Into the Light (The Light, #1)(81)

“Shhh.” He fanned my hair over the pillow and touched my lips. “I’ve said more than I should. Stop asking questions. I love your inquisitive nature, but it makes me nervous. Some people aren’t as forgiving.”

Though Dylan’s actions were monopolizing my thoughts, my gut told me that there was something more in Highland Heights. I wasn’t sure I could ever stop asking questions. And what people? Did Dylan know what was happening? And was that why he was trying to protect me?

It was then that I remembered Foster’s call. “Dylan?”

He laughed. “See, you can’t follow instructions worth shit.”

I shrugged. “Fine, I won’t ask you what I wanted to ask.” I kissed his cheek. “By the way, it had nothing to do with Highland Heights, Mindy, or bodies. It’s actually kind of funny, but never mind.”

“Oh, no, now I’m curious.”

I reached for the waistband of his shorts. Tugging at the elastic, with a grin I said, “I suppose it can wait.”

His chest inflated before he blew out a deep breath. “Yeah, I think something else just came up.”



Walking from Dylan’s bathroom, I made my way to his dresser and opened the top drawer. I couldn’t believe I’d caved and brought clothes over to his house. I hadn’t brought many, but even I admitted it was nice, better than showing up to work in the same clothes as the day before. Admittedly, with the food tablets, Fred was doing better on his own than he used to do. I’d put an old clock radio near his bowl, and twice a day, for two hours at a time, he had the pleasure of listening to music. I realized that a little music didn’t put me in the running for fish owner of the year, but the way I saw it, it was all about meeting his needs. He was a fish. He needed food and water, and a little interaction.

What was better than R&B?

Dressed for the day, I secured my hair in a low side braid that lay on my shoulder and made my way to the kitchen. Though I wanted to see the sexy guy with the jeans hanging low on his hips, it was the aroma of bacon that propelled me down the stairs.

Stopping in the doorway, I stared. Standing at the stove, still shirtless with his dark-blond hair all bedhead sexy, was Dylan. Not only was he handsomer than hell, he was making magic in a frying pan. Sneaking up behind him, I wrapped my arms around his waist, and whispered, “Aren’t you afraid of bacon grease?”

He planted a kiss on my lips. “Don’t you remember who you’re talking to? I’m not afraid of anything.”

I was about to remind him of his lecture regarding Highland Heights, when I was distracted by a row of bacon strips neatly arranged on a paper towel near the stove. I picked up a crispy piece, put it in my mouth, and bit off the end. Ambrosia exploded in my mouth. “How do you do that? When I fry bacon it’s either black and sets off the fire alarm or is limp and gross.”

Dylan’s eyes twinkled. “Yeah, no one likes limp.”

I slapped his shoulder. “Hey, have you seen my phone?”

“Yes, it’s plugged in over there. It’s been ready to self-destruct for the last hour. Why do you think I keep inviting you to my house? I’d rather avoid the fire alarm.” He shrugged. “Though, I admit, it was nice to meet your neighbors when the firemen evacuated your floor.”

I contemplated slapping him again, but opted for shaking my head as I turned in the direction he’d pointed. “It wasn’t that bad,” I contended. “If you would’ve opened the window like I said, we could’ve avoided the entire fireman thing.”

“Sorry, I was busy putting out the flames.”

There had not been flames! But instead of correcting him, I swiped the screen of my phone to three text messages.

The first one was from Bernard. It simply had my name with a question mark. The second was from Tracy.



Tracy Howell: CHARLOTTE, ARE YOU FREE? CAN YOU MEET ME FOR LUNCH? TEXT ME, AND WE’LL SET A TIME.



I’d wondered what had happened to her. The last time we met, she’d told me she might have a new angle and when she knew more, she’d let me know. All that she’d said was that it might shed some light on a recurring injury. I hadn’t heard from her since.

Sitting at Dylan’s breakfast bar, I remembered what I’d wanted to ask him the night before; however, instead of jumping into real estate that I knew he couldn’t afford, I asked, “Do you need any help?”

“No, we don’t have time for fires.”

“Very funny. Fine. Have I told you about my parents?”

“A little,” he said with his attention more on the food. “Do you want an egg?”

“Sure.” I looked down at the third message.



Dina Rosemont: STELLA, IT’S DINA. WE’VE BEEN GETTING A FEW CALLS FROM OUR FLYERS. I’VE CONTACTED DPD, BUT IF YOU HAVE A MINUTE, CAN YOU CALL ME? I’D LIKE TO DISCUSS YOUR THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS WOMAN WHO’S CALLED TWICE.



“Stella?”

I looked up. “I’m sorry. What?”

“How do you want it?”

I moved my head back and forth. “Want what?”

He inhaled and exhaled. “Sex. Do you want it on the table or the floor? Maybe the counter?” He held up the spatula. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night, and I’m ready if you want to break my rules.”