Maggie decided to leave Nick a note, though she had no clue what to say.

“Dear Nick, went off to find the killer in a graveyard.” It sounded bizarre, but it would be more than what she had left before she ran off to find Albert Stucky. Except that night, she hadn’t intended to really find Stucky. She had simply been checking a lead. Had hoped to find his hiding place. That he would be waiting for her, setting a trap for her, had never occurred to her until it was too late. Could that be what this killer was doing? Setting a trap and waiting for her to walk right into it?

“I think Nick’s gone,” Lucy announced from down the hall, catching Maggie with her hand on the knob of his office door.

“I know, I’m just leaving him a note.”

Lucy didn’t look satisfied, her hands planted firmly on her hips as if expecting more of an explanation. When Maggie didn’t offer her one, she added, “There was a call for you earlier from the archdiocese’s office.”

“Any message?” Maggie had spoken to a Brother Jonathon, who assured her the church did not believe Father Francis’ death to be anything criminal nor anything more than an unfortunate accident.

“Hold on.” Lucy sighed and riffled through a stack of messages. “Here it is. Brother Jonathon said Father Francis has no living relatives. The church will be making all the burial arrangements.”

“No mention of allowing us an autopsy?”

Lucy looked up at her, surprised. Maggie no longer cared.

“I took the message myself,” Lucy said softly, now almost sympathetically, understanding what the need for an autopsy implied. “That’s all he said.”

“Okay, thanks.” Maggie grabbed the doorknob to Nick’s office again.

“I can take your message for Nick if you want.”

The sympathy was gone, quickly replaced by mere curiosity.

“Thanks, but I’ll just leave it on his desk.”

Maggie went in, but she left the lights off, using the glow from the streetlights below to guide her. She bumped her shin into a chair leg.

“Damn it,” she muttered, reaching down to catch the pain though it already shot up her thigh. While bent over and rubbing her leg, she noticed Nick sitting on the floor in the corner. In the dark, she saw him hugging his knees to his chest, staring out the window, apparently oblivious to her presence.

It would have been easy to pretend she hadn’t seen him. She could write the note and be on her way. Without a word, she walked over to him and quietly, slowly took a place beside him on the floor. She followed his gaze out the window. From this angle only the black sky filled the frame. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the cracked lip, bruised and swollen. Dried blood stained that perfectly chiseled jaw. He still didn’t move, still didn’t acknowledge her presence.

“You know, Morrelli, for an ex-football player you fight like a girl.”

She wanted to make him angry, to make him feel. She recognized that numbness, that emptiness, that could paralyze a person for a long, long time if not confronted. There was no response. She sat quietly by his side. Minutes passed. She should get up, leave. She couldn’t afford to share his pain. She couldn’t risk caring about him. Her own vulnerability was already a tremendous liability. She couldn’t take on his.

Just as she stretched her legs to get up, he said, “My dad was wrong to say what he did about you.”

She leaned back. “You mean I don’t have a cute little ass?”

Finally, she caught a hint of a smile.

“Okay, only half-wrong.”

“Don’t worry about it, Morrelli. I’ve heard worse.” Though the sting always surprised her.

“You know, when all this began, the only thing I cared about was how I’d look, whether people would think I was incompetent.”

He kept his gaze out the window to avoid looking at her. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark now, and she studied him. Despite the disheveled look, he was remarkably handsome with all the classic features—strong, square jaw, dark hair against tanned skin, sensuous lips, even his earlobes were perfectly sculpted. Yet, those physical characteristics that she initially found so attractive now seemed minor. It was his smooth, steady voice she looked forward to. It was his warm, sky-blue eyes that made her weak in the knees. The way they held her, as if she was the most important person in the world. The way they searched deep inside her, as if hoping for a glimpse of her soul. Those eyes made her feel naked and alive. Now that he kept them from her, she felt robbed, removed from the intimate bond that had begun forming between them. At the same time, she knew it wasn’t right to feel this close to a man she had met less than a week ago. She kept quiet and waited, half dreading that he would share some secret that would bring them even closer. At the same time, part of her hoped he would.

“I’m incompetent. I don’t know the first thing about heading a murder investigation. Maybe if I had admitted that in the beginning…maybe Timmy wouldn’t be missing.”

His confession surprised her. This wasn’t the same cocky, arrogant sheriff she had met several days ago. Yet, his admission wasn’t self-pity. It wasn’t even regret. Instead, Maggie sensed it was a relief for him to finally say it out loud.

“You’ve done everything possible, Nick. Believe me, if there was something I thought you should have done or should be doing differently, I certainly would have told you. If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not shy in that area.”

Another smile. He leaned back against the wall and released his knees from his chest. He stretched those long, lean legs out in front of him. For a minute she thought it was over.

“Maggie, I am so…I keep imagining finding him. I keep seeing him…lying in the grass, that same vacant stare. I’ve never felt so…” The strong, steady voice hitched, caught on a lump in his throat. “I feel so fucking helpless.” The knees came back to his chest, brushing his chin.

Her hand went up, then stopped in midair at the nape of his neck. She wanted to comfort him, caress him. She snapped back her hand, scooted farther away and leaned against the wall, trying to get comfortable, trying to dislodge the overpowering urge to touch him. Another glance. Moonlight crept into a corner of the window, framing his profile. What was it about Nick Morrelli that made her want to be whole again? That made her realize she wasn’t whole?

“You know all my life I’ve done everything my dad told me…suggested I do.” He kept his chin on his knees. “It wasn’t even so much that I wanted to please him. It was just easier. His expectations always seemed to be lower than my own. Being sheriff of Platte City was supposed to be writing tickets and rescuing lost dogs, and breaking up a few bar fights now and then. Maybe an occasional traffic accident. But not murder. I’m not prepared for murder.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything to prepare you for the murder of a child, no matter how many dead bodies you’ve seen.”

“Timmy can’t end up like Danny and Matthew. He can’t. And yet…there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” The catch in his voice was back. She glanced over at him, and he turned his face away. “There’s not a fucking thing I can do.”

She heard the tears in his voice, though he tried his best to disguise them with anger. She reached out again, hesitated again, her hand hovering. Finally, she touched his shoulder. She expected him to bolt. Instead, he sat quietly. She stroked his shoulder blades and ran her hand over his back. When the comfort started turning too intimate for her, she pulled her hand away, but he reached up and caught it, gently trapping it in his large hand. He looked up at her and brought the palm of her hand to his face, rubbing it against his swollen jaw.

“I’m glad you’re here.” His eyes held hers. “Maggie…I think I—”

She snatched her hand back, suddenly uncomfortable with his attempted revelation. He was beyond flirting. She could see him testing, struggling with feelings she didn’t want to know about.

“Whatever happens, it won’t be your fault, Nick.” She changed the subject while pretending to be on it. “You’re doing everything possible. At some point you have to let yourself off the hook.”

He looked at her with that deep gaze, the one that made her feel as if he was searching her soul. “Your nightmares,” he said quietly. “You haven’t let yourself off the hook for something. What is it, Maggie? Is it Stucky?”