Page 14 of Detective for the Debutante (SAFE Haven Security #3)

The sound of my own heart hammers through my ears, making it impossible to hear anything as I continue to struggle. Fear and adrenaline fight for supremacy, and it’s as if time is both sped up and slowed down at the same time. Like I’m fighting molasses as I gain control of my limbs.

Fuck. Run. Get away. Move. Do something. Anything .

It takes more time than I want to gain control of my legs, a deep curse wrapping around me when my knee connects with something solid.

“I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Here, let me help you up.”

My brain is too busy panicking for the words to register, and it’s only after several breaths that the throbbing of my heart clears from my hearing, allowing me to process the repeated apology.

“Leigh?”

Another breath and I recognize the brown eyes searching mine as he leans over me, surprise and concern changing the timbre of his voice.

“Charlie?”

He reaches out a hand to help me up. An aftershock of adrenaline surges back through my body, and I’m not sure whether to take off running or stay stock-still.

I’m still trying to decide when his hand grasps mine and helps me up.

As soon as I’m standing, I drop his hand, unsure of who the person in front of me is.

The grieving almost widower? The angry fiancé who murdered the person he loved the most? Someone entirely different?

I’m not sure, and my muscles lock as I try to quickly excuse myself, glancing around to see if anyone else is close by.

My stomach sinks as I realize not only are we alone, but we’re shielded somewhat by the trees and the way the path curves where we’re standing.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

A lie that I’m meeting someone perches on my lips, but his next question scatters the words.

“I didn’t break your camera, did I?” He motions toward the camera hanging around my neck.

Shit. I’d forgotten all about it. The camera had been a present a few Christmases ago from Mom and Dad—neither of whom would be happy to learn it got broken while I was alone in a park. Lifting it up, I study it carefully, relieved when there are no obvious signs of damage.

“No, I think I took most of the impact,” I tell him, the pins and needles receding from my arm at last.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Usually no one is out this time of morning when I jog.”

Only then do I realize he’s dressed in athletic shorts and a T-shirt, a pair of well-worn sneakers on his feet. Some of the tension eases from my shoulders, but a small part of me still wonders if this was truly an accident or on purpose.

Yeah, because he’s been watching you for the last week, saw you leave for the park at the butt crack of dawn, and just so happened to have exercise clothes for jogging in his car . Get over yourself .

Easier said than done. Especially given what I had fallen asleep to and the remnants of the nightmare still rattling around. But the least I can do is apologize, because I had been leaning down, not visible for anyone who wasn’t looking down.

“No, it’s my fault. I was kneeling down for a picture.”

“You’re a photographer?” he asks.

“Just for myself. You run here?”

“I do. Almost every day. It’s one of my favorite places in Nashville.” His words help relax some more tension, and I can take my first full breath since being full body tackled to the ground.

“Do you live around here?”

Nosy, much?

He shakes his head.

“I used to. It’s a great park to jog. Selene must have thought the same thing because this is where we met.

She was jogging there”—he points to the other side of the water—“when we met and I proposed there.” He points to the larger area of green near the Parthenon.

“I’m sorry, you didn’t ask for my life story. ”

The words tell me one thing, but grief is visible in the hollows of his cheeks, in the slight hunch of his shoulders despite his ramrod-straight posture.

Has he ever talked to anyone about what’s so obvious to me?

“Maybe it’s weird I still come here?—”

“Not at all. I…it’s sweet,” I say at last, landing on the closest word.

And I mean it. Because Charlie Vanderweel doesn’t strike me as a killer. There’s a deeper emotion at play. One that breaks my heart to witness.

“It’s just…where I feel closest to her still.” He shrugs, and the struggle to swallow his grief is visible.

“You still miss her?” I ask.

Instead of chastising me for my obvious question, he nods, his chest shifting as he inhales and exhales deeply.

“She was my person.” The words are simple, but filled with so much emotion, it’s tangible in the air around us.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” The words are automatic, but feel trite in the wake of the grief he still wears around him.

“Thank you.”

“I should probably get going. Let you get back to exercising,” I say, moving back to the path to follow it closer to the Greek look-alike building.

He follows me, reaching out a hand, his fingers brushing the elbow I rapped on the concrete earlier.

“Wait. I…I should apologize about the way I acted Monday. It was incredibly rude.”

The mental picture of him I had painted—the arrogant, rich, frat boy from the other day—melts in the light of this different person.

He’s shy. Unsure of himself. Awkward to a certain extent.

And I’m having trouble reconciling all the versions of him—our initial meeting, how the media painted him, and this morning—into who he actually is.

But something in my gut tells me this uncertain version of him is closest to the real him.

“You weren’t rude. I’d say you were assertive, but not rude,” I assure him.

One side of his mouth twitches with a smile.

“You look a lot like her. Selene,” he explains. “And have several of her mannerisms. It was a bit of a shock. Still, no excuse. I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”

The impression I had gotten was he might be interested. And for no good reason, my ego deflates. The attention had been nice, but it wasn’t like I was interested in him either.

Murphy’s serious hazel gaze flashes through my memory, and I force the image into the box it came out of. I need to focus on Sydney’s words about a hot girl summer instead, but not with Murphy. And not with Charlie Vanderweel either.

“You didn’t give me any impressions, wrong or otherwise.”

I smile at him, and this time his smile stretches across his face before he nods to my camera.

“Have you gotten your picture of Taylor’s bench yet?”

“Taylor? Like Taylor Swift?”

He must hear the adoration in my voice.

“Swiftie?” he asks.

“Um, duh. Now what about this bench?”

He laughs. “The mayor dedicated a bench to her the last time she had a concert in town. Selene was a massive fan too. I think it would have been her favorite spot in the whole park. Want me to show you?”

I hesitate, still not one hundred percent sure I want to go somewhere in a park I don’t know with someone who may or may not have murdered his fiancée.

Make up your mind; either he did or he didn’t .

“Um…”

Three other people whiz by us on bikes, heading in the direction he had pointed to a moment ago.

“People wait to see it for hours. I tend to run elsewhere to avoid the crowds.”

I perk up at the word crowds, but still check my pocket for the thin canister, feeling it roll in my fingertips.

“Lead the way.” I gesture for him to precede me, falling into step beside him.

So he does. More and more people join us the closer we get to Taylor’s bench and her willow tree, and we navigate the growing crowd as he asks me about my photography. I grab my pictures, and he recommends several other spots he thinks I might like for pictures as we reach the edges of the crowd.

“I should let you get back to your run,” I tell him, the temperature climbing higher around us.

He wipes his temple and nods slowly.

“Yeah. Probably. I’m heading that direction,” he says, gesturing in the direction of the parking lot where my car is parked.

“Okay.”

“Can I walk you back to your car? If you’re heading out,” he offers.

The early morning light is already melting under the heat of the day and it’s not even eight a.m. yet.

“I am, but don’t worry about it. I can find my own way back.”

Maybe it’s my past, maybe it’s Charlie’s past. But I don’t trust him. Not yet.

“Humor me? Please.” The words are light, but the expression in his eyes—a mix of regret and concern—have me biting back the polite no.

There’s another small group on the trail ahead of us, and their presence is the final encouragement I need to agree.

“Okay.” I let my camera hang loosely around my neck and tuck my hands in my pockets, my fingers gripping the pepper spray.

Just in case.

We follow the trail back to the parking lot and we land on the subject of the Wrongful Conviction Fund and my interest in Project Justice.

By the time the trail ends back at the parking lot—where a lot more cars surround mine—my fingers loosen, releasing the security blanket.

Charlie Vanderweel didn’t murder Selene Gordon.

He couldn’t have. I wouldn’t become friends with a murderer. Not after Zach.

“Thanks for walking me back. You probably want to get going before it gets much hotter,” I tell him, a bead of sweat rolling between my shoulder blades.

“Yeah. I’ll end up just running home to finish my workout.”

“You want a lift?” I offer.

It must be a good sign when my conscience doesn’t rebel as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

He shakes his head. “Can’t work out unless I do the work. But thanks for this morning. I would say it was nice running into you?—”

“Not literally,” I say.

He chuckles.

“No, not really. Even if it gave us the chance to get to know each other a little better.”

“That part was nice. I don’t know many people in Nashville. People at my office. My neighbors.”

“Just be careful. It’s a big city,” he tells me, and I’m reminded of Murphy’s similar words.

“I will.”

“I’ll see you around, Leigh.”

“Bye.”

He heads off in the direction of a different path, and I put my camera back in its bag in the backseat. My spine tingles, the sensation of not being alone overwhelming me.

“Forget something?” I ask, backing out of my car, the smile on my lips fading when I realize Charlie isn’t standing beside my car.

Instead he’s facing away from me, running farther down the trail.

But the sensation of being watched still has my hair standing on end, and I rush into the driver’s seat, locking the car doors.

“No more true crime before bed,” I mumble and crank the ignition, the cool blast of air conditioning creating gooseflesh along my skin.

But even as I drive out of the parking lot and make my way home, the sensation of being watched doesn’t fade.

It grows stronger.