Skin Deep (Station Seventeen #1)(97)
“But I didn’t,” she said, the words wobbling traitorously through the dark of Kellan’s room. “I told her to walk to our house instead so I could have extra time to get ready. I promised her it would be no big deal, that she’d be safe. I promised, and she believed me, and because of that, she died.”
“No.” Although the protest was little more than a whisper, it cracked through the room as if Kellan had shouted it.
A sob worked upward from Isabella’s chest, and God, she hated herself even more. “Yes. I—”
“No.” Grabbing her shoulders, he swung her to face him. “It’s not your fault. Just like you weren’t responsible for Angel’s death, you aren’t responsible for Marisol’s either.”
“But I promised.” Tears burned behind her eyelids, and she slammed her eyes shut to ward them off, to no avail. “She was my best friend, my closest friend. If only I’d gone to get her…I should have protected her.”
“Isabella, you didn’t know.” Kellan cupped her face. “You couldn’t have known. You were only seventeen. Marisol’s death is a terrible thing, a thing that shouldn’t happen to anyone. But you didn’t kill her, Isabella. This isn’t your fault.”
He thumbed away the tears spilling freely over her face now, and oh, she wanted to believe him so badly. “I miss her,” Isabella said. “I miss her so much.”
“Okay. It’s okay.” Kellan wrapped his arms around her, and just like that, she broke apart. Lying in the safety of his embrace, Isabella let out the guilt that had wracked her for so long. He never budged, just held her and took the brunt of her grief as it tumbled out of her in wave after wave. Finally, her bone-deep cries subsided into softness, and he pulled back to look at her with so much certainty, she ached.
“I’ve got you too, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
This time when he said it, Isabella believed him.
26
Kellan sat in the lobby of the Thirty-Third precinct, watching the controlled chaos around him with no small amount of awe. The place hummed with way more activity than a Wednesday afternoon should allow, from the steady stream of uniformed officers moving past the front doors to the near-constant ringing of the phone in the main office space to the desk sergeant barking orders at damn near everyone walking by. Kellan supposed the firehouse wasn’t too much different from a visitor’s perspective; in fact, Sinclair’s daughter, January, ran the office at Seventeen much like her father ran his intelligence unit—no bullshit, all the time. Still, the Thirty-Third was kind of a daunting place if you didn’t have backup.
“Hey!” came a familiar voice Kellan was growing all too accustomed to, and okay, maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all.
“Hey,” he said, standing to greet Isabella as she descended the last of the steps to the lobby. She looked just like she always did, a few wisps of hair defying her ponytail to frame her face, jeans hugging her curves, and her SIG and badge at her side. But damn, she was the most beautiful woman Kellan had ever clapped eyes on, and the pang in his gut grew twice as strong when she pressed to her toes to brush a kiss over his cheek.
He cleared his throat, although it probably didn’t do much to kill his idiot grin. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was at loose ends after catching up on my sleep from yesterday’s shift. Thought I’d bring you lunch.”
Isabella’s eyes brightened at the sight of the carry out bag from the Fork in the Road. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Club sandwich and fries, extra pickles. Oh, and a giant vat of tea.” He held up the oversized cardboard cup—the biggest one the guy at the diner could find, as a matter of fact—unable to cage his laughter as her expression went from happiness to full-on bliss.
“You’re a peach, you know that?” She took the bag and the cup, tilting her head toward the staircase leading up to the second floor. “Why don’t you come on up? We just got the reports back from CSU on my apartment. Hollister and I were about to dig in.”
Surprise made Kellan blink. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
Truth was, he’d been climbing the walls at his apartment. If he could help them get closer to nailing DuPree? Even better.
“Of course I’m sure,” Isabella said, matter-of-fact. With a flash of her badge and a quick jaunt through the metal detectors, they climbed the steps to the intelligence office. The place was mostly empty, with three of the five desks vacant. Kellan followed Isabella over to one covered with case files and photographs and abandoned tea cups, where her partner sat a few feet away in a similar pile of paperwork.
“Hey, Walker.” If Hollister was shocked to see him, the guy didn’t show it, although the guy probably wore a poker face as an occupational hazard.
“Hollister. Good to see you,” Kellan said, leaning in to shake the guy’s hand.
“Kellan’s not on-shift today, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt if he kept us company while we shuffled through these on our lunch break.” Isabella pointed to the file folders, and Hollister sent a frown in the same direction.
“Only if you want indigestion, my man. These are about as useless as a screen door on a submarine.”
Isabella’s brows shot up before sinking in disappointment. “They didn’t come up with anything?”