“As a courtesy, I let Skip know we had him.”

“Thanks.”

“The partial print off the ED on Cappuano’s car had similarities to Peter’s, but they couldn’t make a definitive ID.”

“I’ll get him to confirm the print is his,” she said, more to herself than to Malone.

“With what we found in his apartment, we’ve more or less already got him.” He handed her a rundown of what the warrant had yielded and a folder full of photos that made her sick.

“But he doesn’t know that,” she said.

“Nope.”

She looked up at the captain. “I think I’m going to enjoy this. Does that make me a bad cop?”

“No, it makes you human. Arlington will want him when we’re done with him.”

With a nod, she left him to go buy another soda and took it back to her office. Closing the door, she dropped into her chair suddenly exhausted and drained. She hadn’t seen Peter, except for in court, in almost two years. Their last explosive argument over the time she was spending with her newly paralyzed father had put the finishing touches on what had been a horrible four years for her. The next day, she’d moved her essentials into her father’s house and put the rest of her belongings in storage where they remained.

In the ensuing months, Peter had popped up with such annoying regularity that she’d been forced to get a restraining order to keep him from coming around while they hurled accusations back and forth. Since then she’d often had the sensation of being watched or followed, little pinpricks of awareness on the back of her neck that had never materialized into an actual confrontation. In fact, it hadn’t occurred to her that he’d still be so invested in her. She should’ve known better. What made her truly sick was that she had endangered Nick just by spending time with him.

Imagining Peter locked up in a cell in the basement, she smiled. “Let him sit there for a while longer wondering how much we know.” The idea infused her with joy as she drank her soda and returned her attention to the O’Connor case.

Nick woke up alone in Sam’s bed and shifted onto her pillow to breathe in the scent she’d left behind. He contemplated whether he should stay there until she got home or get up to face her father. Staying in bed all day was definitely the more appealing of the two options. But since he didn’t want her to think he was a total coward, he got up to take a shower.

He took his time getting dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt. How ridiculous was it that he was afraid to go downstairs to face a man in a wheelchair?