Landon gave Taylor credit for giving the report to Detective Sanchez without any gaps or obfuscations. Of course, everything she told Sanchez was something that was essentially obvious—the car had been vandalized, she was pretty sure she knew the identity of the perp—but considering how close-mouthed she’d been so far, he’d been afraid she would shut down.

She hadn’t, and that was good.

But she still hadn’t completely opened up to him, and he was terrified that by keeping her secrets she was hindering his ability to keep her safe.

He slowed to a stop at the intersection of Chicon and Seventh Street, and used that time to glance over at her. Her head was back, her eyes closed, and she kept her hands twisted together in her lap. She was spooked, and he understood that. Who wouldn’t be with a restaurant-size supply of meat rotting inside their car? But it hurt more than he liked to admit to know that she didn’t yet trust him enough to tell him the whole story.

For most of the drive, he’d been trying to tell himself that he was frustrated because she was making his job harder. And while that was true, it wasn’t the problem. No, Landon’s frustration wasn’t professional, it was personal. He wanted her to trust him.

Hell, he just wanted her.

Most of all, he wanted her safe. And now that Beau was escalating his torments, Landon was becoming more and more afraid.

And determined. He’d nail the son-of-a-bitch to the wall, but he needed Taylor’s help to do that. Her trust. But damned if she wasn’t just like Vanessa had been.

Fuck.

He turned left on Chicon, irritated that his ex-wife had popped into his head for even a second. She was history, and that was a good thing. After five years without her, he rarely even thought of her anymore. She’d been fascinated by his job, but it had also been an albatross. She’d worked in the courthouse and knew the kind of dangers a cop faced. Hell, she’d married him with full awareness of what he did and that he loved his job.

But as the first year of their marriage progressed, she became more and more clingy. They’d fight almost every day when he left the house for his shift. And by six months into their marriage, she’d transferred her fear from him to herself, convinced that the evil he fought on the streets would come after her.

Maybe it would—probably it wouldn’t—but either way, he’d begged her to trust him. To believe that he could keep her safe.

But she’d spiraled down, certain that the weight of the criminal world would bear down on her.

Counseling hadn’t helped. Talking hadn’t helped.

In the end, they’d both realized that her fears about his inability to protect her from the fallout of his job reflected a more systemic lack of trust that permeated their entire marriage.

He’d needed his wife to believe in him. She’d needed—what? He still didn’t know. But they never had the connection. They never had that trust.

It had destroyed them, and after eighteen months, they’d gotten divorced.

Now Taylor didn’t trust him either. It was goddamn deja vu all over again.

Except it wasn’t.

He slowed the car to turn right onto East 16th Street, the frustrated part of his mind calming in response to the voice of reason that had seeped in through the cracks.

No, it wasn’t the same. Not really. Hell, not at all.

Vanessa hadn’t been willing to trust him to keep her safe from a general fear of the boogeyman. Taylor had a legitimate reason for her fear, and she’d told him enough to identify her stalker and to take steps to keep him away from her.

He didn’t know what she was holding back—what she wasn’t trusting him with—but he knew enough to know there was real fear backing her silence.

And he knew that she’d already trusted him more in just a few days than Vanessa had in the entire time they’d been together.

Feeling calmer, he turned right into the driveway for his bungalow. It was small—only twelve hundred square feet—but he’d fallen in love with the clean lines and nineteen-thirties design. The neighborhood was only a few miles from where he’d been born. From where he’d escaped. And it felt good to come back with the money to buy. To refurbish. To live in a neighborhood that was coming to life again, this time without gangs filling the neighboring houses and drug deals happening on the corners.

And one of these days, maybe he’d actually finish renovating the place.

He grinned to himself as he turned off the car. When that happened, he might have to move. Because he had to admit, the work was one of his greatest pleasures. Manual labor to relieve stress.

Glancing sideways at Taylor, now asleep in the passenger seat, he felt a pleasant tightness curl inside him. There were other ways to relieve stress. And though she looked incredibly relaxed right now, he had a feeling that after the day she’d had, a glass of wine and some between the sheets stress relief might be exactly the way she’d want to spend the evening.

Gently, he brushed her cheek. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. We’re here.”

She stirred, then opened her eyes. For a split second, confusion colored her face, but it was quickly replaced with pleasure. And, he thought, relief.

“You’re here.” Her smile lit up his heart.

“Where else would I be?”

She shook her head, as if shaking off a thought. “Dream,” she said. “I’m still groggy. Is this your place?” She’d turned to look out the window at the facade of his little blue house with the white porch railing and colorful hanging pots of flowers, none of which he could remember the names of, but he’d snagged them at Home Depot simply because they seemed cheerful.

The St. Augustine grass in the front yard was mowed, and a huge pecan tree shaded the driveway. Directly in front of his car was a detached garage, but it was a ramshackle building that he used only as a workshop.

“It’s small,” he said. “But it’s mine.”

“It’s absolutely charming.” She turned to face him. “Can I see inside?”

He laughed. “That’s why we’re here. Come on.”

He circled the car and opened the door for her, then led her up the porch steps. He unlocked and opened the door, then immediately stepped in front of her even as he pulled his weapon.

Son-of-a-bitch!

The side window was smashed, and red liquid was spread all over the newly buffed and restored hardwood floors. Paint, he realized from the smell, and felt a quick shock of relief that it wasn’t blood.

And right there in the middle of the paint, he saw the message, drawn with the end of his broom that had been tossed aside at the edge of the spill: She’s Mine.

---

She’s Mine.

The words rang through Taylor, filling her head, making her dizzy. She wanted to sink to the floor, but Landon ordered her to stay behind him as he checked every room, every closet, every nook and cranny of his house.

It was a darling house, too. Charming and comfortable.

And now it was violated. All because of her.

When they finished checking the place, he sat her at the kitchen table and made her a cup of cocoa. She held the mug in two hands and sipped. It didn’t make her feel better. Right then, she didn’t feel anything.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You didn’t do this,” he countered, taking a seat across from her. “And in a way this is good.”

She laughed at that, the sound almost hysterical. “Yeah, it’s super terrific.”

He took her hand, and she held on tight, needing that connection. “It means he’s watching. And if he’s watching, we can find him. We just have to be looking in the right direction.”

“Are we?”

He met her eyes, his hard and determined. “We will be.”

“I hate that this—”

“No.” His word was firm, and the hand holding hers even more so. “No more thinking like that.” He drew a breath. “Come on. We’re going to go stay somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Where else does a thirty-six year old man go when he has to vacate his house?” He grinned. “That’s right, baby. I’m taking you home to meet the parents.”