SEVENTY-FIVE

THE house seemed very quiet after Matt went to bed. All his agitated energy went with him. In some ways, it was a relief, but not in others.

My ex-husband had accused me and Detective Quinn of “pussyfooting” around each other. It galled me to admit it, but Matt was right. I kept my low-level anxiety to myself as Quinn and I busied ourselves clearing the table and cleaning the kitchen.

Then there was no more busywork.

When Quinn suggested opening another bottle of wine and relaxing together on the couch in front of the fireplace, I decided to be honest with him.

“I’m still feeling a little nervous around you.”

“Really? But I thought we got along well today . . .” He paused. “Can you tell me why you’re feeling nervous?”

“No. I’m sorry,” I said because now I was feeling shy—and that made me a little angry. Shyness was weakness, and I didn’t want to be weak. Steeling myself, I tried to explain.

“When we were working together as partners in the car, it felt comfortable and right—a little exciting, too—but alone, like this, you make me uncomfortable.”

Once again, Detective Quinn’s crestfallen face tore me up. And that was when I realized—

“It’s the expectation,” I confessed. “I know you can’t help it, but I can sense you wanting more from me, wanting me to be something that I just can’t be, not yet. Maybe not ever again.”

Quinn closed his eyes a moment. Then he regarded me.

“I understand what you’re saying. But do me a favor and put that aside a minute. Other than your anxieties over my expectations, you do know you can trust me, right?”

“I do—if only through logical deduction.”

“Deduction?”

“There is no way on earth my ex-husband would leave me with you if he didn’t trust you. And there is no way Matt would trust you if you hadn’t earned that trust over time. So it’s logical that I should trust you, too.”

“It’s logical in your head, but what do you feel?”

Once again, I found myself dumbfounded by the glacial blue of the man’s eyes. Or maybe it was the way those eyes were staring at me—with such sad, sweet affection. Not for the first time, I was genuinely sorry that I didn’t remember any history with him.

With regret, I looked away, at the cold rain streaking the dark windows, and told him the hard truth—

“I don’t have enough experience with you to feel much of anything, Mike. So I think we should just go to bed—I mean in our separate bedrooms.”

“I knew what you meant, Clare.”

The detective scratched the stubble on his chin. “All right, then. Go upstairs. Do whatever you can to relax. I’m heading to bed, too. But if any memories come to you, please don’t feel nervous or shy. Wake me up and let me know.”

“I will. Good night.”