Chapter 5

Jenna sighed and rubbed the sensitive skin just under the bump on her head trying to soothe away some of the throbbing pain. Two and a half hours she had just spent in a tiny square of a room with a 260 pound psychopath. Not the ideal text book treatment for a concussion.

But maybe it would help her forget the past couple hours. God, the thought of what she'd had to listen to, of how he spoke would be with her for life. She had watched his face as he described his many victims, the torture methods of killing he had used, the blood and gore he had shed. He was emotionless, passive with about as much passion in his words as she had when she talked getting the tires rotated on her car.

He had calmly taken her through a twenty-some years career in killing, carefully detailing events psychotic and horrible enough to give her nightmares for weeks. There was none of the glee, the sense of pride that she had acquainted with killers before. He was just reciting facts and figures like an accountant would. In fact, he sounded bored with the whole process.

And she had sat there, just sat there, listening to his accounts with her own implacable expression rigid upon her features, taking notes and asking questions. Just another case to file, another bad guy put away, another deal made. That thought, those words were swimming in her head like a plague.

She felt bile rise in her throat at the thought of the deal she had negotiated with Elliott at the PA's urging, wishing, instead, that she could pull her weapon and put an end to his miserable excuse of a life. It would be like ridding the world of a stray rabid dog. He would never be rehabilitated, he would never feel shame or sorrow for what he had done. And after wading ankle deep in the blood of his murders, she couldn't help but think he'd be better off dead.

But, that wasn't for her to decide, courts, judges and juries decided guilt and innocence, she just got the criminals off the streets. So she'd sat in that room and she'd managed through sheer will to stay professional. She had hid her intense feelings of disgust for the deadly killer by holding onto what she held dear by the skin of her teeth. She had done the job for the badge and what it stood for. But it cost her, and that cost was dear and almost more than she could take.

She opened the door to go into the small room that housed the homicide bullpen, a room cluttered with papers on the walls, ancient grey metal desks, filing cabinets, and a table that held a huge coffee maker. She went there first and was just about to pour herself a cup of the thick bitter liquid that cops laughingly described as coffee when a hand gently touched her shoulder.

"You should have water. The caffeine isn't good for that headache."

She closed her eyes and sighed, praying for just a little more strength, before turning toward the good doctor. He meant well, she told herself, even if he was being annoying.

"I thought you left."

He took the cup out of her hand, looking into it first with a sneer of disgust at the dank ring that had been etched into it's smooth rim. Then he handed her a bottle of water that was so cold condensation was running down the side and another of the big white pills. "Take that. You look like hell."

She swallowed the pill with her own grimace of disgust. She'd never admit to anyone, not in a million years but they did help her feel better. "Is that your professional or personal opinion, Doc?"

"Let's say both." He grinned that sexy smile at her, the one she was sure melted butter from a mile away. "No charge."

"Thanks," she said. But she couldn't help but smile back at him, despite how lousy she felt. She started over to her desk and felt him behind her. "Please don't take this the wrong way, Doc. I mean I am very grateful for your help in getting me back on the job and dropping off the prescription. But," she smiled again to take the sting out of the words. "Don't you have a home?"

"Yeah, I do. And I should probably be there, in bed unconscious right now. But sometimes other things are a little more important." He sat next to her cluttered desk in the chair that was bolted not only to the ground but to the desk itself to keep anyone who wasn't happy being there and throwing a tizzy from picking it up and throwing it too.

She plopped down into her chair, grunted at the mess and flipped over a file of old paperwork to make room for her bottle of water. The desk facing hers was empty and she scowled darkly at it.

"He said he'd be back later, had something he had to do. Your partner," he said at her look, nodding at the empty chair. "He was leaving when I came in here to wait for you to get done."

"How long ago?" She glanced at her watch. There was a smear of dark blood on it. She used her thumb nail to scrub at it absently.

"About twenty minutes or so." He studied her drawn features, the bruises standing out colorfully against her pale skin. She looked ready to fall over. "Don't take this the wrong way," he said, throwing her words back at her. "But don't you have a home you should go to before you fall down?"

She managed, barely, to contain her anger. If she didn't feel like death warmed over, she would have laughed at him and then told him where to stick his concern. "Oh I just have a few things to do, like all that nasty paperwork a bust like this is going to generate." She sighed and searched through the mess on her desk for the file she needed, pushing asides stacks of papers, unearthing a half eaten sandwich. She stared at that, wondering when she had gotten it before dumping it plate and all into the trash. "I'm going to be here for a while yet," she continued. "You might as well go home doc. I really do appreciate everything that you've done for me."

He stared at her for a second, his trained doctor's eyes taking notes. She looked terrible, washed out, with black smudges under her eyes almost as dark as the bruises on the side of her face. She had shadows dimming the lustrous green of her eyes caused by pain. Her shoulders were held tight, the muscles in her body rigid against the pain. It made him angry. No, furious, for some reason that he wasn't sure he wanted to explore, that she was willing to jeopardize her health this way. Even though the job she did was important, and she was good at it, she was going to put herself into the hospital with exhaustion. She needed about a week's worth of rest and a vacation and then maybe she'd be fit to come back on the job.

"Dammit, Jenna."

She looked up and met his gaze, stunned by the sudden outburst of someone who had been so calm all this time.

"I'm this close to pulling you out of here. You need to rest. Your going to make yourself seriously ill." He reached out to push her hair from her face again, a gesture that was beginning to feel natural to him.

Jenna glanced around the room cautiously, noting the few detectives that were still in there staring at them, some with smiles, some just curious. "Keep your voice down," she hissed at him, pushing his fingers away from her face. "I don't need the whole department knowing my business."

"Then don't be so damn obstinate. Can't your partner do this paperwork? You need bed and food, not to sit in this place." He could be just as stubborn. All those years of medical school, residency and sick and trying patients had taught him how.

"I took the damn pill. I'll be fine." She cringed at the whine in her own voice and turned back to her desk.

Ethan's temper flared further. He rose abruptly with enough force to jar Jenna's desk and knock over the bottle of water, which started to drain all over the mess of paperwork. She grabbed for the bottle, righting it quickly, and swiping spilled water off her papers and on to the ugly linoleum floor.

"Fine, Jenna. Just fine. You want to end up back in the hospital, that's just fine with me. But I don't need to sit around here and watch you do that to yourself." He stomped away, resisting the urge to slam a few doors while muttering about stubborn females.

"Sheesh," Jenna mumbled under her breath. "What climbed up his butt and died?" She wouldn't admit to anyone how badly her head hurt, how her ribs ached and exhaustion seemed to pull at her like quicksand, not even to the doctor. And she sure wouldn't admit that she felt guilty for the way he left. He'd been the one doing her a favor. She hadn't meant to piss him off. She was just good at it.