The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(31)

“Married, technically.”

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing really.”

“So it is strictly business?”

Tessa pulled a piece of cheese from the top and coiled it around her finger. “Basically.”

“Have you forgotten what it was like when you were married to him? I respect the hell out of the guy as a cop, but you weren’t happy with him.”

“You make him sound like a monster. He isn’t.”

“I didn’t say that. But he got so wrapped up in his work that he wouldn’t come home for days, and when he did, he would hardly speak.”

“There’s no way you can see what he sees on a day-to-day basis and not be affected.”

“I know Dakota is doing good work, but he’s not an easy man. God knows, I saw what his sister’s death did to the family. We were both at the funeral.”

Silent, Tessa swirled her soda. “I miss him.”

“Then sleep with him and get it out of your system. He’s not the kind of guy you want to spend your life with. Time is only going to make him worse.”

“Why do you say that?”

“As the years pass, he’ll see more death, and Kara’s murder will only continue to fester.”

“You don’t know that.” She rose to Dakota’s defense even though she doubted her own words.

“Look, Tessa, I’m not a fan of fixer-upper projects. I can say that because I’m a work in progress myself. Any man foolish enough to get close to me is asking for trouble.”

Tessa studied her cousin’s face. “Why do you say that?”

“Never mind. Just know some of us are just meant to be alone. I never liked Sharp because I see a lot of myself in him.”

Despite the wisdom, she still couldn’t accept it. But for her cousin’s sake, she said, “I’m not in the counseling business. I’m focused on my job now. I respect the people I work with, and I won’t screw it up over a man.”

“In all seriousness, do me a favor: fuck the guy, file divorce papers, and move on with your life.”




It was past 1:00 a.m. when Sharp pulled into his apartment complex. His hope was to catch a couple of hours’ sleep, shower, and be ready to roll in the morning when Dr. Kincaid did the autopsy on his Jane Doe. Right now he had little to go on. Uniforms had searched the area around the body but found no additional evidence. No ID on the victim.

He shoved his key in the lock and noticed the apartment felt off the instant he stepped inside. His hand went to his weapon before he remembered Jacob McLean was here.

“Don’t shoot me”—the deep voice sounded from the dark—“and I won’t shoot you.”

Sharp flipped on the lights and found McLean lying on the couch. One hand was flung over his eyes; the other lay on the grip of a Beretta lying on his chest.

Letting go of his weapon, Sharp shrugged off his coat. “You made it.”

“A few hours ago. Thanks for the shelter.”

“You still fixing up your mom’s place to sell?”

“That’s the plan.” McLean had hated living with his mother as a kid. She’d struggled with alcoholism for years until it killed her five years ago.

“I’d have welcomed you with a steak dinner, but I’ve been at a murder scene.”

McLean swung his long legs over the side of the couch and sat up. He ran his fingers through lengthy hair that brushed the tops of his shoulders. “Beer?”

“Love one.”

Sharp removed his shoulder holster and placed it on a rented dining room table, which like the rest of the furniture had been chosen in less than five minutes online.

McLean opened the fridge and grabbed a couple of longnecks as well as a few packages of freshly cut luncheon meat and bread. “You look like shit.”

Sharp accepted the beer, twisted off the top, and drank, savoring the cold liquid. “You didn’t come all this way to talk about my pretty face.”

“I wasn’t going to launch into a Q and A session on Shield Security right off the bat.”

He loosened his tie. “Catch me while you can. There’s no telling when I’ll get home again. What kind of job are you interviewing for?”

“Security. They’ve got contracts all around the world.” McLean absently tugged on the beer bottle’s label.

Sharp slapped cheese and roast beef on fresh bread. He was hungrier than he realized and quickly consumed it. “That will be a good fit for you. Means putting down roots.”

“Maybe it’s about time.” McLean tipped the neck of his beer toward the living room. “Speaking of roots, there’s no sign any woman has had any influence on the decorating,” he said. “Classic postmarriage pad.”

“Tessa and I are separated.” Sharp drained the last of his beer, unwilling to travel this stretch of memory lane.

McLean walked to the mantel and studied a picture featuring a group of ten marines dressed in full battle gear. He gaze shifted to the picture of Kara. “Sorry to hear it.”

“Thanks for the beer and sandwich. I’ve got to get some sleep. Keep me posted on the job?”

“Will do.”