myself right now.” Before she could respond, he turned and walked out of the room.
When the door shut quietly behind him, Chelsie sank back onto the bed, feeling angry and sad and vaguely ashamed of herself. What was that supposed to mean? She was somehow fooling herself?
The laptop he’d left behind had slid toward her as the mattress sank under her weight. She glanced at the screen, still lit up with the drawing of the community center’s front parking lot.
If Scott was right—and as an HRT sniper, chances were, he was—then why hadn’t she died with everyone else at that community center a year ago? And if Connors had let her live back then, why was he after her now?
* * *
“I’M SORRY.”
Scott blinked at the light streaming in from the hallway, even though he’d been awake from the second Chelsie had started tiptoeing down the hall. She stood in the doorway of his bedroom, holding his laptop. She’d changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt—this time, unfortunately, with a bra underneath. She did seem contrite. She also looked uncomfortable. Because she didn’t like to apologize or because he slept in nothing but boxer shorts, he wasn’t sure.
After he’d left her room, he’d asked Andre to take over the watch, deciding to get some much-needed sleep. He’d figured by the morning, she’d have come to grips with what he’d shared. And hopefully she’d be less defensive.
Scott rubbed his eyes and yawned, making her apologize again. But not before she glanced at his bare chest and then quickly back up.
“It’s okay.”
He expected her to turn and go back the way she’d come, but instead she stepped farther into his room. She settled on the very edge of his bed, setting his laptop between them, like some kind of barrier.
“It’s been a year. Why would he be after me? It’s not like it was my testimony that put him away.”
Scott pushed himself to a sitting position. Apparently they were talking about this now, after all. “You were the only eyewitness to the shootings, but—”
“But I never saw him! It wasn’t like I could identify Connors as the shooter.”
“What I was going to say,” Scott cut in, “was that I agree. You didn’t do the most damage at his trial. With or without you, he was going down.”
After Connors had been pulled over in a Taurus with a license plate matching the one HRT had called in from the scene of the shooting, the rifle on his lap had been tied to the shell casings at the scene. The physical evidence alone would have taken him down.
Add to it an incompetent public defender, Connors refusing to say a word in his own defense plus the families of the victims speaking at the sentencing, and Connors was going to jail. With or without the testimony of the one woman he’d let walk away from that massacre.
Chelsie crossed her arms over her chest, holding on to herself as if that could protect her from Connors, from what had happened that day.
And it made him wonder what had happened to her. To the strong, determined negotiator he’d brought home from Shields Tavern. He couldn’t believe she’d let Clayton Connors take so much away from her.
But confronting her about it was guaranteed to get her guard up, so instead he said, “I think if we can figure out what he’s after, it’ll help us track him down.”
“What does killing me now accomplish?”
“I don’t know, Chelsie.” Scott put his hand on her arm, and she flinched away. Trying not to let it bother him, he said, “But you’re safe here.”
She shook her head. “I’m not worried.”
When she met his eyes again, he saw the truth of her statement on her face. She trusted him and Andre to keep her safe. It was better than nothing, but he wanted more. He wanted a heck of a lot more.
“Why do you think he never said a word in his own defense at his trial?” Chelsie asked, just when Scott was trying to figure out how to broach what had happened between them.
He forced himself to put his mind back on track. It didn’t matter that the woman he’d been fantasizing about for the past year was finally back in his bed—though not in the way he wanted. He had a job to do here. And he couldn’t let himself get distracted.
“What defense could he have possibly have given? I think he was banking on people feeling sorry for him because of the PTSD, and figured the insanity plea would work,” Scott replied.
“I don’t know,” Chelsie argued. “Wouldn’t he at least want to explain where he was coming from? He could’ve drummed up some sympathy. He was a war hero, after all. And he watched his entire unit die. The defense attorney talked about his PTSD, but Connors never spoke at all.”
“I was only in the courtroom for part of the trial,” he reminded Chelsie. He’d had to testify about his role in the day’s events. He hadn’t heard the attorney talk about the post-traumatic stress disorder, although obviously Connors had it. Still, Scott had known there was more going on. “Every time I saw Connors, he was pretty glassy-eyed. Whatever he was on must’ve been strong. Maybe his lawyer didn’t want to risk putting him on the stand and have him make things worse.”
“Still—”
“We need to focus on what his motivation is now,” Scott cut in, holding back a yawn. He didn’t care why Connors hadn’t taken the stand a year ago; all he cared about was why the guy was after Chelsie now.
“Maybe he wants someone new to blame. A year ago, he blamed the military for his unhappiness. Now, he’s decided it’s my turn.”
In Scott’s opinion, it didn’t fit, but then, he wasn’t a negotiator. Or a profiler. “I’ll give Ella a call tomorrow. See if she has any ideas.”
“That’s a good idea. Why don’t we try now?”
“Chelsie.” Scott glanced at the clock next to his bed. “It’s after midnight.”
“Ella’s kind of a night owl, isn’t she? She was at the Academy anyway.”
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” Scott replied.
Chelsie didn’t seem happy, but she nodded and stood. “Okay.”
When she turned to go, Scott stopped her with, “Since we’re talking motivation here, let me ask you something.” He knew he shouldn’t, but he had to know. “Why did you give Connors the power to drive you out of negotiation?”
She spun back around, and although he knew it had been a mistake to ask, he liked the fire suddenly sparking in her eyes. He’d rather have her fighting mad than spiritless.
Before she could argue, he added, “It’s part of the gig. You can’t win them all. It’s not like you to give up so quickly.”
“You don’t know me,” she said, taking a step closer, the muscles in her lean arms outlined, her jaw tight.
“You’ll
