without thinking. Now he realized she might think they were too sexy, which they were, and it might make her uncomfortable. She was standing by the bed, her hand on the covers, unmoving, staring down.
He said quietly, not wanting to startle her, “Sherlock, please don’t be concerned. I’m not going to jump you.”
She slowly turned to look at him, head to toe. He said, his voice calm, trying for a bit of humor, “Usually I don’t wear anything to bed, but maybe it would be best if you handed me a pair of boxers and a T-shirt from my go bag.”
His black go bag was open on the bed. She picked out a pair of royal-blue boxer shorts, held them up, and suddenly saw herself laughing, watching Dillon walk away from her, a rip in his pants, his royal-blue boxer shorts on display, and she was responsible. She blinked. She held up the boxer shorts again. “Did you ever rip your pants? And you were wearing blue boxers?”
He gave her a huge grin. “When you were in the FBI Academy, I role-played a bank robber in Hogan’s Alley and your job was to spot me and bring me down. During our scuffle, I ripped my pants. Believe me, you weren’t the only one laughing her head off. I had to toss the pants.”
“I saw you walking away in my mind, even heard myself laughing. I know you’re not going to jump me. You’re not that kind of man.”
She stopped, walked over and handed him the T-shirt and boxers. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said, and closed the bathroom door.
Sherlock paused in front of a photo of a beautiful golden retriever framed on the wall beside the bed. His name was Carl, printed in gold leaf on a plaque beneath the photo. He was leaping high, catching a Frisbee in the air. She touched her fingertips to the photo. “That was an excellent catch, Carl. I’ll bet you were a great dog. So, can you help me out? I’m not eighteen anymore, and that superbly built man in the bathroom is my husband. I have a child with him. What do you think, Carl? Should I consider taking him as a lover? A stranger with benefits? Or is that too wicked?” She began to laugh at herself.
Savich came out of the bathroom, heard her speaking to the lab in the photo. And waited, saying nothing, listening.
“On the other hand,” she said to Carl, “I don’t believe in cheating. At least I don’t think I do. It’s strange, but I know about some things, about how to do my hair and my makeup, what I like to eat, how to drive, even my ankle Glock 380—it’s familiar to me. Ah, but people—it’s people mostly who are gone. I wouldn’t recognize my parents. I haven’t even had a glimpse of them. And Gabriella? I know she’s Sean’s nanny, but nothing else. I have these brief snapbacks, I guess you’d call them, but mostly they don’t mean much to me. Are people in a specific part of the brain? And that’s the part that’s wonky?” She sighed. “What’s a girl to do, Carl? That’s the question, isn’t it? Would sleeping with him really be like cheating, since I don’t know him? Would I feel like doing the walk of shame tomorrow morning?” She turned away from the picture. “I know so much and so little.”
Savich walked to her, very gently took her arms in his hands. He hadn’t touched her bare arms in too long a time, because the bruises were still vivid and had to hurt. He studied the bruises on her shoulders from the seat belt, managed to smile down at her. “I love the tiger stripes.”
She started, froze, then, finally, eased. “I thought you did like the tiger stripes, well, on some level I did. I see you looking at the bruises on my arms and shoulders. They’re not so bad now, Dillon. They don’t hurt much and they’re fading, too. Oh dear, did you hear my conversation with Carl the golden retriever?”
“Your end of it, yes. Carl didn’t add much of anything.”
She laid her palms on his chest, felt the warmth of his flesh through the black T-shirt. She leaned up, breathed him in, then jerked back. “Do I do this often after you shower?”
“Sniff me to make sure I’ve washed behind my ears? Yes, usually.”
“Somehow I don’t think checking to see if you’re clean has anything