Page 19 of Brutal

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A result.

A chilly breeze hits the back of my neck.

For a second, another image slips in.

Samson Vexley standing in the middle of that club, still and watchful. The way he stepped closer without wasting an inch of space. The way he made the back of my neck tingle, not unlike the chilly breeze now. But not like it either.

The way his amber eyes met mine. The way heat rolled through me as I looked into them.

The thought threads itself too easily into the one I’m holding.

I exhale sharply and step back from the edge.

No.

I’m not doing that.

This is a case. A pattern. A set of facts that don’t align the way they should. That’s it. I’m already too involved because of someone. I don’t need more of that.

I turn and walk off the dock, forcing my mind back into something useful. Timeline. Sequence. Who was present. Why someone would be dragged back instead of?—

Instead of what?

If they didn’t intend for him to go over in that moment, then when?

And how?

I push the question aside. I can’t answer it yet.

But I will. I’ll find the information.

I take the subway back. The car rocks beneath me, and my mind keeps slipping.

Not to the marina.

To him.

The low scrape of his voice through the jazz music. The way his eyes tracked everything…including me.

I stare at my reflection in the window across from me and frown. That’s not helpful.

I know better than to be attracted to a Vexley.

Yet the memory of sitting in front of him, of not leaning back when he closed the distance, settles low in my body.

I look away from my reflection.

Focus, Del.

The bartender’s words loop again.

Already going to happen.

By the time I reach my apartment, the sun has begun to set. I unlock the door, step inside, drop my purse on the small table by the door, and stand there for a second, listening to the silence.

Then I move toward my desk.

The corkboard waits where I left it. Articles. Timelines. Photographs. The Vexley name threaded through all of it.

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