He leaned over the chair, placing his right hand directly beside me. I watched the muscles in his arm tense and spotted the tattoos snaking up his arm. He was more muscular than I expected at first glance. A new heat rose in my stomach, and I shoved it aside.

“I’d like to see everything else you’ve been collecting on this case that wasn’t in the tips you sent,” he answered, his voice low, breath brushing against my ear.

“That’s not all here,” I admitted, keeping my voice low and glancing up into Beck’s deep brown eyes.

He raised a brow.

“Some of it’s just on my laptop, which I don’t keep here,” I explained.

“What do you have here?” he pushed.

I opened my files and found the one I’d labeled for records on the Coastal Killer. It was mainly scanned-in news clippings, police reports, and the non-gory crime scene photos that had been made public. I scrolled through, letting him glance over what the museum kept on record. It was only about 200 files, and some were entirely useless, with even a few duplicates.

“This is everything we keep here,” I said, reaching the end of the file.

“And what do you keep on your laptop?” he inquired, taking a step back.

I turned in the chair, my hands in my lap, feeling his scrutiny on my face. “Um-” I stuttered.

He crossed his arms, and my hands turned clammy. Any second, Francis could come in, and I would be completely out of luck. I was already brainstorming the excuse I would use when he left.

“If it’s anything illegal, I’m going to find out eventually. Better to admit it now,” he pushed.

“No, it’s not like that. It’s just-” I started, then paused to watch the doorway. “It’s a personal project.”

I chose the words carefully, realizing Beck was analyzing every word out of my mouth, like I was a suspect in interrogation.

Was I a suspect to him?

Panic took hold of my chest. I tried to keep my face neutral, but I failed miserably as I saw understanding cross his face,

“Your boss has no idea, does she?” he asked.

I shook my head slowly. “She turned down my idea for an exhibit using the research.”

“So, she doesn’t approve of you working on this research?” Beck guessed.

“You could say that,” I huffed.

My heart was pounding at my ears at this point, praying to God Beck wouldn’t reveal what I’d been working on to Francis. If she knew, I was a goner.

“And you kept working on it?”

Was that curiosity in his eyes, or was I imagining things?