Tara sat on the edge of the other bed and ran a hand through her hair. “What next?” she asked wearily, feeling as if they’d been on the run for days.
Knees touching hers, Blake leaned forward and took her hands—a habit of his that she was beginning to like a little too much. “You holding up okay?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him without quite meeting his eyes. “I just hope you know what you’re doing by not going to the police.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not sure I know what I’m doing at all,” he answered wryly.
“What’s the worst that could happen if we go to the police?”
“We could be jailed for theft—if not murder.”
“They have no evidence.”
His eyebrow rose. “They have witnesses who saw us at the gallery, talking to the man who was murdered minutes later. Who knows what other evidence has been planted against us?”
“And if we don’t go to the police?”
“Then we try to find out what’s going on without letting the killer find us first.”
Tara supposed she should appreciate Blake’s honesty. He certainly wasn’t sugarcoating anything. But maybe just a little sugarcoating wouldn’t hurt?
No. She wanted the truth, she decided. She was no meek victim, needing to be protected from the facts. Though neither of them had intended it to happen, she had become a partner in this investigation—and she expected to be treated like one.
“What are we going to do now?” she asked again.
A loud clap of thunder prevented him from answering immediately. The lights in the room dimmed for an instant, making Tara hope fervently that there wouldn’t be a power outage.
“Maybe we should just wait out the storm for a while,” Blake suggested. “I’ll try at regular intervals to reach Bill—the guy from the insurance company. After that...we’ll play it by ear.”
They’d been doing that all along, as far as Tara could tell.
ANOTHER QUIET MOTEL room, the only sound the steady pounding of rain against the window. Another cozy area, where two beds filled up most of the space. Another stretch of time with nothing for Blake to do except watch Tara and secretly wonder what it would be like if they were to spend that time making good use of one of those beds.
Needing to burn his restless energy, he began to pace, his hands in his pockets. He wished idly that he had something to juggle.
Tara sat cross-legged on one of the beds, watching him. He could almost feel her gaze following him around the room, which seemed to get smaller each time he crossed it.
“Feeling a little claustrophobic?” she asked finally.
He stopped pacing and lifted one shoulder. “Maybe a little.”
“I’d have thought a P.L would be used to this sort of thing. Don’t most stakeouts consist of long hours of boredom and inactivity?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But at least I feel like I’m in charge when I’m on a stakeout. I know what’s going on.”
“How long have you been a private investigator?”
“Close to ten years now, I guess.”
Tara’s eyebrows lifted, as though his answer had surprised her. “How old are you?”.
He didn’t mind the personal question. “Thirtyfour.”
“Oh. I thought you were younger.”
Leaning back against the dresser, with his legs crossed in front of him, Blake chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Still, you were very young when you got started. Was your father an investigator? A police officer, perhasps?”