RYAN
invested in my conversation with Al Thompson from Racine, I watched out of the corner of my eye as Monica bolted from the room. She was avoiding me—nothing strange. But I wanted to know how she felt about me staying on. Was she upset? Was she going to resign? Unfortunately, I couldn’t interpret her current level of snark any different from the usual.
I wished Lehman hadn’t said anything. I’d wanted to tell her myself. Not necessarily to get her response; just to show her I was being up-front. Now I’d lost that chance. And with her bolting through the door, I’d lost the chance to apologize afterwards.
Regardless of her reaction, I was worried about her. I’d been watching her over the past week of these task force meetings, and I was beginning to see a pattern. Every time we got around to The Man Upstairs, she looked down. Got very busy with her notes. Looked uncomfortable. Why?
Granted, I’d be pretty pissed, too, if the unknown mastermind behind a string of murders had my cell number. I wanted to ask her if she’d changed it but didn’t know how to do that without coming off creepy—you know, her ex making sure he was up-to-date on her phone number.
But knowing her, she wouldn’t change it. She would tempt The Man Upstairs to bite again. She wanted to hear from him. She wanted to catch him. There was no criminal she feared to face.
But was she taking other precautions? Was her home secured? Did she park in well-lit areas? Did she keep her gun within reach at all times?
I could keep myself from following her around the room like a love-sick puppy. But keeping myself from worrying about her was a lost cause.