He'd spent the last two days fighting for some sort of peace. He'd been worried sick about her and about them before he'd faced her unanswered door; after…well, it hadn't gotten any easier. Decidedly not. Every fear he'd had driving over to her house after leaving the hospital had only grown with each passing hour.
He knew, intellectually, that she was fine. A grown woman, totally capable of looking out for herself, she didn't have to answer to him…though she should have known they'd need her statement, no one had warned her she had to inform them of her whereabouts. She was a free agent. Probably better she hadn't gone home anyway—the board, temporarily covering the broken glass pane in the door; the signs of a struggle he'd seen but hadn't had time to investigate that night desperately running through her house praying she was there somewhere…nah, she'd been wise to go off to her family home instead.
But, he thought, if he didn't see her soon, he'd go mad with it. He shouldn't have left it to Hathaway to get her out…but, what choice had he had? Send the lad alone into the dark, rundown hospital building to face two killers without back up? No, that was a job for the senior officer if there wasn't time to wait for reinforcements…and with all the available exits and with them already having killed again and again, he hadn't judged it safe to let Vince and Charlotte disappear into the darkness. Laura might have been the last name on their list, but—he couldn't count on it. He'd had to leave her to Hathaway.
And a good job he had. He'd come close to going over the banister himself; he wouldn't want to think of Hathaway…no. Bad enough Laura, not Hathaway too. So. He'd gone. Done his job…well, bungled it more like, but at least there'd be no more deaths added to the case books on this one. Vince—gone over into the abyss like Harry Josephs and Friday Reeves and if he never stood on top of another staircase and heard the dull thud of a body hitting the floor beneath, it would be far too soon.
His track record on the subject could have been better. Three losses, five saves; the lost had all been killers with the blood of more than one on their heads…but that only partially made him feel any better about letting Friday Reeves and Vince slip out of his hands. As for Harry Josephs—he was in no state to think about the man he'd sent off the rooftop of St. Oswald's church all those years ago. Better to think about the babe who hadn't went over and the little girls; Charlotte—he'd done her no favours when he managed to keep her from following Vince down—ah, better not to think of any of them right now.
And, he couldn't, could he? Even if he wanted to, because of Laura. Because of what she'd gone through—what Vince and Charlotte had put her through, and himself. And because of what he'd discovered about himself and his…oh, be a man, Lewis. Admit it. You don't just fancy the lass…and if you were happy enough with her friendship before—well, now that you've lost it, you know it wasn't enough. It's more than a friendly face you're wanting. Needing.
He needed to see her. Even though she hadn't sounded the least bit welcoming on the phone…needed to see her whole and healthy, alive. Needed to see if he could repair the damage he'd done her with his doubtings and suspicions, and then…well, he'd have to play the rest by ear. It couldn't be about what he wanted or needed, he'd have to leave that to her. She'd been through a lot, and if he'd taken this long to get around to seeing things clearly—he could wait for her to get her feet under her again before pushing her where she most likely didn't want to go in the first place. Still, Hathaway was probably right, as usual; he'd never know if he didn't ask.