His whole body shook, and he clenched his fists, pounding them on her desk, trying to force the fury away.
“I’m okay,” she said softly, putting both her hands over his. “Dean, I’m all right.”
Thank God. He couldn’t even imagine what he’d do if something happened to her.
He hadn’t realized it until now. Yes, he’d said the words to her, told her she wasn’t alone. But he hadn’t realized until he’d walked into her bedroom and seen the attempted mind-rape that prick Monroe was trying to inflict on her, that he had fallen in love with the woman. Fallen fast, but fallen hard. And he would do anything to keep her from harm.
“I don’t think I can stand up straight anymore,” she mumbled. Her beautiful face was haggard. Brown, half-moon smudges filled the hollows beneath her eyes.
“Go home,” he said. He looked out the window, where dawn had begun to break. “It’s almost six.”
“You need me.”
“I don’t need you unconscious and collapsing from sheer exhaustion.” Acknowledging that he was on the verge of the same thing, he added, “Come back with me to my room at the inn. We’ll both crash for two hours, then get back here around eight and wait for Wyatt to call. He swears Lily’s had a major break and should know something this morning. And if she doesn’t, we won’t waste time. We’ll get a warrant and search Monroe’s house.”
No, he didn’t really believe that weak, simpering prick was the Reaper. But it was something to go on, a thin lifeline to continue the investigation.
“I want to go home.”
He frowned, hating the thought of her walking back into that house.
“Believe me, I’ll be throwing my underwear and my bedding out, but I really need to be in my own place. Besides, I don’t think it would be good for your fellow agents to see me leave your room later.”
She had a point. “Okay, I’ll come with you, then.”
“No, honestly, it’s all right. I’m tired, but I’m also horny, and if you come home with me, I’ll seduce you so neither one of us gets any sleep.”
That didn’t sound like such a bad thing. At least, not at any other time. But today, there was too much at stake. “All right, you win. But I do demand a rain check.”
“You’ve got it, and I’ll hold you to it.”
Their stares met, and for an instant they were both back in the car, wrapped around each other, acknowledging in silence what he, at least, had already acknowledged in his head: They cared about each other. More than cared, on his part. Yet this wasn’t the place and certainly wasn’t the time to find out if she felt the same way.
“Let me make a couple of calls and then we’ll go,” she said. “I need to let the DA’s office know about Rob so they can wake up a judge and get us a warrant.”
He gave her fifteen minutes to make her calls. Then, as the sun rose and morning spilled through the windows, he took her by the arm and led her toward the exit.
“Sheriff?” the deputy at the front desk said.
“What is it, Frank?”
“I got a call a few minutes ago from Mrs. Covey.”
Dean tensed. Hours ago, he’d been convinced Randy Covey was the brutal killer who stalked Satan’s Playground. Now, even though he knew better, his head still pounded when he heard the name.
“Is there any word on Randy’s condition?” she asked.
“He’s unconscious, but it sounds like he’ll pull through. She said she’s been unable to reach Seth. I guess he was out when Mrs. Covey was notified, and she raced away, leaving him a note. He hasn’t responded or shown up at the hospital. Now she’s worrying herself into fits about him, too.”
From the way she had talked about Randy’s mother, Dean knew Stacey didn’t like the woman. But sympathy for a mother’s fear made her nod in understanding. “I’ll swing by their place, make sure he’s okay, then let him know about his dad.”
“Now?” He glanced at his watch. “He’s a twenty-year-old kid, and it’s not even seven a.m. He’s probably dead-to-the-world asleep.”
“If the situation weren’t urgent, I’d do it later. But Randy is in bad shape. If something had happened to my father, I’d want to know.”
Being close to his own father, he completely understood the reasoning.
“Besides, I like Frank and would rather spare him any more frenzied calls from Mrs. Covey. And it’s the least I can do, given what we thought.”
He dropped a hand on her shoulder. “We thought that for very good reasons.”
“I know.”
They walked to the squad car, and Dean rode shotgun. He’d left his agency car at her father’s house. Since Stacey was going right by it to visit the Coveys, he’d asked her to drop him off so he could retrieve it.
When they got there, he turned to her. “Go home and sleep.”
“I’ll try.”
He reached for the door handle, then turned back with a frown. “Don’t spend a lot of time at Covey’s. You need to rest.”
She put her hand up and made an old scout’s-honor sign. “Promise.”
Kissing her again, he got out and went to his car. As she turned around to drive straight out the long driveway and he followed, he couldn’t tear his attention off the back of her head. He watched the weary droop and noted the tangle of her long hair.
He was worried. Well, he’d been worried for days, but this was something else. His cop’s sixth sense tingled, telling him something was off. Something was happening that he didn’t know about.
He almost followed her when she pulled into the next driveway, but didn’t want to come off as nutty and overprotective. She’d proved more than once that she could handle herself. Could she ever.
Tapping the horn, he waved and kept driving toward town. “Thirty minutes,” he told himself, watching in the rearview mirror as her car drove up the long, hilly driveway to the Coveys’. He’d give her a half hour; then he’d call to make sure she was home.
Because he had the feeling he wouldn’t be able to catch one minute of sleep until he knew she was okay.
Stacey watched Dean slow as she turned off the road, and waved him on. She knew he was worried; he’d been as shaken up by that filth Rob Monroe as she had. Later, when she had time, she looked forward to cleaning her home thoroughly, eradicating every trace of the vile man. But she had one more task to fulfill before she could, for at least a couple of hours, give in to her bone-deep weariness.
The Covey house sat at the top of the hill, and as she crested it, she saw Seth’s truck parked outside. Wondering if he had just missed his grandmother’s note and gone to bed when he’d gotten back home last night, she found a last bit of energy to jog up the front steps of the two-story farmhouse and knock. And knock. And then to pound.
No answer.
Stepping across the creaky wooden planks of the porch, she reached a window, cupped her hands, and peered inside. The living room looked the same as it had since she was a kid. Plastic on the furniture. An old-fashioned upright piano, untouched and unplayed. Fussy and protected and cold, just like Alice Covey.
She returned to the door, knocked again, then walked to the opposite side and looked into the kitchen window. She’d just about decided to give up when she saw movement. A door inside the kitchen was pushed open a few inches, a skeletal hand appearing around the edge of it.
“Seth!” she called, rapping on the glass.
Seth stumbled out from behind that door, shock widening his eyes. His naturally pale face grew one shade paler, which emphasized the harsh red acne scars on his cheeks.
He met her stare through the glass, looking terrified. Jeez, if he was this startled, the kid must have been coming up from his room anyway, not having heard her knock.