Abandon - Carla Neggers [47]
“Beware of speculating,” she finished for him.
“Stick to the facts. How’s Gus? I’ve talked to him, but it’s hard to gauge his state of mind. He wasn’t happy about seeing you bloodied—he made that clear.”
Mackenzie leaned back in her chair, comfortable with Nate Winter despite his senior status, his seriousness, his notorious impatience. With the attack in Cold Ridge, more people would become aware of her connection to him, and their mutual connection to Bernadette Peacham. Mackenzie didn’t know how Nate would react. Find a way to send her to Alaska, maybe?
“Gus is Gus,” she said. “He tried out a new recipe on me while I was up there. Some kind of marinated, grilled fruit over couscous. He says it’s Beanie’s influence. She was at the lake earlier in the summer and had him and Carine and little Harry over for dinner, said she’d been taking cooking classes here in Washington.”
“Beanie Peacham’s taking cooking classes?”
“I know. Worrisome.” But Mackenzie couldn’t maintain her humor, and seeing Nate brought the reality of what had happened on Friday—what could have happened—to the surface. “Nate, if anything had happened to Carine or Harry because of me…”
“It wouldn’t have been because of you. The worst thing you can do right now is let your mind spin around what might have been. What happened is bad enough in its own right.” His gaze rested on her, critical, appraising. “Are you sure you should be back here?”
“The doctor said it’d be fine. I just have to avoid heavy lifting for a bit.” She paused to give Nate a chance to reassure her that she was absolutely right, she’d be up for fieldwork in no time, but he didn’t. She got up, relieved there was no tug of pain to cause her to wince in front of him. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
She frowned at him. “Nate, what’s up? You didn’t come here to check on my stitches, and you’re not the one who snuck in this pink swimsuit.”
He looked uncomfortable, a rarity for him, and finally sighed. “Do you still believe the man who attacked you looked familiar?”
“Yes.” It didn’t surprise her that Nate knew. He could have found out from Gus or Carine, never mind law enforcement. “I keep trying to remember where I’ve seen him. I’ve checked my student records, fugitive cases I’ve worked on, everything I can think of. So far, no connections.”
“It’s not your job to find this guy. If the investigators in New Hampshire want your help, they’ll ask.” Nate regarded her more with the authority his job afforded him than with brotherly affection. “You understand that, right?”
“Did someone complain about me?”
“No one’s complained. I just know you, Mackenzie. You need to be smart,” he said bluntly. “Be patient.”
Mackenzie grabbed her coffee, trying to resist a surge of defiance. But she knew she wouldn’t. She gave Nate a cool look. “How smart and patient were you after you were shot?”
Almost a year and a half ago, he and a fellow deputy—his wife’s twin brother—were shot sniper style in New York’s Central Park. Nate’s bullet wound, a graze to the shoulder, was relatively minor, but he hadn’t left the investigation to the FBI and his colleagues in the Marshals Service. He’d bulldozed his way into the middle of it. He’d met Sarah Dunnemore as a result and given up his solitary life, opened himself up to having a family of his own and all the risks that came with it, as he, orphaned at seven, understood more than most. But as far as Mackenzie could see, he had no regrets.
He said stiffly, “We’re not talking about me.”
“That’s for damn sure.” Mackenzie’s urge to stand up to him dissipated, and she grinned. “You weren’t wearing a pink swimsuit when you were shot.”
She thought she detected a spark of amusement in his eyes. “I remember that suit. It’s one bright shade of pink. Tough to miss you in the water.”
“I don’t think our knife-wielding fugitive ever saw me in the water. The shed door was open. I suspect he was on his way out or on his way in while I was underwater or something—I didn’t see him, anyway—and I surprised him. He tried to hide,