Page 30 of All At Once

He’d only let his buddies see him fall apart.

His eyes burned, and he blinked hard. With the AC going, he couldn’t blame fumes from the stalled traffic around him, either.

He’d allowed Caitlin to see a little that night at the beach, the morning after. She’d simply accepted him, allowing him to breathe and rest for a few hours, away from the parts of him he wanted to outrun.

The next morning, he’d wanted . . . but he’d known he wouldn’t be good for her. He couldn’t even be good for himself.

So he’d put her in her Jag, climbed in his truck and driven away.

Maybe abandoning her and his child without knowing.

Maybe saving her from the mess he’d been.

Ahead of him, brake lights flashed off, traffic finally inching forward. With a relieved breath, he shifted his foot off the brake.

That boy he’d been — about to put on a badge and step into a job that made men real quick — hell, maybe he’d done the best he could, too.

One thing was for sure, though. The man he’d become was damn well going to do better now.

Chapter Eight

Changing Tides

Caitlin pressed a shaky hand to her forehead and turned on the cold water. An autopsy lab had never made her ill, but here she was, her abdomen tight and trembling, her throat sore from retching.

Holy Mother, Michaels would crucify her for this.

She ran cool water over her wrists, rinsed her mouth, and eyed herself in the mirror. She looked a wreck — eyes red-rimmed like she’d been crying, her nose pink, the rest of her face pale. Firming her lips, she dug a mint out of her bag — maybe the scent would help, since the smells had done her in — and swung out of the bathroom.

Michaels raised a brow on her return, and she lifted her chin, keeping her expression cool. He wasn’t the worst she’d ever encountered, but he was no fan of Feds in general.

And she’d given him ammunition by turning green and having to bolt for the bathroom.

The medical examiner didn’t spare her a glance, merely continuing his recitation of the young woman’s wounds and their contribution to her death. Caitlin picked up her abandoned notebook and pen and continued jotting.

Thirty minutes later, she strode out with Michaels, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air as subtly as she could. What had she eaten to make her so sick?

More like she hadn’t eaten enough, and the smells conspired with her empty stomach. Her appetite was nil lately, the same as always when stress overwhelmed.

“You think it’s related?” Michaels punched the elevator call button, and she darted a glance at him. Unbelievably, he seemed intent on letting her nauseated disgrace pass.

“On first glance, yes.” She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “We’ll know more when the prints come back.”

“You’ll share leads and information with us, though, right? If the prints match.” He laid a hand in front of the door so she could enter.

“Of course.” He had to ask? What kind of Feds was he used to?

“Menthol lotion helps.” He hit the lobby button and waved a finger under his nose. “With the smell.”

“That’s a fallacy.” Tick had tried that and every other trick known to cops . . . and he still vomited every time he got near an autopsy lab. She tightened her hold on her tote, chest aching as much from missing him as from retching. “Ask my husband. This is a one-off . . . I had to have eaten something that disagreed with me.”

“That or you’re pregnant,” Michaels muttered, gaze on the elevator display. His mouth twisted and he glanced at her. “Let me guess . . . I’m not supposed to say shit like that.”

“I am not pregnant.”

Michaels shrugged, the doors pinging open to the lobby. “I’m meeting Vargas back at the station to debrief. Want to sit in on that?”

“Yes, thank you.” She’d be cutting it close, probably, but barring any kind of crazy traffic disaster, she’d make Woodfield in time to pick up the girls from dance.