Free What He Provokes (What He Wants #18) by Hannah Ford

WHAT HE PROVOKES
    C HARLOTTE

    T he next half hour passed in an array of scenes and images that flash-banged themselves against my brain.
    Noah ushering me out of John’s apartment.
    The people who lived across the street wandering outside just as the first police cruiser pulled up, watching us curiously, asking Noah questions that he blatantly ignored.
    Policemen talking into their walkie-talkies as they set up tape around the scene of the crime.
    The scene of the murder.
    John had been murdered. Probably by the same people who had taken Mikayla. The thought made my stomach roll in on itself, the bitter taste of bile filling the back of my throat.
    Noah paced back and forth on the sidewalk, his strides long and heavy.
    “This is ridiculous,” he fumed. The police had asked us to stick around, told us that a detective was on the way to take our statement.
    “They just want to know what happened,” I said. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the neighborhood was starting to look even creepier and more rundown than it had when we got here. Even the things that should have been cheerful – a red wagon in the yard across the street, the flowers on John’s porch – were starting to look dingy and abandoned.
    “They can take our statement tomorrow,” Noah said, checking his watch, even though as far as I knew, he had nowhere to be. “We don’t have an obligation to tell them anything.”
    “No, we don’t,” I said. “Not legally. But we should.”
    “Why?”
    “Because a man died, Noah,” I said.
    “My obligation is to keep you safe, Charlotte, and you are not safe here.”
    “I’m fine.” I pulled at my sweater, shivering as the breeze kicked up.
    “You’re cold.” Noah took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, pulling me close to him and rubbing my back. I pressed my cheek against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body through his dress shirt. His heartbeat was steady, rhythmic, a contrast to mine which felt like an uneven staccato.
    I closed my eyes and tried not to think about what I’d just seen in there, the grotesqueness of the body, the way John’s eyes had bulged from his head, his lips swollen and blue, his neck bloated and purple like an eggplant.
    I swallowed. “Noah…”
    “It’s okay,” he said, kissing my head softly. “It’s okay. I am going to take care of everything, Charlotte. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”
    I let his soothing words wash over me, wanting so badly to believe them. I tried to lose myself in his touch, his words, his presence. But I was having a hard time calming down.
    Not that it mattered – the sound of a siren wailing through the twilight shattered any chance of peace, and a second later, a shiny police cruiser pulled up to the sidewalk and a detective stepped out.
    He was wearing a dark suit and tie, his face cleanly shaven, his hair brushed back from his face. He looked familiar, and it wasn’t until he spoke that I was able to place him.
    “Well, well, well,” he said, a smirk playing on his full lips. “Mr. Cutler, we meet again.”
    I felt Noah stiffen next to me.
    “Detective Rake,” Noah said, his voice even, his tone displaying no sign of emotion.
    Detective Rake. He was the one who’d questioned Noah about Dani DeClair and Nora’s murders, back when Noah was a suspect in the investigation.
    I remembered the detective had tried to push Noah’s buttons then, and Noah had returned the favor in spades.
    Detective Rake’s eyes fell on me, and I straightened up and took a half step away from Noah. I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand.
    “You okay?” Detective Rake asked.
    I nodded. “I’m okay.”
    “She’s fine,” Noah said, and his cool tone was gone, replaced with something else, something dark and menacing. A vein in his neck throbbed.
    “I think Charlotte is probably capable of talking for herself,” the detective said, giving me a kind smile. “Aren’t you, Charlotte?”
    “Yes,” I