Page 10 of Carter

He’s exactly as I remember. Tall. Broad. Dark hair with just enough wave that it looks naturally messy, neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that somehow look serious and kind at the same time.

And judging by the look on his face…

Something’s wrong.

Chapter five

Nash

“You.”

It sounds like an accusation but I can’t figure out why. I haven’t done anything to him. I was friendly enough. Conversed a bit. Didn’t let him spiral too much. Didn’t take advantage of the fact he was drunk and talking to me about fucking.

At least, I hope that’s what I did. I could’ve made it worse without realizing.

“Hi,” I say. “Detective Nash Bennett. Can I come in?”

“That depends,” he says, eyes slightly narrowed.

He’s suspicious.

Why? Of what? What did he do?

“On what?” I ask.

“Why you’re here,” he says carefully.

Over the years, I’ve become good at keeping my expression neutral. The only time I let myself go is around my brother because I need to be different for him. I need to be the light to his darkness, but that’s not who I really am. It’s just who I am when I’m being a brother.

As a detective, I have to be unreadable. Stern. I can’t be soft, weak, and let people get one over on me. Unless it’s for a reason, of course. But I’m always the one in control.

This feels different. Carter feels like a scared mouse trapped in a corner, afraid to escape because he doesn’t know where the hungry cat is hiding. I need to convince him I’m not the hungry cat. Because I’m not. I’m not out to get him.

“I’m here to help.”

“Help what? I told you I’m not suicidal, and I don’t have a drinking problem. I just—”

“It’s not about that,” I say with a shake of my head. “I’m here about Ryan Kinsley.”

The blood drains from his face, and he reaches out to steady himself on the doorframe. I flinch forward, ready to grab him in case he faints.

I’ve seen this before. Plenty of times, when I’ve had to tell people their loved ones have died.

You’d think I said that all over again with the way he just reacted. But sometimes even the memory can hurt as much as the initial news.

“Is there a break in the case?” he asks, his eyes hopeful.

He puts his weight on his feet again, standing straighter.

“Not exactly, but I am planning to re-open his case.”

Pain crosses his face, his eyes watering. His cheeks start to pinken up a little. I’m no longer worried about him passing out. Now I’m worried about the anger.

That doesn’t come though. He’s just kind of… there.

“Can I come in?” I repeat.

He sighs, then moves aside.