Page 48 of Punishing Penelope
I don’t need to ask. “Stay!” I point at the chair where she’s still sitting, then march down the corridor into Fraser’s room and pull open the metal cabinet. Everything is silent, but the smell of his cologne lingers.
The folder I snatched out of Pen’s hands sits a little askew, and as I suspected, he never looked or thought to lock it again. Tucking it inside my jacket, I push the drawer closed and march back out. Grabbing Penelope by the arm, I drag her back to my car.
The corner of her mouth twitches when she looks down at the little piece of the folder that shows in the sliver of an opening where my jacket isn’t properly closed, then she meets my gaze, and her eyes are light, filled with hope, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted to see again since that night we lost Savannah Wilder.
“Take me home,” she says. “Let me show you what I do.”
Penelope
Dawn is breaking when we pull into a parking space around the block from my house. He hadn’t needed to ask for my address—the sneaky cop. I like that he’s kept an eye on me all this time way too much.
“You’re so fucked up,” I say as we walk together to my front door.
He glances at his wristwatch. “I gotta be back at work in one hour.”
“I can work with that.” Then it strikes me. “You haven’t slept all night!”
“Not true. I napped a little while you were out of it.”
“That’s not enough. What if you get called out again on something like that thing yesterday? What if you’re not focused because you’re tired?”
“Aww, you care.”
“No.” I tackle him lightly, shoulder to shoulder. ““No. Shut up.”
He laughs.
He doesn't give me the manila folder I crave so badly until I’ve shut the door to my apartment behind us. I clutch it as if it’ll save my life. It might make someone else’s life a whole lot better, so I’m not that far off.
While I start my computer to pull up the pictures Mike took the day before yesterday—a day that already feels like another life—and the scribbles I’ve transformed into a text, Peter does a lap through my little two-room apartment.
He studies the bookshelf—fact books on criminology, profiling, the science behind crime scene investigations, and on and on. Then he picks through the piles of courtroom transcripts, investigations, years worth of both good and bad police work, and what follows. Innocent people who have gone to prison, guilty people who have gone free, and admittedly, all the times they got it right, and justice was duly served.
Maybe I do make broad swipes like he said? Maybe I should listen more before I speak? Prepare better before I accuse?
“Peter, I want you to meet little Giordanna Miller.”
He grabs a chair and pulls it with him, sits next to me, then I explain my side of things.
He’s about to leave, and his face is so serious, it scares me. I don’t know what’s going on behind that frown. I’m usually good at reading people, but this morning, Peter Hale is a mystery I can’t crack.
There’s so much at stake.
What is this thing between us? Is it a thing or just this one crazy time?
I want more. I want his arms around me, but I can’t ask, and he doesn't give me anything.
There is tension, though, insurmountable, palpable tension, crackling between us.
“I’ll look into some things,” he finally says, his voice dark, his jaw tight. “I’ll do this my way, and it might take a while, but it’ll be done the proper way. I’ll have that case reopened. Just sit tight.”
Exhaling with relief, I take a step closer. I want a touch. What if this is the last time I see him? The footage he showed me plays on repeat, and it racks my nerves. I don’t want him out there. He really is serving and protecting the public, as he swore he would. He’s wanted this since Savannah.
We took different paths for the same reason, ended up on opposing sides, and now it’s as if our roads converge. For Savannah. For Giordanna.
Peter meets me halfway, grabs my nape, and pulls me to him. His lips are hard and demanding on mine, pulling at my every sense, then he softens his assault. It’s divine, everything I’ve dreamed of and needed.
We’re always going to meet in our own no man’s land, I think. We’ll always have different mindsets. He wants me to bend. I’ll never give up my free will.