chapter twenty-two

There was more to do, but it was late and we were all exhausted. And while we were reasonably sure Dr. Gallo wasn’t the killer, knowing what we knew about the late Mr. Seben meant we had more research ahead of us. It was interesting that the killer had murdered at least one person who’d contemplated murdering himself. Could that be the key to the others? It was almost too sick and twisted to contemplate; too bad my job was to do exactly that.

Was I thinking about that? Man’s inhumanity to man and the like? Was I planning ahead to tomorrow’s investigation? Making a mental note to check in on Paul first thing in the morning because we still had to ease him into the news about BOFFO’s funding loss?

No. I was thinking how dreeeeamy Max Gallo was. And I was thinking that because I was in Max Gallo’s car. And I was in Max Gallo’s car because he was giving me a ride home.

Right about the time we all decided to quit for the night, I remembered George’s awful car had swallowed me, brought me here, then spit me out on the sidewalk. Max rightly interpreted the look of dismay on my face and quickly offered to give me a ride. And I quickly took him up on it. Because when I’m not an FBI agent, I’m apparently a great big ninny.

“It’s just down along here,” I said, giving him directions to the house. “Maybe five more miles.”

“No problem.”

“I really appreciate this.”

“No problem.”

Was it out of his way? Did I want it to be? Maybe he lived across the street; I hadn’t met any of our neighbors yet. Maybe he lived in South Dakota and had a killer commute. Did I care? I cared. I definitely should not care.

We rode in silence most of the way, but it didn’t feel especially charged or awkward. He was thinking his thoughts, I figured, and I was thinking mine. Or not thinking mine. Mostly I was thinking that I wasn’t thinking about what I should be thinking about. Oh, and wondering where he lived but too scared to ask.

Max’s car was like his clothes: worn, but immaculately maintained. It was a black Volkswagen Passat, at least five years old. It had been recently vacuumed. There was a small garbage can on the passenger-side floor (empty), and several issues of NEJM, The Lancet, and People in the backseat. That was it, though I hadn’t gotten a look at the glove compartment or the trunk. At my glance at the mags when we got in and buckled our seat belts, he grinned and said, “I enjoy sitting in judgment on celebrities I’ve never met and don’t know and shouldn’t judge but do anyway to feel better about my non-celebrity lifestyle.”

“No wonder you run a group for guys thinking about suicide.”

He laughed. “Oddly, reading People doesn’t make me wish I had a gun.”

I kept mum about my addiction to Us Weekly. And about my collection of guns.

“Did I hear right, you were moving today?” he asked as we passed out of Mendota Heights and into Eagan, where Patrick and I now lived.

“Yes, my baker and I moved in this morning.”

“Your what?”

“Boyfriend,” I corrected myself. I could feel myself blushing like a loser ninny idiot. “My boyfriend and I moved in. To the house you’re driving me to. Today.”

“Oh. I…” He didn’t finish. Did I want him to?

No, I preferred to spend these last five minutes of alone-time imaging what he might have said.

I … was going to whisk you away, but since you’ve got a baker, I’ll just forget about the whole thing.

I … hoped you were single, but since you aren’t, I’m doing a Mafia drop. Ready … jump!

I … can’t believe I’m wasting my time giving you a ride to your baker. D’you know what unleaded premium costs these days?

I … will think of you while I’m writing GoT fan fiction later tonight.

I sighed, which he interpreted as … I dunno, a shiver? Because what he said was, “I can turn the heater up if you want.”

Hopeless. Goddamned hopeless.

“Sorry?”

Damn it! Spoke out loud again. I didn’t mind so much when I did it in front of Jesus. Doing it in front of Max was not cool. Ditto all the swearing. Stupid goddamned swearing.

“Sorry. Thinking out loud. The case, you know.” Not that we said things like the case or the perp, probably like he didn’t ever say Stat! But Max wouldn’t know that. Probably. He was different, and knew all kinds of things I wouldn’t expect a doctor to know. Turbulent childhood. I could imagine, oh yes I could. “Yes, the case. Definitely thinking about the case. That would be the thing I am thinking about.”

“You seem a lot better.”

“Better at what?”

“Uh…” He laughed a little, eyes on the quiet suburban streets. It was nearly midnight; nobody was out. We were the only car on the little side streets. No snow meant no ice meant no problem driving, but he was concentrating like we were in a blizzard. Why?

Was he uncomfortable around me the way I was around him?

No chance.

“Feeling better, I meant. You’re obviously feeling better.”

“Oh.” Whatever, Gallo. “I am. Yep.”

“You were shot? Just a few weeks ago?” He said it in a teasing voice, like I’d forgotten and this was our little joke because of course nobody forgets about a gunshot wound mere weeks after it happened. That sort of thing was traumatic and tended to stay in the mind for a bit. “Remember?”

“Oh, that.” Shiro had been shot. In my shoulder, thanks very much. Max had been there and had been, of course, cool and heroic and totally unflappable and commanding and awesome. Maybe that’s where this adolescent crush was coming from.

You never had an adolescent crush. So how would you know?

Fine fucking time to start! I was twenty-five, for God’s sake.

“I heal pretty fast,” I said, and for a change, it was the complete truth. I was still sore, but I’d been passing up the Vicodin for over two weeks. I hadn’t had too much trouble getting around, either, despite having to bundle up for the cold weather. If you’re gonna get shot, do it in a body rigorously maintained by someone who has multiple black belts and runs. Not jogs. Shiro was a runner. Adrienne didn’t exactly spend all her time lolling on couches eating licorice, either. Also, get shot in front of a doctor who can give you on-the-spot care and then personally supervise your recovery. Things go so much easier, trust me. “I hardly even think about it anymore.”

“Huh.”

I knew at once it had been the wrong thing to say. Of course I didn’t think about it … it hadn’t happened to me. But that’s not something a

(real)

normal person would say.

I cast about for something—anything—to say that would either explain the unexplainable or distract him from the not-normal thing I’d just said.

Nope. Nothin’.

Max took a breath, and I brightened. Oh, good, he was gonna talk! “I didn’t know you … uh … had a … that your living situation … I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

Oh, shit. He was gonna talk. “Oh?” I would not sound interested, or excited, or intrigued, or breathy, or gushy, or girlie. Cool detachment. That’s what I was going for. “Uh … ohhhh?”

“Yeah, since you staggered into the blood bank and sort of collapsed into my arms and then told me about the family who killed my nephew and all those other boys and then passed out cold.”

That had also been Shiro. Slut!

“Yep.” I thought hard. Say something. Anything. I had to make a sound because “yep” was not gonna cut it! “It sure was a wild night.”

That made him take his gaze from the (clear, clean, un-icy, un-snowy) street. “A wild … yeah.” He laughed. “A gift for understatement, that’s what you’ve got. You’ve done that before. Downplayed stuff. Downplayed amazing stuff. And … you’re so different tonight.”

“I am?” Different? Who, me? Or the other two people who live in my body? Nobody here but us multiples, Dr. Gallo.

“Yes. It’s almost like you’re…”

I held my breath, then gasped because I needed the oxygen. Shit! Shit! Shit-crap-poop-shit!

He must have been holding his breath, too, because all of a sudden he gasped a little and then said, very fast, “Listen, I jumped at the chance to give you a ride because we-haven’t-really-had-any-more-time-alone-since-you-were-in-the-hospital.”

“Okay.” I put every shred of neutrality I could into that one word. I didn’t want it to be a question: okay? Or bitchy: o-kay! Just … neutral.

“And I wasn’t really your doctor, so it’s not a question of ethics, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” I lied. It was not his fault I was a quarter of a century old and had an adolescent crush.

He took another breath. “I respect that you’re with a baker but I just— I thought what you did for Luanne, getting shot for her … I thought that was incredible. Unbelievably brave. Unbelievably brave. And then to come find me when you were still hurt and bleeding and tell me the whole background, all those murders of all those boys…” He shook his head, and went back to looking at the street. “It was incredible.” And then, in a softer tone, “I think you’re incredible.”

I leaned toward him. He again (yay!) pulled his gaze from the street and looked at me, and his dark gaze filled the car, the world, my world. My lips parted and