Thr3e (45 page)

Jennifer felt exposed. He could see more than she meant for him to see, couldn’t he?

“Take your time. I have some calls to make.” He walked for his study.

“Professor.”

He turned back. “Yes?”

“Thank you. He . . . we . . .
We
owe our lives to you.”

“Nonsense, dear. You owe me nothing. You may, however, have a debt to Samantha. And to Samantha’s Maker.” He grinned deliberately and entered his study.

Jennifer waited until his door closed. She slid the glass door open and stepped onto the patio. “Hello, Kevin.”

He turned, eyes bright. “Jennifer! I didn’t know you were here.”

“I had some time.” As much as she tried to ignore the fact, there was a unique bond between them. Whether it was her natural reaction to the sympathy he engendered or her own generous spirit or more, she didn’t know. Time would tell. The Riddle Killer was still at large, and yet she somehow felt she’d found herself for the first time since Roy’s death.

Kevin glanced back at the roses. His eyes couldn’t hold hers unwaveringly as they had before—he’d lost a certain innocence. But she preferred him this way.

“I’m taking a sabbatical,” she said.

“From the FBI? You are?”

“I am. I just came from a hearing with Judge Rosewood.” Jennifer couldn’t contain herself any longer. She smiled wide.

“What?” he asked. Her elation spread to him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. She’s going to consider my request.”

“The judge? What request?”

“You do know that I’m a licensed psychotherapist, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Even if we win your acquittal, which I think we will, the court will insist on therapy. In fact, your treatment will likely begin much sooner. But I don’t think we can trust just any psychotherapist to pry around your head.”

“Psychobabble,” he said. “They . . .” His eyes widened. “You?”

Jennifer laughed. If the judge could see her now, she might reconsider. But she couldn’t. In fact, no one could. The professor had retired to his office.

She walked up to him, pulse quickening. “Not your psychotherapist, exactly. But I’ll be there, every step of the way, monitoring. I don’t intend to let anyone mess with your mind any more than they have to.”

He stared into her eyes. “I think I’d let you mess with my mind.”

Everything in Jennifer’s being wanted to reach out to him then. To touch his cheek and tell him that she cared for him more than anyone she’d cared for in a very long time. But she was an FBI agent, for heaven’s sake. The agent in charge of his case! She had to remember that.

“Do I really need a psychotherapist?” he asked.

“You need me.” That sounded a bit forward. “I mean you need someone
like
me. There are a lot of issues . . .”

Kevin suddenly leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “No, I don’t need someone like you,” he said. “I need you.”

He pulled back, then looked away and blushed.

She couldn’t help herself anymore. She stepped forward and kissed him very lightly on his cheek.

“And I need you, Kevin. I need you too.”

I do not understand what I do. . . . It is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. . . . For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. . . . I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. . . . I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin. I myself in my mind am a slave to God’s law, but in the sinful nature a slave to the law of sin.

From a letter written by Saint Paul to the church in Rome,
A.D
. 57.
R
OMANS
7:15–25

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