Same Place, Same Time. C.J. Carmichael

on the file, then it’s much too important to leave lying around.”

      Trista shook her head in a slow, exaggerated motion. “Definitely not.”

      He leaned against the wooden door frame. “Why? Don’t you trust me? Afraid I’ll read the file when you’re not looking?”

      “I just don’t think a safe is necessary.”

      “Since when did you become the expert on crime?”

      Okay, he had a point. Trista opened her briefcase and took out everything but the Walker file. Closing the metal clasp, she spun the combination wheel, knowing the small lock would hardly keep Morgan out if he decided he wanted in. But he wouldn’t do that. At least, the man she remembered wouldn’t. She was beginning to realize there was a big difference between the two. The knowledge that part of that was her fault flooded her with guilt.

      “Take it,” she said, suddenly not caring if he did decide to break in. What were professional ethics compared to what she owed this man?

      He eased the handle out of her hands, gently. “I won’t open it, Trista.” His voice was suddenly, heartbreakingly, soft. “You can trust me.”

      Reaching her other hand to an itch on her cheek, Trista felt the dampness of a tear. Ashamed, embarrassed of her own weakness, she closed the door between them without another word. After turning the dead bolt firmly into place, she leaned against the cold steel of the door and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading as he walked down the hall. She could feel her throat tighten and she swallowed hard, willing the tears to stop before they had a chance to get out of control.

      She needed something to calm her down. She went to the kitchen and picked up the kettle. Hand shaking, she tried to hold it steady under the stream of water from the faucet. Water sprayed over the stainless-steel sides, spotting the sink and surrounding counter area. The cold metal hissed when she placed it on the burner.

      Why did this have to happen? Why? Why? The quiet refrain pounded in her head as she waited for the water to boil. Why would someone murder Jerry Walker? Could it have been the woman he was having an affair with? Had Nan known he was having an affair? She must have suspected, yet neither one of them had mentioned anything in their sessions. Was it possible Morgan was right and there was a connection between the murder and what had happened in her office tonight? If so, what was it?

      Trista frowned, thinking of the professional dilemma she was facing. As the Walkers’ counselor, she was bound to keep her clients’ information confidential. If there truly was information in her files that could help bring Walker’s murderer to justice, however, morally she would feel bound to reveal it.

      Trista thought back over the past sessions she’d held with the Walkers. She couldn’t think of a single fact that might help Morgan in his investigation. Of course, she’d have to review her notes to make certain. With any luck she’d find nothing and then she wouldn’t have to worry about the issue of confidentiality. Assuming Morgan believed her, that was.

      Morgan. Trust him to insist on keeping the file at his place. Always playing the role of the protector. She felt her stomach twist into knots at the thought. Not that she didn’t trust him with the file, because she did. It was knowing that she would be talking to him and seeing him again that made her so anxious. He’d been right in what he’d said to her tonight. She would almost prefer taking her chances with the murderer to facing Morgan again.

      As the kettle began to whistle, claiming her attention, she found that same refrain repeating itself in her head. Why? Why? Only this time she pondered not Walker’s death, but the great misfortune that, of all the detectives in the Toronto police force, Morgan Forester had been the one assigned to this case.

      MORGAN LAY NAKED between his cool, white cotton sheets, unable to sleep despite his state of near exhaustion. God, how he hated her! And he hadn’t even realized it until he’d seen her standing there at her office door, still so beautiful, elegant and slim, with fiery hair that contradicted her frosty demeanor. Her ivory skin had whitened at the sight of him, her eyes had looked more green than brown as she stared at him in shocked dismay. Not that he’d expected her to welcome him…but did she have to look at him as if he was a serial killer or something? Talk about adding insult to injury. It had taken all of his self-control to mask his fury, to resist the urge to grab her by those frail shoulders and shake some sense into her.

      As for her, she was obviously far from pleased at having him suddenly drop back into her life, but that was her problem. How did she think he felt about it? Did she imagine he wanted to have to work with her? Anger rose like bile in his throat, and he clenched his fists beneath the light covers. There was nothing to be gained by letting the situation get to him. It wasn’t her fault her client had been murdered, any more than it was his fault he’d been assigned to the case. There was nothing either one of them could do about the circumstances, so they’d just have to make the best of it.

      He thought about the break-in at her office and wondered if the Walker file had been the motive behind it. Trista didn’t want to think so, but he was convinced there was a connection. And since the intruder hadn’t managed to find the file, it was certainly possible he might try Trista’s home next. He felt his gut twist at the thought. Ironic that as much as he hated her, he still felt this need to protect her.

      Protect her. What a laugh. He’d noticed that she hadn’t liked that he knew things about her. Like her phone number and address, where she worked, the hours she kept. She probably thought he’d found all that out tonight, when he’d learned of her involvement in the case.

      But he’d always known. Whether she liked it or not, he had kept tabs on her, and would continue to do so. Despite everything else, he still felt it was his duty.

      The file, locked in his safe, called to him. He longed to read it. Not only to check whether there was any information pertinent to the case, but because of its link to Trista. He found himself hungry for the sight of her strong, slanted script. For comments and thoughts she might have written that could shed some light on her own thoughts and opinions. Was she happy? Did she ever think of him? Were there regrets…?

      Morgan turned, pulling the top sheet with him over to the other side of the bed. He wouldn’t look at the file—and it wasn’t the locked briefcase that was stopping him—so why was he torturing himself thinking about it? And more important, why was it that after three years, just the sight of her had his emotions tied up in knots?

      This was a case like any other. And she was just another witness. As long as he remembered to keep things in their proper perspective, he’d be okay. He had to believe that, or he’d go crazy.

      “I SUPPOSE WE WERE as happy as the average couple.” Nan Walker crossed and then uncrossed her legs, obviously uncomfortable with Morgan’s questions about her marriage.

      They were sitting in her living room, she in a tall wingback chair, Morgan across from her on an overstuffed love seat. In her early forties, Nan looked the part of a mourning widow in a black wool dress, dark stockings and black high-heeled shoes.

      Nan Walker was attractive, with even features, and expensively styled hair. But all that black made her look washed-out and dull—an impression furthered by her body language and voice. An aura of uncertainty and self-consciousness surrounded the woman. As she spoke she wrung her hands, and Morgan noted her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

      She must have noticed him looking. She said quickly, as if ashamed, “It’s a bad habit I’ve had since I was a girl.”

      Bit of a mouse. Morgan jotted his notes in the steno pad he usually carried in his breast pocket. He’d begun a new page, starting up after the notes he’d written at Trista’s office last night. Trista. Now he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering his sleepless night and the look of her dark, empty windows when he’d driven past her apartment that morning on his way to work.

      He’d been going to offer her a ride to her office, but she’d already left. He guessed she took the subway to Spadina, then caught the streetcar to King. With the hours she kept, he wondered why she bothered with