“I didn’t want any attention on me,” I pointed out.

“The way he was looking at you! The man was clearly stuck in the past with his outdated views,” Beck grumbled, clearly flustered.

“It didn’t give you the right to decide for me,” I said.

He held my gaze, opening his mouth, but then closed it. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.”

I half expected a fight. Jake never would’ve let something like this go. If I spoke my mind or opinions, they were wrong. Jake decided what was best for me.

That’s not me anymore.

“Thank you,” I said, surprising myself. I let my arms relax and leaned back in the chair, waiting for the sheriff to return. It was hard to let my guard down and accept help when I’d been doing everything on my own for three years.

A while passed without seeing the sheriff, and I was growing more and more anxious by the second. My leg bounced, and I couldn’t help the way I found anything to fidget with. My hair, my skirt, the silver rings on my fingers—anything I could touch, I couldn’t leave alone.

Something stopped my leg from bouncing, and I looked down to find Beck’s hand on my thigh. Instantly, heat filled my body, and I lost every word in my head. His touch made me feel safe and alive all at once. The reality of that crashed into me like a wave.

I met his gaze as he lifted his eyes to meet mine.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just know sometimes, it can snap you back from spiraling.” He looked way and pulled his hand back. “At least it works for me. I figured it was worth trying…”

It was so matter of fact, like I was one of his cases to analyze. Maybe I was. My past was tangled in this, after all. Was that how he viewed me? Just another piece to the puzzle?

He had moved without hesitation, and with such careful calculation. It was nothing more, just Beck trying to stop my anxiety from giving myself away. I kept telling myself over and over it meant nothing.

I almost started to believe it when the sheriff finally came back.

“Here’s what you asked for,” he said after making us wait close to almost an hour. He tossed a folder on to the table, hundreds of printed sheets tucked inside. “That’s everything we have and the FBI should already know, plus the incidents she asked for,” he sneered.

Beck pulled the folder to him and opened it. I watched him quickly look through a few and close the folder again.

“Thank you for your help,” he said and stood. “We will be back if we need anything else.”

He moved around the table, and I followed. We brushed past the sheriff, leaving him with a dumbfounded frown on his face.