CALLEN (Second Chance Novels Book 3) (13 page)

QUINN

I wish I didn't know what I know. What began as a strong suspicion was confirmed the minute Callen Reed asked for my silence before the interviews started. I've never been so torn in my life. I manage to keep my knowledge to myself in the interview, as I don't have any specific details to share, but I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. I can't un-have this interview. I get one shot at the decision to help the investigation or help Callen escape prosecution.
 

John Bennett, clinically speaking, is a sociopath with megalomaniacal tendencies. Personally speaking, he's an evil son of a bitch who scares the hell out of me.
Scared
, actually. Past tense.
Scared
the hell out of me. Seeing him removed from the planet doesn't bother me at all. Knowing Callen killed him, however, doesn't sit well…especially when Callen is someone I've been slowly falling for every time I talk with him.

I feel like a school girl with a crush on the class hunk. Any attention he pays me makes me flutter. I've invented far too many needs for conversation and freed my schedule far too often on the days he's at the prison. I never take lunch anywhere other than my desk when he's not here. No one in the office seems to notice the change in my behavior, because everyone is mired in their own jobs. Each one of us is over-worked and can pay little attention beyond our tasks, with the exception of me chasing around after Callen.
 

I'd consider myself pathetic if not for the man he is. The reason for my smitten behavior lies far beyond physical attraction, though I willingly admit to finding him absolutely, masculinely beautiful. My gravitation to him pulls from his mind. The intelligence behind his warm smile stuns me. He's insightful, sharp, and has a piercing understanding of people. He's aware to the point of being unintentionally manipulative.

However, that may not be true. After Bennett's death, each subtle manipulation rests under an entirely new spotlight. I now see his presence here as singular in purpose, having nothing to do with improving the prison. The inmates and staff will benefit from his work, obviously. His experience and analytical skills will make certain of that. His
purpose
however...

His
off
behavior is perfectly explained today.
 

My thoughts are interrupted by the chief CO announcing our ability to return home. They decide once I hand them my files on Bennett that I'm 'non-essential' for this particular lock down, but I'm to keep my phone close. When an inmate is killed, the potential for rioting increases exponentially. Nearly all office staffers will remain away until the situation settles.

I'm relieved to have the time to think, and also to hear whatever Callen wants to tell me. I have plenty to share with him too, including the fact that I've been looking far enough into his life to know more about him than would make him comfortable. As of today, however, I know more than I want to. His expression and his words cemented his guilt.
 

Much of me dreads our conversation, but most of me is thrilled to have a direct line into his mind. Every part of him fascinates me, as does the complexity of his past which hovers over his present. His story, from what I've gathered, is both beautiful and tragic, strong yet dependent. So many contradictions hide behind his public face, and I want to pick through each one of them.
 

The psychologist in me however, rides second chair to my feminine side I work so carefully to downplay at the prison. I shake my head and clear my fantasies as I gather my purse and shut down my computer. We're not allowed to take our laptops home during a lock down, so I have little opportunity to stall. Callen is speaking pleasant goodbyes with the other staffers happy to leave, causing my nerves to fray. Listening to him talk so casually after an up-close murder scares the hell out of me, but also makes him that much more fascinating. Only moments later, I hear his voice at my door, equally mild.

"Dinner?" he smiles. I keep my reaction under control. Letting on about my stress doesn't benefit anyone.

"Sure," I smile back and walk toward him. When I'm within inches, I glare quickly. "My place."

"Perfect," he says appreciatively. Then pointedly, he glares, too. "I'll drive."

"Perfect," I repeat, forcing a smile so the people milling past us won't notice the tension. Callen walks me out and to the car. As we're driving through the exit gates, the security officer leans down to speak to me.
 

"Leaving your car here? Today?" he asks in mild surprise.
 

"It was making a funny noise," I explain easily. "I'd rather deal with it when all this isn't going on."

The guard nods with understanding. "Have a good night."

"You, too."

Callen looks over at me, and I swear he's impressed with my lie. He smirks and returns his attention to the road. I'm either furious with him, or I'm blushing at his unspoken compliment. When did I return to high school? I take a deep breath and allow him to drive me to my house.

He walks me to the door with his hand at my lower back, and again I wonder about his motivation for doing so. His touch could be warm and familiar, or simply a message as to his control in the pending conversation. Sometimes I wish I didn't analyze people so much. I think my world would be less complicated. Had I simply met Callen and enjoyed his company, I would be blissfully ignorant of the darker side of his life. I would simply be with him this evening in my jeans and boots, with a clingy sweater and scarf.
 

We walk silently to my living room where he gestures me to sit. I don't bother with a power struggle over the seating arrangements, so I sit and look straight into him. He takes the chair across from me and sits at the edge to rest his elbows on his knees. He stares at me for a moment before he speaks quietly.
 

"How did you know," he utters in a low, deliberate voice.
 

"Complicated answer."

His head drops and he takes another deep breath before looking at me again. "We have time."

"Can we at least be civil?" I ask with an attitude proving I won't roll over at his every command. He looks at me, gaging me. I don't cower under his scrutiny, but rather speak to him plainly. "I'd like fresh clothes, and I'd like to offer you something to drink. There's no need for this to be an interrogation...for
either
of us."

I see from his subtle reaction he understands my point. He's not the only one who will be asking questions tonight. He resigns himself to my suggestion of how to handle the evening and nods gravely.
 

"Good," I say. "Kitchen is straight through there. Help yourself to anything. I'm going to change."

His jaw tics and I look at him in annoyance. He feels the need to ask anyway. "Are you a flight-risk?"

"Are you?" I ask in return.
 

"Fine. Civil it is. Can I get you anything?"

"Red wine," I answer. "Glasses are to the left of the sink."

By the time I'm in jeans and a sweater, without the boots and scarf, I return to the first floor and take a deep breath. I have no idea how tonight will go. He hands me a glass of wine and clinks it with his own. "To justice," he says.

"To truth," I respond.
 

Our eyes meet for an extended moment as we drink to our virtues. Claiming our respective seats again, he begins what will likely be a very long conversation.
 

"Your complicated answer, please," he starts.
 

With a deep breath, I admit to my looking into his past and knowing more details about his military career than I should. I know about his abusive father and the mother who coped by staying drunk nearly all the time. I know the rapid rise of his career and the father figure he played to more than one soldier under his command, his business partner included. I confess, too, what I've learned about him since he moved here.

"Halden Fells," I finally say quietly. "That's you, isn't it."

His eyes meet mine again gravely as he processes my knowledge about him. "Yes," he replies. I'm glad we won't have secrets between us in this conversation.

"Which means you were the man with Evelyn Bennett at the police station when she gave her statement."

"Yes."

"She's the one you spoke of. The one you panicked over that night when were supposed to have dinner."

"Yes," he says with a sad sigh.
 

"So today was vengeance."

He looks me directly in the eye, with both truth and his sense of justice in his gaze. "Yes."

"Are you satisfied?"

He looks into me for a very long time. I see pain and confusion in his eyes, and I wait.

"Complicated answer," he says.

"We have time."

We sip our wine in silence while we take in the new reality between us. He's guilty. I know it. We both wonder what I'm going to do with my new knowledge.
 

"Quinn," he finally says, sounding more human than he has yet. "You understand where I came from, my training…but I'm not sure if you understand what today was about. It wasn't just vengeance."

"Am I allowed to guess?" I ask, ready to prove I do understand him. He surprises me, though, when he walks over and opens his wallet and hands me a five dollar bill. I take the money and look up in confusion.

"I've just hired you as my therapist. How far does confidentiality go?"

"I'm only required to share anything which indicates you are a danger to others."

"And am I?"

I look at him carefully. "No."

He nods and I tuck the bill into my pocket. "Now am I allowed to guess?"

"I suppose."

"This is about Evelyn, but more of what she represented. She was a door you'd never opened before. She was a future which made you believe in the possibility of love. She was your redemption."

"
Evvie
. And she wasn't a door, she was a woman," he says almost angrily. "She was beautiful and sweet, and she saw me as a man, not a soldier, even after I confessed who I am."

"And she was stolen, brutally, which shut that door again."

He glares at my use of the word
door,
but I ignore his expression and continue.
 

"John Bennett is an obvious representation of your past and all the evil you fought throughout your career. Their place in your life is the perfect metaphor for your internal struggle. You spent two years wandering, and as lost as you were, Mason brought you back. John and Evelyn Bennet became the perfect storm in your subconscious."

He nearly leaps to his feet in rage and shouts at me in total anger. "She was not a goddamn metaphor!"

Callen's entire body is shaking at this point, but I don't fear him. I want to comfort him. I want him to understand his primitive need for justice, and also why he's unsatisfied with its completion.
 

"I love her, Quinn. I'll love her to my dying day! I miss her every single minute. Her husband deserved to die, and my hands took his life! What about that do you not understand? That's justice!"

"But not truth," I say quietly.
 

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and shakes his head in frustration. "And what the hell do you know about my truth."

"I know that you imagined life would make more sense after you killed John," I say with soft sympathy. "I also know in my gut that the moment you killed him, you already knew what a failure your line of thinking had been. If I had to guess, you stood over him in a state of frustration and confusion. Am I wrong?"

His silence spoke his affirmation of my theory. I stand and dare walk to him as he stands in the picture of pure masculinity and brokenness. Every side of me aches to heal him in any way I can. I'm not disgusted by his actions, not when I understand his world of nonstop violence from the time he was a child. He was forged in darkness and sharpened in war, and has managed to become a good man in spite of the evil around him. A justified killing is simply standard in his world. I admire his conviction, though I disagree with his action.

"Callen," I whisper, walking toward him carefully. His eyes flick to meet mine and demonstrate how lost he is.