Oh God. What now?

“Hello?”

“Hi. How you doing?”

The low-key tone of his voice made her relax a fraction.

“Okay. Just, you know, a little rattled.”

He went quiet, and she wished she hadn’t told him that.

“Would you like me to come over?” he asked.

“Oh. That’s nice but . . . you don’t have to.”

The question caught her off guard. Was he offering to come over as a cop? As a friend?

Or as something else?

“What’s your address?” he asked.

She laughed, caught off guard once again. “Can’t you look it up?”

“I could, yeah.”

She sat there for a moment, and it occurred to her what he was doing. Yes, he could use his position to find out where she lived. But he wanted to be invited. He was trying to respect her privacy, and that one simple thing touched her more than he could know.

Or maybe he did know. Maybe he’d sensed that privacy was important to her and that she had walls up, carefully constructed walls that she’d spent years erecting between her private life and everything else. He was a detective, after all. And he was observant. Maybe he’d picked up on the fact that tonight’s events had rocked her sense of security and left her nerves shredded. The only time she’d truly felt safe during the last three hours was when she’d been in Bella’s swivel chair with Brandon standing over her, gazing down at her with that fiercely protective look in his eyes.

“One-sixty-five Ashby Lane.” The words spilled from her mouth before she could second guess her decision.

“Off of South Lamar,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Be there in a few.”

He clicked off, and Leigh stared down at her phone. Then she looked around her house.

“Crap,” she muttered.

She’d invited him over and she didn’t know why, exactly, he wanted to come.

The slovenly state of her living room spurred her into action. She collected mugs and cereal bowls and dumped them into the sink. Her coffee table was strewn with case files, much like the table in her office. She gathered everything into a semi-neat pile and glanced around. On the sofa was a heap of unfolded laundry, including three weeks’ worth of underwear. She scooped everything into a laundry basket and carried it into her bedroom, where she set it on the bed. Passing her dresser, she caught her reflection in the mirror and stopped cold.

Yikes. Her mascara was smudged. The side of her lower lip was swollen from when she’d been slammed to the floor. Her silk blouse was rumpled, and tiny droplets of blood marred the collar.

Tears welled in her eyes. Her favorite blouse.

And damn it, she was crying over a stupid shirt! Disgusted with herself, she unbuttoned the blouse and tossed it on the bed, then walked into the bathroom and splashed water on her cheeks.