Page 84 of Three Steps Behind

“You know everything about me. I want to know about you. My life is in your hands, after all.” And, for some strange reason, she was curious about the man—beyond the job. She was, in a word, intrigued by the man, but she couldn’t let her guard ease. She’d done that once and had been burned.

He casually shrugged a shoulder. “Fair enough. What would you like to know?”

He knew about the skeletons in her closet. Time to rummage through his. “Where did you grow up?”

“Michigan. Grand Rapids.”

“How’d you end up in New Mexico?” Seemed an unusual change, but who was she to remark? She’d lived on the run, for goodness’ sake.

He let his arms drape over the back of the chair. He looked at ease. . . . Dare she say, relaxed? It was the first time she’d truly seen him as such.

“FBI stationed me here,” he finally said.

Time to dig deeper. She wanted to know what made him tick but didn’t want to acknowledge why she wanted to know or the feelings growing inside her.

“Why’d you go into the FBI?”

“I wanted to serve my country. I did four years in the Marines—military intelligence—then the Bureau scouted me, and I felt God was pointing me in that direction.”

“He pointed you, huh?” It fascinated her when people said stuff like that. Like God was not only real but there was some sort of personal relationship with Him too. To her, it seemed the greatest con . . . and yet of late . . . She shook off the intrusive thought pricking at her conscience and nudged Aubry for an answer. “So He spoke to you . . . in a way, you’re saying?”

“Yes,” he said with utmost conviction. Conviction? That wasn’t something she heard in her line of work. “Well, that’s . . . interesting.” But unbelievable.

He tapped the back of his chair, setting his soda on the floor beside him. “I take it, based on your reaction, that you don’t believe in God?”

“What gave it away?” Her snarkiness was hitting a new level.

“Is it because of all you’ve been through?” His question packed a punch, but his tone was gentle—almost soft and caring. But the latter wasn’t possible and there was no sense fooling herself otherwise. She’d done enough of that lately. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders once again. “What I’ve been through is off the table. It’s your history and life I want to know about.”

“Ask away. I’m an open book.”

She didn’t quite believe that. No one was an open, honest book. “Do you have a girlfriend?” She wasn’t analyzing why that was one of the first questions that popped into her mind.

“No,” he said, his tone flat, direct.

“Why not?”

“I work long hours, move around in the field. It doesn’t allow for a good, solid relationship.”

“How many women have you given that excuse to?”

He chuckled, uncomfortably.

Ah. Now she was getting someplace. She stood and moved to the cupboards over the sink.

“Can I help you?”

“Just looking for a snack, if you don’t mind. I didn’t have much of an appetite at dinner.”

“Make yourself at home.”

I plan to, as I have a feeling I’ll spend more time here than at my apartment. Then it hit. “I better go back in fast. If Dalton doesn’t hear me moving about—showering, climbing into bed—he’ll wonder where I am.”

“Good point. Take care of that, and then as quietly as you can, sneak back over here.”

“What for?”

“We need to talk about tomorrow.”