Page 43 of The Rut in the Road

I pushed back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. I really didn’t like the fact that he kept bring that up. “I am actually very aware of that fact,” I snapped back. “Since it happened tome. And since it happened tome, I feel like I should get to be the one who decides whether or not to walk home.”

Raj stared at me, his expression a little odd. As though surprise were warring with anger or some other unpleasant emotion. “I—” He cut off whatever he’d been about to say, then dropped his gaze to stare into his carbonara before letting out a long sigh. “I’m worried about you,” he said softly. “I worryforyou.” He looked up at me, his eyes searching mine for… something. “I don’t know what I’d do if—” He broke off.

I drew in a deep breath, unfolding my arms and picking up my fork again. I poked the tines through a piece of cavatappi much less aggressively this time. “You’d rescue me,” I replied. “Or you’d hunt down whoever killed me.” I put the pasta in my mouth.

“God, Rayn,” he hissed. “Don’t even say that.”

I looked at him, then felt a little guilty because he’d gone slightly greyish in tone. “I don’twanteither of those things to happen,” I said.

“Neither do I,” he replied, his voice almost pleading. “Which is why I don’t want you to walk. Not while these people are out there hunting down Nids.”

I huffed, loading my fork again more because it gave me something to focus on that wasn’t being irritated with Raj’s overprotectiveness. I knew it was because he cared, and I really liked the fact that he cared about me. “I don’t look like a Nid, though,” I reminded him again.

He sighed again.

I spoke before he could. “This is how I live my life,” I told him. “I’m not asking you not to go to work because you might be in danger,” I pointed out. “Because that’s your job and you chose it.”

He looked startled. “I’m an FBI agent,” he said.

“I know that,” I replied. “And that makes you a lot more likely to get shot than I am.”

“I’ve had training to avoid that,” he argued.

I nodded. “Yes,” I agreed. “You have. Because your job is at least ten times more dangerous than mine.” I met his worried golden-brown gaze. “And because I trust you to know what you’re doing.” I paused deliberately. “I’m asking you to do the same.”

He made a soft grumbling sound in the back of his throat, clearly unhappy with that. “You’re going to keep walking,” he said, and it was clear he didn’t like it.

“Yes, I am,” I replied firmly. “At least until there’s more reason for me not to.”

He sighed again. “Will you at least…” he trailed off, sticking his fork back into his pasta and starting to twirl it.

“What?” I asked, trying not to sound as exasperated as I felt.

“Check in with me?” he asked. “When you get home? Just so I know you’re okay.”

I almost pointed out that I texted or talked to him—or saw him—almost every night, anyway, but I didn’t want to argue with him. “Okay,” I agreed.

A smile flashed across his full lips. “Okay,” he repeated, then put one hand over mine—the one not holding my fork. “Thank you,” he said softly.

I still kind of wanted to be annoyed with him, but I felt myself relaxing, now focused more on the warmth of his hand than on my irritation at him. It was an odd set of emotions, and I wasn’t sure what to do with them. So I just nodded, poking at my pasta.

He squeezed my hand gently, then went back to his own dinner. “Drew is already researching this Church of Holy Judgment,” he said.

I nodded once.

He sighed, twirling more noodles. “The beginnings of cases are always hard,” he said, although I wasn’t sure if he was telling me or reminding himself of this fact.

“It’s not really the beginning,” I pointed out. “It’s pretty new to the FBI, but doesn’t the RPD have actual information on it?” The first hit-and-run had been months ago, back in March, and it was now—as of today—the first of October.

Raj grimaced. “Annoyingly, not much,” he replied, his tone grim. “And I really don’t like that it’s escalated this quickly.”

“Because this one happened so close to the last one?” I asked.

He nodded, chewing a mouthful of pasta. He swallowed. “It’s been less than two weeks, where there were—as you say—more than six months between the first and the second.”

“Unless there were others somewhere else that we missed,” I pointed out. “Or that failed to actually hit the target.”

He paused, fork full of pasta partway to his mouth. “Shit,” he said, then got up.