visiting room.”

His expression changed, then, got hard again, and he was on his feet, still holding her hand.

Detective Johnson looked even more casual today. He was wearing the sport coat and jeans and cowboy boots, but he hadn’t shaved. He said, “Interesting spot for a meeting. What’s up?”

Harlan said, “Is there someplace we can talk? Someplace official? Where you could record me, or whatever?”

The detective’s gaze sharpened. “You want to be recorded?”

Jennifer could tell he thought it was a confession. She said, “Not for what you think. You’re dreaming. Do you really not see what’s going on here? What kind of detective are you?”

Harlan said, “Jennifer. Baby. Hey,” and she subsided.

Johnson said, “Maybe the two of us should have this talk alone.”

Harlan said, “No. It’s a voluntary talk. I’m volunteering information, and you’re going to want it. We can have it with Jennifer there, or I’ll find somebody else to talk to.” Sounding not one bit easygoing. He still had hold of her hand, too, and his grip was tight. He must have realized it, because he relaxed his hold and asked her, “You OK with this?”

“Yes,” she said, and meant it. “I’m right here with you. All the way.”

Bleak or not. Nightmares or not. All the way.

She remembered when he’d said he needed something he could do, some way he could help somebody, because he couldn’t do enough. Right now, she needed that, too.

35

When You Lose

The drive back to the sheriff’s office, Jennifer beside him, not talking. Just sitting there looking like the one solid thing there was, warm and real and alive. Detective Johnson waiting for them on the sidewalk, and the long walk across to him, his hand in Jennifer’s the only thing anchoring him here.

Fifteen minutes, he told himself. You’ll talk for fifteen minutes, and