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Sam stood at the reception desk for the psychiatric department, a fiberglass partition separating her from some prim and proper Barbie doll with the personality of a sock, who calmly told Sam exactly what she did not want to hear. “I’m sorry, Detective, but we can’t give out any information about our patients.”
A flush crept up her face, and Sam had to pause before she responded. She’d had about all she could stomach of bureaucracy and red tape—the Feds kept their secrets while she and Michael were hung out to dry—having gotten little more out of Frank. The FBI was investigating the hospital for experimental, possibly illegal and even unconscionable, treatment methods, unexplained disappearances, and suspicious deaths, as well as possible ties to Carter Wainwright and the so-called Four Pi. They had a man undercover inside the hospital, but beyond that, Frank remained tight-lipped.
She scowled at him as he stood beside her, eyes downcast and hands stuffed in his pockets. The FBI agent was hiding more than he was sharing, and even that didn’t seem to check out. As far as Sam could tell, Brentworth was a state-funded facility being investigated for criminal activity under her jurisdiction, unless the hospital’s acceptance of federal grants or some other bullcrap she didn’t really understand brought them under the FBI’s radar. Even so, the FBI never sent just one or two guys to investigate an operation of this size. Where were the surveillance vehicles, geek squads, posted operatives, and endless parade of black suits with earpieces?
No, Frank was working something off the books and on his own. And he didn’t trust Sam enough to bring her all the way in on it.
She took a breath, reached into her coat’s inner pocket, and withdrew a sheet of paper. Unfolding it, she palmed it against the partition. “I understand your policy and have received the proper consent.” Her frustration began to subside. She had everything she needed. Cooler heads would surely prevail. “Harlan Bowes has granted us full access to his records.”
The receptionist’s Botoxed lips parted, and she stared blankly as if she’d disappeared into some inner happy place. After a moment, she blinked, tilted her head, then smiled. In a pacifying voice bordering on condescending, she said, “Let me call his doctor.”
Sam sighed as the receptionist picked up her phone, dialed an extension, and explained to whoever had answered that two detectives were badgering her for Bowes’s medical records. As she hung up the phone, the corners of her mouth twitched. “The doctor will be out to speak with you in a moment. Please, have a seat.”
Sam suppressed a smile. Bowes’s medical records were only half the reason for her visit. Speaking with his doctor was the other half. She turned to face the reception area. Over a dismal green rug, chairs lined the walls of a sadly empty room. A monitor propped in a corner was tuned to the news, the sound off but closed captioning appearing on the screen in a broken form that couldn’t keep up with the actual dialogue. Not that anyone was there to read it.
Sam’s anger lessened as she collapsed into a seat, thinking how sad and lonely it must have been to be inside a place like Brentworth—visitor-less, friendless, hopeless. Frank sat two chairs away from her and kept his mouth shut, apparently content to let her run her investigation. So long as it furthers his.
They passed the time in silence, except for the tick tick tick of a plastic clock on the wall. Finally, when Sam had had just about all she could take of waiting, a buzz sounded. The door to the inner sanctum opened, and an elegant brunette wearing a white lab coat with the confidence of a lioness prowled through the doorway as if on the hunt. She was beautiful in a statuesque sort of way—hard, cold, and chiseled with seemingly perfect symmetry. Just over six feet tall in a modest heel, she wore a loose-fitting gray tunic under her coat that failed to hide her muscular frame. With every movement, the fabric of her shirt and slacks clung to her thick biceps and developed thighs as if they were spandex. The doctor clearly adhered to a strict diet and cardio and weight training regimen that put Sam to shame. She couldn’t deny the twinge of jealousy in her gut between the fluttering butterflies.
Frank bit off a hangnail, stood, then put his hands on his hips. He appeared ready to discuss business, neither attracted nor intimidated.
The doctor extended her hand. “Hello, detectives. My name is Mira Horvat, staff psychiatrist. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
While the doctor’s English was clear, it came with a slight accent that Sam couldn’t quite place. The word “visit” almost sounded as if it had begun with a W. Perhaps it was Ukrainian or Croatian, but Sam wasn’t up enough on her Eastern European dialects to know. Still, it gave Dr. Horvat a greater air of mystery to add to her beauty, and the sharpness in her eyes suggested a great mind behind them.
“Dr. Horvat.” Sam shook the doctor’s hand. “I’m Detective Samantha Reilly, and this is—” She paused but only for a split second. “—my partner, Detective Fred Spinner.”
Frank smiled and shook Dr. Horvat’s hand without missing a beat. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”
Dr. Horvat knitted her brow. “I understand you have a consent form for Harlan Bowes’s medical records. May I see it? And may I also ask why you wish to see his records?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but we can’t disclose details of an ongoing investigation.” Sam handed over the document, confident it would produce what she needed. The signature was legit, and everything about the document was one hundred percent genuine. So, as Dr. Horvat took her time reading each line, Sam swallowed her impatience as best she could. The longer the doctor took with it, the more Sam thought she was about to hit a roadblock.
“Hmmm...” The doctor turned the paper over, though nothing was written on the back.
“Is there a problem, Doctor?”
Dr. Horvat smiled softly, her proud lioness features shifting to innocent doe as if by the flip of a switch. “I’m sorry, Detectives, but I’m afraid I cannot provide you those records based on this. You’ll need a subpoena and a court order to enforce it.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “I don’t understand. Bowes has every right to his medical records and to grant that right to anyone he wants. Surely you’re well aware of that.”
The doctor’s placating smile didn’t waver. “Normally, I’d agree with you, Detective. But I saw Mr. Bowes last night in your custody and tried to get him released into my care as a matter of fact. He was clearly in no condition to consent to anything. Though the officers wouldn’t tell me what he was arrested for, it was abundantly clear that he was not in a rational or sane state of mind and can’t be held responsible for his actions. He should be here, at Brentworth, where we can attend to his psychological needs.”
“Oh, that’s a load of bull—”
Frank held up a hand. “Can you tell us when he checked in here?”
Dr. Horvat puckered her lips and glanced at the ceiling. “I don’t see any harm in that. About three months ago.”
“Thank you,” Frank said, matching her smile with one of his own. Apparently, he was of a mind that honey caught more flies than crap. At least he’d gotten something out of the doctor, albeit something they already knew. Detective Spinner was locking her into a story. “Did he stay long?”
“No.” Dr. Horvat frowned and scratched her chin. “And we were making so much progress so very quickly. My methods are... perhaps more progressive than most. What’s the expression? Like going cold turkey? You know, instead of gradual steps.”
She shrugged. “Anyway, I guess he felt he’d healed enough. We had no reason to commit him since he came in voluntarily and wasn’t a danger to anyone or himself.”
Sam stepped closer to Dr. Horvat. “Not a danger...” Sam shook her head and chuckled, then raised her palms. “Not a danger? That man tried to kill me yesterday!”
Frank touched her shoulder, but she shrugged away from his hand. “And you know something? Bowes thinks he was here yesterday.” She ground her teeth. “Something not right is going on here, and I will get to the bottom of it. Mark my words. If you have no part in it, it would probably be in your best interests to show us a bit more cooperation.”
Dr. Horvat didn’t so much as flinch, though her smile vanished. In its stead was a consistent look of indifference. “His attack on you is all the more reason why Mr. Bowes should be released into my care. As I said, when he came, it was voluntarily, and he left equally on his own volition. We could do little more than recommend he stay for additional treatment, but if he’s done as you claim, I feel he should be committed.” She handed the consent form back to Sam. “Now, I believe I’ve already said more than I should. If you’ll excuse me, I have—”
The entrance doors exploded open. Sam spun around, hand instinctively going for the gun at her hip, every muscle in her body tensing and ready to draw. When she saw two uniforms, she stood a little straighter, hand still by her side but fingers no longer flexing. The male officer looked familiar and carried someone in his arms.
“Tag?” Sam scrutinized the officer in a split-second, her mind taking in every detail. Officer Tagliamonte had been assigned to watch over her foster son. Her stomach dropped when she saw who was in his arms. “Michael!”
Tag gently laid the boy on the floor. “We need a doctor.”
“What happened?” Sam crouched beside the unconscious teenager, taking Michael’s gloved hand in hers.
Tag looked her in the eyes. A rookie at the time, the officer had been one of the first responders to the murder-suicide scene where Michael had been found. His father, Mark Florentine, had killed his wife, her lover, then himself, and an infant Michael had been found rocking against a wall with a gun between his legs, blood on his naked thighs. Tag was also one of the few people Sam trusted with Michael’s condition and how it could be triggered.
Tag gave her a knowing nod. “Alison—Officer Paltrow—touched his neck.”
“Step back,” Dr. Horvat commanded with such absolute authority that Sam rose and backed away before she even knew what she was doing. The doctor put two fingers against Michael’s neck as Sam reached out to stop her. She pulled back when she saw no reaction from Michael. Her son remained unconscious, not delving into another seizure.
“His pulse is elevated but not dangerously so.” The doctor stood and crossed her arms. “Would someone like to tell me the nature of this boy’s condition so that I might properly assist?”
Tag opened his mouth to speak, but Sam jumped in before he could. “He’s my... he’s family. He’s prone to seizures. He must have forgotten to take his medication.” She renewed her position by Michael’s side, scooped him into her arms, then sat him up.
His eyelids began to flutter. He smacked his lips. “Where... where am I?” His eyes exploded open, and he scuttled back from Officer Paltrow. “You! Where am I? Where’s Dylan?”
“It’s okay, Michael,” Sam said low. “You had a seizure.”
“You don’t understand.” His face pale, he stared pleadingly at Sam. “They’re out there—those Indians—and Dylan’s still out there too. He’s not safe.”
“What’s he saying?” Frank squatted beside them. “Out where, Michael? The hospital?” He fingered the holster on his belt.
Sam glowered at him. “He just had a nightmare, Frank.” Her words came out in a low hiss. “We’ll talk about it more when we get him home.”
“No,” Michael blurted. “We have to help Dylan.” He placed his palm against the floor to push himself up then cried out in pain and slumped.
Sam took his hand in hers and turned it palm up. The glove was in tatters, and the flesh beneath it was raw and red. She glared at the officers who were supposed to have been protecting her boy.
“That wasn’t from us,” Paltrow said weakly.
Sam returned her attention to her boy. “Who’s Dylan, Michael?”
“A friend... a friend from school.”
“He’s been hanging out with a classmate after school these last two days.” Tag pressed his lips together. “They like to try to ditch us, and today, they almost succeeded. We didn’t see anyone else out there, though.”
“Michael, what’s your friend’s last name?”
“Jefferson. His father works here, actually.”
“Find him,” Sam snapped. “And call in for backup. That boy could be in trouble. Check with his father here, his home—you know the drill. And Tag, call me as soon as you know something.”
Tag and Paltrow exchanged a look then turned on their heels and left.
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” Dr. Horvat tapped her foot, her arms crossed. “This boy may need medical attention.” She sniffed the air. “Though from the look and smell of it, I’d say it’s pretty clear what we’re dealing with here.”
“Oh yeah, Doctor?” Sam rose. “What’s that?”
“Bloodshot eyes, the distinct odor of marijuana—I’d say this boy was smoking and perhaps was overcome by a touch of paranoia.” She chuckled. “Quite common for a boy his age, particularly now that it’s legal.”
“Not legal for him,” Sam said. She squinted down at Michael, and the overpowering, skunky aroma finally hit her. Worry dissipated into disappointment. She helped Michael to his feet. “I’ll take him home, doctor. We know what this is and have it under control.”
She sighed, softening a little. “All right, at least let me get someone to clean and dress those wounds on his hands. Come on back.” She smiled warmly at Michael. “We’ll get you all patched up.”
Sam nodded but held Michael by the arm. “Send someone out to look at it right here.”
“That’s not really how we do things here, Detective.”
Sam rubbed her temples. “Just... send someone out, please.”
“Very well.” She again smiled at Michael then, almost flirtatiously. “It was nice meeting you, Michael. Detectives.”
She bowed slightly then turned and walked toward the doors leading farther into the hospital. After the receptionist buzzed her in, the doctor disappeared through them.
Sam led Michael to the chairs, and she and Frank each took a seat beside him. With her eyes, she signaled a camera mounted in the corner. “We’ll talk about it on the way home,” she said with a hand over her mouth. The three sat in silence as they awaited Michael’s medical attention. Twenty minutes later, a nurse with nylon gloves cleaned and dressed Michael’s hand.
***
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” Sam slammed her palm against the steering wheel and glared at Michael through her rearview mirror. With the three of them safely on the road, all her worry and stress and love for him came boiling to the surface. And it came out all wrong, pride and disappointment getting in the way when all she wanted to do was hold him tightly. “Why in the hell would you ditch your protective detail? To smoke weed? Of all the stupid, stupid things—”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Michael sulked. He crossed his arms and averted his gaze from the mirror. Then, much lower but not quite under his breath, “It’s not like I asked for them.”
She’d only been trying to protect him. How dare he treat me like I’m the bad guy? Her hackles up, she knew she was heading toward making a bad situation worse but couldn’t stop herself. “They were there to protect you, and for good reason, it seems. I thought you were smarter than this.”
“I wouldn’t need protection if I wasn’t living with you.”
Sam gritted her teeth and was about to bite when the sting of his words pierced her. Brow furrowing, she let out a breath, her eyes starting to tear up until she remembered Frank sitting beside her. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, tell me about the Indians.”
Frank shifted in his seat. If he’d been pretending not to listen, he wasn’t pretending any longer.
“I’m sorry.” Michael slouched. “I didn’t mean it like it sounded. It’s just, why does everyone else get to have normal, fun lives, but I’ve gotta have these stupid visions and people trying to use me or kill me all the time?”
“Michael, I—”
“It doesn’t matter. I know it’s not your fault or your problem.”
“Your problems are my—”
“Anyway,” Michael cut her off and scooted forward, “shouldn’t you be focusing on finding Dylan?” He stared at her reflection in the rearview, hurt and anger in his eyes. “They could have him right now. Don’t you care?”
“Of course, I care!” Sam growled, then bit her tongue. “Officers Tagliamonte and Paltrow—and probably the whole freaking department—are looking for him as we speak. If he’s still at Brentworth, they’ll find him and report.”
She didn’t know if that were true, but she would check in on their status as soon as she got Michael home safely. Tag wouldn’t let her down. She tried her damnedest to make her voice even and asked, “Could you tell me what you were doing at Brentworth with your friend?”
“Just hanging out.”
“Smoking weed?” Again, Sam couldn’t help herself despite the little voice in her head telling her to go easy on him.
“Yeah. I wanted to try it. So I did. Is that so terrible?” He gave her a smug grin. “Can’t be any worse than bringing a minor to the house of a murderer.”
Her face flushed with warmth, this time from shame rather than anger. “Please, Michael.”
Frank shifted in his seat again. He cleared his throat. “May I suggest—”
“No!” Michael and Sam said in unison.
Chided, Frank folded his hands on his lap and faced forward.
Sam considered what to say. Michael had hit below the belt. Though Jonathan Crowley hadn’t technically murdered anyone—his ex had been tied up in his basement, still breathing when they’d found her—Sam had still used Michael’s unique gift to help her solve a crime. She’d put him at risk and had broken a long list of ethics regulations in order to put a bad man away. She’d been a different person then, willing to take down criminals at any cost—before she’d realized that Michael meant more than the job.
She squeezed the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. “Just tell us what happened.”
Michael sighed. “You know what happened. We ditched the cops you had following me and went into the woods behind the hospital. I know it was stupid, but Dylan has a really cool hangout spot back there. And yeah, we smoked a joint, but we didn’t go back there for that. We just went to hang out. You know, do kid things, which is kinda hard to do when your only friend is an adult and a detective.” Michael choked up on those last few words.
A lump formed in Sam’s throat. Whatever anger she’d felt had drained from her like water down a sink.
Frank turned in his seat. “Inside Brentworth, you mentioned seeing someone out there, that it wasn’t safe. What did you see?”
Sam sneered at Frank, but Michael sat up straighter. “Indians. Well, not real ones. Dylan had binoculars, and I was looking through them at Brentworth when I saw—or at least I thought I saw—three or four people wearing those same stupid masks the guy who attacked Sam had on. They were there one second, gone the next.”
Sam caught Frank’s grave look and knew he was hanging on to Michael’s every word. Whatever had happened out there, he certainly believed Michael. His conviction brought home the danger even more so for her.
“Anyway,” Michael continued, “Dylan said it might have been the weed making me paranoid—he never saw them. But I was scared, and we ran back toward the hospital. I twisted my ankle, and Dylan carried me, like, the whole way. That’s when Officer Paltrow grabbed me by my neck. I don’t remember anything after that except my vision and waking up with you two hovering over me inside Brentworth.”
“You ran back to the hospital, toward the people you saw?” Frank asked.
“Yeah, I know.” Michael shrugged. “It doesn’t make much sense, but it was getting dark, and we were afraid if we ran any other way, we might get lost. So we took our chances with the hospital. Dylan’s father works there and could’ve helped us once we got inside.”
Michael stared at the floor and sighed. “The more I think about it, though, the crazier it sounds. One guy attacked you, and I saw—or maybe I imagined—at least three of them. Like I said, Dylan never saw them. Maybe the pot went to my head like he and that doctor said.”
Sam’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t say anything. Marijuana did tend to make some users paranoid, but hallucinations didn’t seem likely unless that Dylan kid’s joint was laced with something. But Michael seemed lucid enough, if a bit tired. Still, she didn’t want to worry him by sharing where her mind was wandering. More than one masked moron was not a comforting thought.
Bowes’s chant played through her head. Ten little Indians standing in a line. One toddled home and then there were nine.
Frank tugged on his seatbelt, loosening it so he could turn around and face Michael. “So you didn’t see any more of those people in masks on your way back?”
“No.” Michael leaned forward between the seats. “Well, yeah, actually, but that was in my vision.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. Sam glanced over at him to try and get a read. He’d never commented on whether he believed in Michael’s ability or not, never so much as brought up the subject. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sam jumped in, afraid she might not want to know his thoughts on the topic. “What did you see, Michael?”
Michael shuddered. “It was awful. Officer Paltrow’s head just exploded.” He tapped Sam’s shoulder. “You have to warn her, Sam. I don’t have much to go on, but I know there’s at least one Indian guy out there. He shot her like really close range, blew her freakin’ head off. I’m sorry I went nuts when I saw her.”
“Can you tell us anything about the shooter?” Sam asked, her attention constantly shifting between Michael and the road.
“Not really, no. Just that he was wearing one of those stupid masks.”
“Was he fat or thin, tall or short?” Frank asked. “Were his hands white or black? Any tattoos that you could see? Any other features that stood out?”
“No, nothing like that.” Michael slouched back in his seat. “Dark hair, I think... maybe. I’m sorry. It was dark outside, nighttime I think, with lots of trees, but I couldn’t tell where and it was like I was standing right next to her when it happened. All I could make out were the mask and her face, like my screwed up mind wanted to see it all happen up close and personal, way zoomed in.” He took a deep breath. “I couldn’t even say for sure if the shooter was a man or a woman. Officer Paltrow... she never even saw it coming.” He buried his face in his hands, which reminded Sam of his injury.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Oh,” Michael collected himself. “That was just me being stupid. Unrelated.”
Sam sensed there was a lot more to that story than she probably wanted to know but let it slide. “Okay,” she said softly. “That’s enough for now, Michael.”
They rode the rest of the way back to the precinct in silence. The more Sam tightened her muscles to try and prevent her shaking, the more she shook. Her gut told her that Michael hadn’t imagined anything. There was more to the hospital, those masked Indians, the stonewalling Dr. Horvat, and maybe to Michael’s new friend than she could determine from the facts she then knew. She chewed on her thumbnail, lost in thought and not snapping out of it until she found herself pulling up beside Frank’s car.
Frank forced a smile and opened his door. Before closing it, he said, “We’ll pick this up tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
A pained expression came over him, and he leaned in closer. “Hey, is everything all right? I mean, between us?”
Sam nodded once and pulled her ravaged nail out from between her teeth. The skin around it was bleeding.
Frank pulled away, looking unconvinced. “See you, Michael.” He waved.
Michael grunted, then got out and took Frank’s seat. He closed the door behind him then dropped the seat back as far as it would go.
***
WHEN THEY GOT HOME, Michael plodded up the stairs to their apartment like a zombie. Once inside, he turned to Sam with heavy eyelids. “I’m zonked out. From the weed—or the vision. Probably both.” He sighed heavily. “I think I’m just going to go to bed if that’s cool. But wake me if you hear anything about Dylan. I’m really worried about him.”
“Of course.” Now it was Sam’s turn to force a smile. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He turned and shuffled toward his bedroom. Within a few minutes, she could hear him snoring. She doubted he’d done any of his homework and would probably have him take a sick day in the morning. Standing at her kitchen counter, she brewed herself a pot of coffee, then sat down at the table to be alone with her thoughts.
A knock came at her door, and she snapped out of a daydream. She looked at her watch and couldn’t believe it was already nine thirty. She ran her fingers down her face, trying to wipe the tired away. How long have I been sitting here?
Her gun still at her hip, as comfortable there as if it were an extension of her body, Sam crept to the door and peeked through the peephole. Tag, still in uniform, stood outside. She relaxed and undid the chain lock, unlocked the deadbolt, then opened the door.
“Officer Tagliamonte,” Sam said, amused by her over-formality. She sized up the clean-cut, tightly built, and decade-younger officer she’d always found physically appetizing. “What brings you to my humble abode at this late hour?” She was trying to be funny with the archaic phrasing but only felt silly when Tag didn’t so much as crack a smile.
He took off his hat, his thick dark hair pluming in its freedom. “I just got off duty.” He fidgeted with his hat in his hands. “May I come in?”
Sam stepped back and waved him in. “You want some coffee? Beer?” Tag stepped into the apartment, and she closed the door behind him.
“I’m good, thanks.” He walked over to the kitchen table and put his hat down on it then turned to face Sam as she stepped closer. “I just wanted to apologize for today. I know how much that kid means to you, and I feel really bad that I let you down. I have a kid sister—I mean, she’s twenty-four now, but I practically raised her—and if anything were to happen to her, I’d...” His chin quivered, and he looked away to hide the powerful emotions that had come over him. It was an endearing side of the officer Sam had never seen before.
Tag cleared his throat. “Well, let’s just say I know the lengths someone might go to protect the ones they love. If anything happened to Michael on my watch, I’m not so sure I could live with myself.”
“He’ll be all right.” Sam crossed her arms but the wall she put up started to crack. She had no idea Tag felt that strongly about Michael or... about me? “Don’t worry about it. Really. He told me he was trying to ditch you. With that other kid. Did you find him?”
Tag seemed to appreciate the change in subject. He sucked in a breath and became the same sturdy officer she could always rely on, though a hint of something—Grief? Worry?—remained behind his eyes. “Yeah, he’s fine. When he saw us, he didn’t know what to do, so he hid and went inside the hospital when the coast was clear. His father works there. We’ve looked into the boy and his father. Everything checks out. He said he was sorry he bailed on Michael. Sounded like he meant it.”
“Good.” Sam sighed and stood beside him at the table, resting her fingers on its surface. “Thanks.”
She considered waking Michael to tell him the news, but the rhythmic rumble coming from his room made her think better of it. She frowned. “I’m happy to see him making a new friend, but... ditching you guys and smoking weed? That isn’t like him at all.”
Tag chuckled. “I bet you smoked pot before you were his age.”
Sam snorted. “Jesus! If he did half the shit I did before I was his age, I wouldn’t be able to handle him.” She smiled. “He’s such a good kid.”
“Maybe you should go easy on him?” Tag reached for his hat. “And hopefully me too.”
His finger brushed against hers, just the slightest touch, but it sent a pulse through her body, a spark that ignited a fire. All her stress, all her bottled-up frustration, demanded right then for a release. She slapped his hat out of his hand, drove him against the counter, and pressed her lips tightly against his.
He threw his arms up, not resisting exactly, but not immediately accepting either. He started to say something, but Sam cut off any protests with her tongue. And when she felt his hand on the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, his tongue flitting with hers, she moaned. Chest to chest, she could feel the warmth of his body, the excitement in his touch, and his heartbeat quickening. She knew she was wanted. A finger over her lips, she led him to her bedroom.
***
AFTERWARD, THEY LAY sweating on opposite sides of Sam’s bed. Her body was warm and tingled all over, but some of the tension in her muscles had eased. And she felt young. As fit as Tag was, and she did enjoy the sight of him, it was he who’d had the harder time keeping up.
She took a deep breath. Tag was fun, but their intimacy had to be a one-time deal. Although she wasn’t in his direct chain of command, he was still a subordinate. Such relationships were frowned upon, if not outright prohibited. She glanced sideways at him, his goofy grin reminding her just how young he was compared to her. For a second, she thought of Frank, as though she’d somehow betrayed him. But she dismissed the thought easily. She’d needed it, had enjoyed it, and she wouldn’t regret it.
“I guess this means you forgive me?” Tag said coyly, adding to the boyishness she already sensed from him.
She fixed him with a hard stare. “It goes without saying that this stays between us.”
“Of cour—”
“And that this was one night only.”
He grimaced. “If that’s the way you want it. But I like you, Sam. I’ve always liked you. And I think, deep down, you’ve always known that, or else tonight wouldn’t have gone down the way it did.”
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s not make a thing out of it, make anything awkward. Let’s say it was just sex.” Then, to placate his ego, she added, “Good sex.”
He turned to face her, propping himself up on his elbow, his strong arms gleaming in the moonlight. A twinkle came to his eyes, a wry smile to his mouth. “All the more reason to do it again sometime.”
Sam pursed her lips. She couldn’t argue with that logic. “Maybe. But for now, you should go. I don’t want you to be here when Michael gets up.”
Tag begrudgingly rose out of the bed then shuffled around the room to pick up his scattered clothes. Sam drew the sheet over her naked form and watched him dress. As he pulled on his pants, he reached into them and took out her underwear that had somehow ended up inside them during their athletics. He tossed them to her.
As she put them on under the sheet, she re-erected her wall. “Lock up behind you.”
Fully dressed though a wrinkled mess, Tag opened the bedroom door to leave but stopped when Sam called to him. “His father... what does he do for Brentworth?”
Tag shook his head. “Always the detective, huh? He’s on the board or an administrator or some shit. Pretty high up. I can find out more if you’d like.”
“Yes, do. And Tag?”
“Yes?”
“What’s his last name again?”