Strength Under Fire. Dana Nussio

“That’s good because I wasn’t offering any.”

      But Ben kept shaking his head. It was probably emasculating enough for him to accept help from her, but pity? That had to be like ripping his Man Card to shreds.

      “What I am offering is the chance to have someone working with you, but on the inside.”

      “I can get answers,” he insisted. “I’ll just have to be more...creative.”

      “Creative? You’re going to have to be a freaking magician to do this on your own. A crime has been committed here whether you’re willing to admit it or not. Someone is guilty. If you claim it isn’t you, then who is it?”

      He opened his mouth to argue, but she was on a roll. She couldn’t stop now, not when she hadn’t yet convinced him to let her help. She couldn’t slow down long enough to ask why it was so important to her, either. What would she say? That it was the right thing to do? That he’d tried to help her, too? That he seemed to be a good man? It was more than any of those things alone, but she couldn’t tell him that.

      “Stuck at home, you won’t have access to the databases to help you clear your name. Technically you shouldn’t be accessing LEIN for personal use, anyway, but—”

      “No, but—”

      “And how will you observe the other officers while at home in your bunny slippers?”

      “I’m not.”

      “Wearing bunny slippers?”

      She glanced down and was surprised to find that he was no longer barefoot. At some point, probably while he was in the kitchen, he’d put on old hiking boots, their well-worn leather etched with the hard work of their rugged, capable owner.

      The jolt that shot through her system was so sudden, so unexpected, that she was surprised she didn’t land on the floor. Forget the heat in her face earlier—she was warm all over now. Even in places where heat wasn’t allowed, she simmered like a teakettle just getting started.

      “What?” He stared down at his boots. “The floor’s cold.”

      She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Had it been anyone else reacting this way, she would have called it lust, but that wasn’t a word she’d ever applied to herself. And over a pair of work boots? Or did it have more to do with the man wearing them? Either way, it needed to stop. She didn’t have feelings like that. Not for anyone, but especially not for a coworker.

      When she looked up again, Ben was shaking his head.

      “Listen, Polaski told me to stay out of it and let the state investigators do their job. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

      Any remnants of her unacceptable thoughts evaporated with that comment.

      “Pfft!” When he lifted his chin, she continued, “Sorry, but are you planning to wait until the cell door locks with you on the inside before you advocate for yourself?”

      “Well...”

      “Then do you believe that justice always prevails? Well, it doesn’t.” She shook her head harder than was necessary, but then not everyone knew how malleable justice was when tapped with the tools of money and power. “Just tell that to those who’ve been wrongly found guilty and sentenced to Death Row. To the one hundred and fifty of them who’ve been exonerated and released since 1973.”

      “I never said I wouldn’t check out a few things.”

      “So at least now I know you were lying to me before?”

      Ben opened his mouth and then shut it again. Had he forgotten that it was part of their job to separate the truth from the bull?

      “Either you’re too proud—and dumb—to accept help or you just don’t want it from me.” She held up her hand to stop him when he tried to argue. “But the way I see it, you don’t have many options. I didn’t notice your other friends lined up out there offering to help you.”

      She indicated the front porch, refusing to wonder whether he’d thought of her as a friend instead of only the subject of his teamwork experiment.

      “How do you know some haven’t already called?”

      “Have they?”

      “Scott did. I told him to stay out of it.” He shrugged. “He has a wife and five kids.”

      “And the others?”

      He lifted his chin and pinned her with his gaze. “Maybe they’re not used to disobeying direct orders from a superior. Maybe they’re not in the habit of acting alone.”

      “Are you saying that I am?”

      Instead of answering, he waved around her to indicate her presence in his house.

      “You might have a point.”

      Ben took a deep breath, puffing up his cheeks and then releasing it slowly. “Okay, I admit I’m at a disadvantage to find the information I need. But I can’t ask you to risk your career to help me.”

      “You didn’t ask. I offered.”

      “That’s what I don’t understand. Why did you?” But then he didn’t give her time to answer. “How do you know I’m not guilty?”

      That was definitely the question of the day. He looked away from her as if it didn’t matter to him how she answered. Oh, it mattered, all right. She hated that she couldn’t tell him what he needed to hear: that she believed he was innocent. But she couldn’t do that. Not when she didn’t know for sure yet that he was.

      If only she could announce her fervent support for him the way the other troopers had right after the news segment. But she wasn’t built that way. She needed proof. Police reports and lab evidence reports were like the building blocks of her constitution, and proof was the glue bonding them together. Indisputable proof. She had to have it.

      That Ben Peterson even tempted her to step away from what she knew and trusted scared her more than any domestic or shots-fired call ever could. At least with them she had guidelines to follow.

      “I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “Are you guilty?”

      Something raw flashed in his eyes. Then it was gone. But the mask of nonchalance he used to replace it was something she understood.

      “No, I’m not guilty.”

      “Neither are most of the suspects I’ve arrested. At least the way they tell it.” It was supposed to make him laugh, but he only pressed his lips into a grim line. “Anyway, you don’t know if I’m the one who set you up, either.”

      He studied her for several seconds. “I guess I don’t.”

      “Then we’re even.”

      Where her previous attempt at humor fell flat, this one must have rubbed his funny bone because he grinned for the first time since she’d arrived.

      “Not exactly,” he said. “Only one of us is on a paid holiday of sorts and has been banned from the place he’s been working for ten years.”

      “More time to watch cooking shows.”

      “Why cooking shows?”

      “Well, that’s what I’d do. I like to cook,” she said with a shrug. “I record the shows and watch them after work. They’re my secret addiction.”

      He smiled again. “I guess everyone has a few secrets.”

      Delia only nodded. He was probably just talking about the shows and about her being a rule breaker, but his comment unsettled her just the same. She knew his secret about his family now. But he didn’t know her secrets, the ones she’d kept so carefully walled off that they seemed like someone else’s life.

      She’d never told anyone. She’d never even been tempted to. And yet this reluctant hero, who just