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Chocolate-brown eyes sparkled underneath the blond hair
Missed the blonde hair detail in the first one …………I’m gonna continue to ignore that. He has black hair to ME
“She was his partner,” he confirmed. Dean’s voice was low-pitched and pleasant, with a hint of Southern twang. Usually, he was a man of few words, but today, he had five more for us. “She was also his wife.”
“Because I’m the most qualified for the job,” Briggs said, coming into the room. “And,” he added under his breath, “because somewhere along the way, the universe decided I needed to suffer.”
He’d told me once that his father had an explosive temper. I tried not to think about the reasons a little boy might need to become an expert at reading other people’s emotions, growing up with a father like that.
“Is he going to be okay?” Sloane asked me, her voice barely audible. I couldn’t lie to her. “I don’t know.”
A profiler, an emotion reader, and a lie detector went to a party.…
To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.’”
“That guy’s a tool,” Derek replied. Quite frankly, I thought that tools who lived in tool houses probably shouldn’t throw stones.
Most people built walls to protect themselves. Dean did it to protect everyone else.
When Agent Sterling had removed her jacket, she’d dislodged her shirt slightly. It gapped in the front, giving me a view of the skin underneath. There was a scar just under her collarbone. A brand, in the shape of the letter R.
“We should have seen this coming.” “Seen what coming?” “I think they found the professor,” I said again, “but our UNSUB found him first.”
“You mean that you would rather I sat this one out.” Dean stayed hunched over on the fireplace, but he lifted his eyes to meet the director’s. “Because I’m ‘too close to it,’ but really, because you don’t trust me.” Dean waited a bit, but the director didn’t contradict him. “Not on this case,” Dean continued. “Not with my father.” He stood. “Not with your daughter.”
“It’s considered impolite to talk above seventy-five decibels,” Sloane sniffed. “I believe it’s called shouting.”
Like Christopher Simms was in a meeting with Briggs when someone killed his mother.
“I was wrong,” he said, “when I said I just felt something.” He was breathing heavily. I couldn’t breathe at all. “When I said I wasn’t sure it was enough.”
He was scared, like me. But he felt it, and I felt it, and he was there. I’d spent so long trying not to choose, trying not to feel, and in an instant, I felt something inside of me break, like floodwaters bursting through a dam.
I rose up on my toes, my body pressed against his, and returned the kiss, the pain in my face fading, washed away with the rest of the world, until there was only this moment—one that I hadn’t thought I’d live to see.
“When the odds are bad,” she said, removing something from one of them, “you change the rules.”
They weren’t shutting us out. They were letting us in. Instead of taking away my purpose, they’d given it new life. This was a whole new world.
