Oz, on the other hand…
Oz was a different story. She had an erratic ability that could be as strong as an F-5 tornado one day and then she’d be unable to predict anything for months. When her visions came on, they came on strong. But they weren’t always useful. One of the weirdest visions she’d told them about had been when she’d once helped a sixty-three-year-old widow find her missing wedding ring. The vision had pulled her out of bed at night and she hadn’t been able to sleep until she found the woman, somebody she’d never met, living in a town two hours away.
Then she’d spent the next four months unable to see anything.
It also meant he had to do the job, whether he liked it or not. Maybe Jones wasn’t going to force it on him, but if Oz was having one of her gut feelings about this, there was no way he could just turn his back and walk out.
That look in her eyes wasn’t because she had an odd little feeling or she’d heard rumors, damn it all.
“If it needs to be done, then quit dicking around and tell me why I’m here,” he said flatly. “I wrapped up a case today, I’m tired and I’m hungry and I wasn’t planning on boarding a plane back to Virginia at the end of the day, either.”
Destin shot him a dark look.
He ignored it.
Oz just smiled. “Don’t worry…I plan on letting you catch some sleep first. The flight doesn’t head out until noon tomorrow. You’ve got time to sleep, grab a meal, all of that. You know, you used to be a lot more charming than this, Durand,” she said as she leaned forward and laid two files flat on her desk. “Is Jones working all the fun out of you?”
“He keeps me working and he does it without the mind games…so maybe. Can we get on with this?” Leaning forward, he grabbed one of the files from the front edge of Oz’s desk.
Destin leaned forward at the same time and their hands brushed against each other. Such a simple touch and electricity sparked through him. A muscle jerked in his jaw, but he managed to keep any other reaction hidden—he thought. Locked down good and tight behind his shields, even though the shields weren’t really necessary to keep the distance between him and Destin.
She could pick up on random thoughts and emotions, but she had to look for them and he doubted she’d be looking for that from him. Beyond that, her empathy was a very specific, very strange sort. It reacted to violence—specifically sexual violence, for reasons nobody really understood. Not even Destin—probably especially Destin. Caleb had his theories, but the one time he had really tried to push…well, she locked down so tight on him, pulled back. It had been the beginning of the end for them.
Settling back in his chair, he flipped open the file and studied it. Not a lot to go on, but they’d made do with less. He skimmed each report while Destin kept hers closed in her lap. He heard a soft breath and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, watched as she laid her hands on the file, flexed them, and squared her shoulders.
Steadying herself… He didn’t know whether to be relieved or bitter. Three years they’d been together and he’d tried to get her to prepare more for the cases they’d handled, but she hadn’t once tried. She’d always jumped in, feet first and fists ready. He’d been the one to pull her back time and again, to keep her from attacking suspects and totally blowing their cases straight to hell.
Three years, and she hadn’t once shown any interest in learning some caution, some self-control. But she’d gone and done it at some point. He recognized the signs well enough. He used the techniques himself and it had saved his ass more than once when her impulses bled into him during the times they worked together. If he didn’t get grounded before linking, he got lost in her, lost in her passion, lost in her fury.
He made himself focus on the file again, blocking her out. Seven rapes reported. There were probably more. Some women who were confused, scared—or in denial. Guy had been very careful. Used a rubber, so no semen samples. Bruising, minor vaginal tears for the most part… He clenched his jaw as he read each report, fought to remain dispassionate. Fought to make himself go cold.
He knew from experience that the more he could distance himself from the crime, the more he could help the victim, especially when he was working with empaths like Destin. It was hard, though, and by the time he finished reading the reports, there was a nasty, vicious headache taking gleeful bites out of his brain matter.
Destin had already closed the file. He glanced her way but she had her eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell as she took a series of deep, steadying breaths. Without opening her eyes, she asked, “You said we fly out tomorrow. I assume once we land, we get to work immediately?”
“No time like the present,” Oz said. And then she glanced at him, that strange smile on her face once more.
They both stood, Destin moving slower than him. He glanced at her as she turned to face him, then away.
The pit of his stomach dropped out as the connection hit and he stopped in his tracks, looking back at her. Her face, like her ruthlessly short nails, was naked, devoid of any color. No makeup, nothing. Just her pretty mouth, unsmiling, her eyes cold and hard…and a scar. It ran down the left side of her face, sliver thin, about three inches long, and faded.
He lifted a hand to touch her, unaware he was doing so until his fingers brushed down the slightly ridged surface of the scar. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
Caleb didn’t let himself react, although his gut was knotted with rage and he had the insane impulse to step closer and wrap his arms around, shelter her, cuddle her close. She didn’t want that from him. Didn’t need it.
“What happened?”
She stepped out of his reach and he let his hand fall to his side, closing into a fist. The need to pound on something was strong. A brick wall, a metal file cabinet—some bastard’s face—just show me who did it, baby…please… He even lowered his shields enough to try and pick up some kind of flicker, but there was nothing there.
“I was careless,” she said, her voice flat.
“What happened?” he repeated.
This time, she had some kind of reaction. She cocked a brow and smirked at him. “I told you, lover…I was careless. I dove in feet-first, like I always do, and didn’t pay attention. The guy had a knife and when I barreled in, he did this.” She trailed a finger down the scar, angling her head so he could see it better. “But that wasn’t the worst. I picked up on him when I was off-duty…you know how it happens. I put the call in to Oz and she told me to wait for backup. I didn’t. He was close, very close. And he hadn’t hurt her yet. I thought I could stop it. I was wrong. He was bigger than me, stronger, determined not to get arrested. I didn’t wait for backup and because I didn’t, he got away and he killed the girl I was trying to save. Careless.”
Chapter Two
He hadn’t looked at her much since they’d checked in for their flight. And he hadn’t said a word to her the past night after she’d told him about her spectacular failure four years earlier.
Destin understood why easy enough. She had a hard time looking at herself. It had been years since Dawn Meyer’s death and she still had a hard time facing the woman she saw in the mirror every morning.
She should have saved that girl. Was supposed to save her. If she’d listened to Caleb back when he’d tried to tell her all those times that she needed to learn some modicum of control, she could have saved Dawn.
But she hadn’t learned, and because of her, a girl was dead. She’d failed the girl. Failed her unit. Almost got them all screwed.
But the worst thing was that she let a girl die. Nineteen years old. Terrified and hurt and alone, and she’d died because of Destin.