Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That must have been terrible.”
Though I’m immortal and can’t die except under particular circumstances, circumstances only other vampires know, I know that no one is safe from the touch of death.
“It was a long time ago.” He shrugs, but the casual gesture doesn’t match the shadow that crosses his face. “Came back different and to a different life. We all did. Nothing has been the same. Started having trouble sleeping, concentrating. The Army doctors called it combat fatigue. I just thought it was grief, but I suppose that comes in all different forms.”
“And the blackouts? Did they start then?”
“No, that’s new.” He sets his mug down. “Started a few weeks ago. Around my birthday. Getting old is a real drag.” He pauses, a line forming between his brows. “Actually, around the time of Elizabeth’s murder.”
“You think they’re connected?” I ask, intrigued by the timing.
“Logically? No. But this case…” He shakes his head. “It feels different. Personal, somehow. Like I need to solve it to understand something about myself.” He gives a self-deprecating smile that I find breathtakingly handsome. “Sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
“Not to me,” I assure him. “Sometimes we’re drawn to things for reasons we don’t understand.”
He studies me with renewed interest. “Speaking from experience?”
“Maybe.” I hesitate, then decide to shift the focus back to him. “Did you always want to be a detective?”
“Private investigator.”
“Right. But you’re still detecting stuff, aren’t you?”
He gives me a faint smile. “I suppose.”
“So? Did you always want to be a detective?”
“In a way. My adoptive father was a cop—probably influenced me more than I realized.” He adjusts himself in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “Always liked solving puzzles, figuring out why people do what they do.”
“Your adoptive father,” I repeat, curious. “Did you ever look for your birth parents?”
The question seems to catch him off guard. “Not seriously. Why?”
“Just curious.” I shrug. “Some people are driven to know where they came from.”
“The Callahans were good people. Gave me everything I needed.” He says it matter-of-factly, but I sense there’s more beneath the surface. “Though my father did mention once that the adoption agency said my birth parents had some rare medical condition. Nothing serious or contagious, just unusual. That’s why they gave me up.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“No details.” He gives me a curious look. “Why the interest in my family history?”
“Just trying to understand you better,” I say, which is true enough. “You know quite a bit about me from your investigation. Seems fair I should know something about you too.”
He acknowledges this with a slight nod. “Right. Well. I became a PI after the war because I needed work that kept me busy. Kept me from thinking too much. The blackouts, the insomnia—it’s probably just all that catching up with me finally.”
“Maybe,” I say, though I’m not convinced. There’s something about Callahan that doesn’t fit neatly into the box of traumatized war veteran.
Our eyes lock, and the air between us seems to thicken. I’m suddenly, intensely aware of his proximity, of the strong line of his jaw, of his mouth that looks both hard and soft at once. My breath hitches at the thought of it on my lips, of the heat flaring in my core, of this current of need and want that seems to build from within. He leans forward slightly, and I find myself mirroring the movement, drawn by something beyond physical attraction.
Is this fate? I can’t help but think as I find myself sliding toward him, my thoughts feeling muddy, my body seeming to move on its own accord. Is this inescapable?
The jarring ring of the telephone shatters the moment. My heart nearly jumps out of my skin.
Callahan hesitates, his nostrils flaring for a moment as his blue gaze locks on mine, then rises to answer it. “Callahan,” he says tersely. “Hello? Hello?”
He holds the phone away from his ear and seems to think. Then he presses down on the depressor before he dials zero and brings the phone back to his ear. “Yes, operator. The number that just called, there was no one on the line. Did they say anything to you? I’m afraid it could have been an emergency.” He pauses. “Oh? Alright. Thank you.”
He hangs up the phone and looks at me. “There was no one there. The operator said it was a male voice with an accent.”
I can’t help but yawn, the tension from earlier dissipating. “It’s the middle of the night. Maybe someone gave him the wrong number.”
He cocks a brow as if to say, do you believe that?
Of course, I don’t. But right now, I want to. Better than to think someone was following us. A lot of Marco and Cohen’s boys have accents. So do Europeans. Not sure which idea I like better.