Chapter 5: The Button Game
The silence in her bedroom was absolute, a thick velvet blanket after the digital storm. Teresa lay there, the phone a dormant brick on her stomach, her own heartbeat the only sound. She had done it. She had actually done it. The adrenaline spike was fading, leaving behind a hollow, trembling sensation in her limbs, a mix of terror and a dark, giddy pride. He was out there somewhere, holding that image in his hand. Seeing her. Knowing.
Her phone buzzed, once, violent against her skin.
She snatched it up, her thumb dragging across the screen as she unlocked it.
Fuck.
The single word, devoid of punctuation, hit her with a physical force. It wasn’t playful. It was a raw, punched-out reaction. A confession of total loss of control. A fierce, proprietary warmth bloomed in her chest.
A few seconds later, another buzz.
Gorgeous.
Then another.
It would fit perfectly in my hand if I were there.
She could feel it, the phantom weight of his palm, the heat of his skin against hers from earlier, now supercharged by the image she’d sent. The specificity of his words made her breath catch.
Another buzz.
Now I have a problem.
A slow smile spread across her face in the dark, wiping away the last traces of her fear. She typed back, her fingers steady.
I’m sure you can deal with that yourself.
She added, after a beat.
See you tomorrow.
She didn’t wait for a reply. She swung her legs out of bed, the floor cool under her feet, and padded into the bathroom. The plan was to shower, to wash the sweat and the strange, electric energy from her skin, to return to some semblance of normalcy. She set the phone down on the edge of the sink, the screen facing up.
As she reached for her toothbrush, it lit up.
See you tomorrow.
He’d returned her sign-off. That was all. A flicker of irritation pricked her. He could just shut it off, just like that? After everything? After that? She picked up her toothpaste, squeezing a stripe onto the brush with more force than necessary. She was considering a retort, something sharp about his emotional whiplash, when the phone buzzed again.
Wear a shirt without a button front tomorrow.
She put the toothbrush in her mouth, the mint sharp and clean. She chewed on the command, and the bristles, for a moment. Her eyes met her reflection in the mirror—flushed, hair messy, a wild light in her green eyes. She finished brushing, spat into the sink, rinsed her mouth. As she patted her lips dry with a towel, the phone buzzed once more.
She picked it up.
If you wear something I can easily tear off of you, I will pull you into a storage closet, rip off your shirt, and suck on your pretty nipples in the middle of the FBI offices.
A laugh burst out of her, short and disbelieving. The sheer, audacious gall of the man. The clinical detail of it. She tapped back, a smile still playing on her lips.
You better not, or I will report you to Human Resources.
His reply was almost immediate.
That’s the limit? No tearing your clothes off?
She leaned against the sink, considering. The boundaries were theirs to draw now. The old rules were ash. She typed slowly, deliberately.
The limit is not on the job.
She sent it and waited, watching the three dots appear and vanish, appear and vanish. He was parsing it, weighing every word. The implications unfolded in her own mind like a map. She had drawn a line, but she had also opened a territory.
The new message appeared.
So you’re saying I could tear your clothes off when we are not on the job?
She shook her head, a private smirk on her face. He was like a bloodhound on a scent. She ignored the direct question. She had given him enough to chew on.
I need to go shower now.
His response was swift.
Now I really have a problem.
She could picture him, alone in his Airstream, frustrated and aroused. The image gave her a profound sense of power. She typed her final word, putting a period on the night.
Goodnight.
A few seconds later, her screen lit up one final time.
Pic.
She rolled her eyes. Of course. She texted back.
No. Go to sleep.
The phone went dark and stayed dark. The silence this time felt complete, a truce. She stepped into the shower, letting the hot water sluice over her skin, washing away the night but not the memory of it.
The memory she kept, tucked close and warm, did nothing to calm the furious rhythm of her own heart as she stood before her closet the next morning. Her fingers drifted past the sensible blouses, the crisp button-downs, and paused on a simple sleeveless top made of soft, dove-gray jersey. It slipped over her head in one fluid motion, the fabric draping softly. She left her hair down, the dark waves brushing her shoulders.
She applied a subtle sweep of mascara, noting the faint shadows under her eyes that spoke of a restless night. A final glance in the mirror confirmed the look: professional, but undeniably softer. The neckline was a wide cowl, not low, but promising. It would take no more than a gentle tug to bare her shoulder. Satisfied, she pulled on her sweater, grabbed her bag and headed out into the humid Austin morning.
Patrick Jane stood for a moment in the relative quiet of the corridor outside the FBI bullpen, his hand resting on the cool metal of the door handle. He drew a long, steadying breath, willing his pulse to slow. His reflection in the narrow window of the door showed a man in a perfectly tailored linen shirt and grey suit, blonde hair artfully tousled, expression one of mild amusement. The picture of calm.
Beneath that surface, his blood thrummed. The ghost of her skin lived in his palm. The image she’d sent was seared onto the backs of his eyelids. He’d studied it in the blue glow of his Airstream, the curve of her breast, the provocative silhouette of the device in her hand, until the frustration had become a physical ache he’d had to resolve himself, alone in the dark. He’d imagined a dozen scenarios for this morning. Most of them ended with her slapping him, or worse, with a glacial professionalism that would rebuild the wall between them higher than ever.
He pushed the door open.
The bullpen’s familiar symphony greeted him: the clatter of keyboards, the low murmur of phone conversations, the scent of cheap coffee and toner. His eyes went immediately to her desk, a homing instinct he didn’t bother to fight. She was there, head bent over a file, a pen tapping against her lower lip. The morning light from the high windows caught the dark gloss of her hair. She was wearing gray, a soft-looking top that draped and moved with her. Not a button in sight.
A dizzying wave of heat washed through him. She’d listened. More than that, she’d chosen a garment that invited touch, that promised easy access. It was a silent, devastating reply to his late-night threat. He forced his feet to move, adopting a casual saunter as he made his way toward her.
“Morning, everyone,” he called, his voice pitched to its usual melodic cheer. He nodded at agents Wylie and Cho, who gave him curt nods in return, absorbed in their own work. His path took him unerringly toward her.
He stopped at the edge of her desk, leaning a hip against it. “Agent Lisbon.”
She looked up, and her green eyes were clear, alert, and held a spark of something that made his breath catch. Not anger. Not indifference. It was a look of quiet assessment, a hunter watching her prey walk into a clearing. “Jane. You’re late.”
“I was contemplating the profound ethical implications of Leo Vance’s grocery receipts,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Fascinating stuff. The man bought an alarming amount of artichoke hearts.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “That’s what kept you?”
“That,” he said, leaning forward just slightly, lowering his voice so only she could hear, “and a persistent, distracting memory. Quite vivid.”
Her pen stilled. She held his gaze, the charge between them crackling like static. He watched her throat work as she swallowed. “Sounds inconvenient.”
“You have no idea.” He let his eyes drift down, just for a second, to the cowl neckline of her top. The fabric gaped slightly with her posture, revealing the delicate hollow of her throat and a hint of the smooth, taut skin below. His fingers twitched with the impulse to touch. “Sleep well?”
“Eventually.” She straightened in her chair, and the movement made the fabric of her top shift, the neckline dipping for a fraction of a second over one shoulder before settling back. It was deliberate. A provocation. “You?”
“I had strange dreams.” He tapped a finger on the closed file before her. “About storage closets. And HR violations.”
Her smile widened, becoming real. It was like the sun coming out. “Troubling.”
“Deeply.” He pushed off from her desk, needing to put a foot of space between them before he did something irrevocable. “So. The Vance case. Any brilliant insights from the side of law and order?”
She opened the file, her demeanor shifting seamlessly into professional focus, though the warmth in her eyes remained. “A few. Traffic cam footage puts his car heading toward the lake, but there’s a seventeen-minute gap before it shows up on the other side of the park.” She spun her monitor around to show him the map. “Right here. This dead zone.”
Patrick pulled a visitor’s chair over and sat, their knees almost touching under the desk. He studied the map, his mind automatically engaging with the puzzle. “Seventeen minutes is a long time to pull over and change a tire.”
“Or to meet someone,” Teresa said, pointing to a faint service road etching. “Or to dump something heavy into the water.”
He glanced at her, admiring the clean logic of her mind. “You think the wife was waiting there?”
“I think someone was.” Her finger traced the route. “The timeline is tight. He left the office at 6:05, was seen at the gas station at 6:20, then vanishes here until 6:37. He was home by 7:00, according to his wife, acting ‘perfectly normal’.”
“A man who’s just committed murder is rarely ‘perfectly normal’,” Patrick mused, his eyes still on the map but his senses wholly attuned to the woman beside him. He could smell the clean, citrus scent of her shampoo. “Unless he’s a psychopath. Or unless he didn’t do it.”
“The blood in the trunk suggests otherwise.” She leaned back, and her knee brushed against his.
The contact was electric. A jolt shot straight up his thigh. He didn’t move his leg. Neither did she. They sat there, knees pressed together under the metal desk, discussing blood evidence and timelines, while an entirely different conversation screamed in the space between them.
“The blood is problematic,” he conceded, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat. “But it’s just a smear. Transfer pattern. Could have come from a loaded gym bag, a leaking package of meat.”
“You’re advocating for the artichoke-loving husband?” she asked, one eyebrow arched.
“I’m advocating for looking beyond the obvious.” He finally shifted, turning his body toward her. The movement made his knee press more firmly against hers. “The obvious suspect is often just the most convenient one. People see what they expect to see.”
“And what do you see?” she asked, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. Her gaze was intent, searching his face not for clues about the case, but about him.
He saw the faint freckle just above her collarbone, usually hidden by her starched collars. He saw the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat. He saw the woman who had sent him a photograph that had unraveled him, now sitting beside him looking utterly composed and in control. It was the most beautiful, terrifying thing he’d ever witnessed.
“I see a puzzle,” he said softly, holding her gaze. “With several very compelling pieces that don’t quite fit the official picture. And I’m wondering if one of those pieces is waiting in that seventeen-minute dead zone.”
A voice called from across the room. “Lisbon! Phone, line two. It’s the lab.”
The spell broke. Teresa blinked, giving a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head as if clearing it. She pulled her knee back and reached for her phone. “Lisbon.”
Patrick leaned back in his chair, putting a few more inches between them. His heart was still hammering against his ribs. He watched her as she listened, her brow furrowing, nodding. “Okay. Email it over. Thanks.”
She hung up and looked at him, all business again, but the air was still thick. “Lab confirmed the blood is Vance’s. They also found a single synthetic fiber, dark blue, caught in the trunk’s latch. Not from any of his clothes or the wife’s.”
“A fiber,” Patrick repeated, a genuine spark of interest cutting through the personal fog. “From the killer’s clothing, perhaps. Or from a blanket used to transport the body.”
“Maybe.” She stood up abruptly, smoothing her hands down her slacks. “I want to go see that dead zone. Walk the ground. You coming?”
He rose to his feet, a slow smile spreading across his face. This was their dance, their true language. The push and pull of a mystery. “A scenic drive with you, Lisbon? I wouldn’t miss it.”
She grabbed her sweater from the back of her chair, slipping it on but leaving it unbuttoned. “Then stop grinning like a fool and get your things. And bring the file.”
He watched her walk toward the elevator, the soft gray fabric of her top whispering with her movement. He had walked in braced for a battle, or a bitter frost. He had found neither. He had found a challenge, a collaboration, and a heat that threatened to melt every last one of his careful defenses. He collected the file, his fingers lingering on the manila cover.
As he followed her to the elevator, he knew with crystalline certainty that the seventeen-minute gap in the case file wasn’t the only mystery they were investigating today. The far more dangerous, exhilarating puzzle was standing by the elevator doors, waiting for him, her green eyes holding a promise that had his heart pounding all over again.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft gasp, sealing them in a stainless-steel world of their own. The hum of the bullpen faded, replaced by the smoother mechanical drone of descent. Teresa leaned against the handrail, watching the floor numbers blink down. “You’re quiet,” she said, not looking at him.
“I’m observing,” Patrick replied, his gaze fixed on her reflection in the polished metal doors. “The drape of that fabric is very distracting. It doesn’t crease. It flows.”
A faint blush colored her neck. “It’s just a shirt, Jane.”
“Is it?” He took a single step closer, closing the distance so his voice wouldn’t have to travel far. “It looks like a declaration.”
The elevator chimed. The doors opened to the stark, echoing concrete of the underground garage. The cooler air smelled of exhaust and damp. She walked out ahead of him, her boots clicking with definitive purpose. “The declaration is that we have a crime scene to view. Keep up.”
He fell into step beside her, matching her stride. “I always do.”
Her sedan was a tidy, unremarkable gray. She unlocked it with a chirp and slid behind the wheel. Patrick settled into the passenger seat, the space immediately filling with the scent of her—clean linen and that faint citrus. He watched her buckle her seatbelt, the strap pulling taut across the soft gray fabric of her top, accentuating the curve beneath. She noticed his look.
“Eyes on the road, or on the case file,” she said, starting the engine.
“They’re the same thing today,” he said lightly, but he opened the folder on his lap. He studied the map. “Take the river road. The access point is just past the old boat hire.”
She navigated out of the garage and into the Austin glare. The silence in the car was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was a waiting silence. The city gradually gave way to scrubland and the winding road alongside the Colorado River. After twenty minutes, she slowed, tires crunching on gravel. “There. The service road.”
It was little more than a dirt track diving into a thicket of live oaks and undergrowth. She parked where the pavement ended. The silence here was profound, broken only by the whisper of wind through leaves and the distant cry of a hawk. They got out, the car doors shutting with solid thunks that seemed too loud.
“Seventeen minutes,” Teresa said, scanning the area. Her professional demeanor was fully engaged, her eyes missing nothing. “He turns off here. Does what he needs to do. Gets back on the main road.”
Patrick walked a few paces down the track, his shoes sinking slightly into the soft earth. The ground was dry and cracked. “Recent rain was four days ago. The night Vance disappeared.” He crouched, peering at the ground. “Tire tracks are older, sun-baked. But look here.”
She joined him, kneeling in the dirt beside him without hesitation. Her shoulder brushed his. He pointed to a disturbed patch of earth, a vague depression surrounded by scuff marks near the tree line. “Not a tire mark. Something was dragged. Or someone.”
She pulled a small digital camera from her pocket and snapped several pictures. “Too wide for a body. A container, maybe.” She rose, brushing her knees. “A heavy one. The grass is still flattened.”
They moved together into the dappled shade of the trees, the temperature dropping a few degrees. Patrick’s eyes swept the ground, the branches, looking for the incongruous. A flash of color. A break in the natural pattern. His mind worked double-time, parsing the crime scene and the woman moving through it beside him, all acute angles and focused intensity.
“Over here,” Teresa called. She was standing by a thick cedar, pointing at a low, broken branch. “Fresh break. Sap is still soft.”
Patrick went to her. The break was at waist height. “Something caught on it.” He leaned close, his nose almost touching the wood. “A fiber. Dark blue.” He carefully didn’t touch it. “Synthetic. Same as the lab found.”
“He stopped here,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Transferred something from the car. This is the dump site.” She turned in a slow circle, her gaze raking the dense undergrowth leading down toward the river’s edge. “It’s heavy. He wouldn’t carry it far.”
They moved down the slope, careful on the loose soil. The sound of the river grew louder, a low, constant rush. The air grew damper. At the water’s edge, the ground turned to mud. Patrick stopped, his eyes locked on the ground. “Lisbon.”
She was beside him in an instant. There, clearly pressed into the dark mud, was a single footprint. It was large, a man’s, with a distinctive zigzag tread pattern. “He carried the weight down here,” she said, her voice tight with excitement. “The soil’s too soft for dragging. He had to heft it.”
Patrick studied the print. “Size eleven. Maybe twelve. Work boot, not a dress shoe.” He looked back up the slope toward the car. “Vance wore loafers, size ten. This isn’t him.”
Their eyes met. A current, hotter than the Texas sun, passed between them. It was the click of a puzzle piece snapping into place, fused with the electric recognition of their own shared discovery. “So someone else was here,” she said, the implications unfolding. “He met someone. Or he was forced off the road.”
“Or,” Patrick said, taking a step closer to her. The river’s rush filled the space. “He was an accomplice. The blood in the trunk was his, but it got there while he was helping move his own wife’s body.”
Teresa held his gaze, her mind visibly racing through the new scenario. “That would explain the ‘perfectly normal’ behavior afterward. No guilt if he was in on it.” She looked back at the footprint, then at him. The professional thrill in her eyes was unmistakable, and it mirrored his own. “We need a cast of this. Now.”
“I have a kit in the car,” she said, already turning to climb back up.
He caught her wrist. His fingers circled the delicate bones. The contact was a jolt. She froze, halfway turned, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her skin was warm under his touch.
“You knew,” he said, his voice low, almost lost in the river’s noise. “About the shirt. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
She didn’t pull away. Her green eyes were unreadable. “I follow the evidence, Jane. You taught me that.”
“This isn’t evidence.” His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse. “This is a counter-move.”
“Is it working?” Her question was a whisper, a challenge thrown into the humid air between them.
He didn’t answer with words. He tugged, gently, pulling her back a step toward him. She came, her boots shifting in the mud. The world narrowed to the point where his skin met hers, to the sound of the water, to the faint scent of her shampoo cutting through the earthy decay of the riverbank. His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone above the neckline of her top. The fabric was as soft as he’d imagined.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes searched his face, looking for the con, the joke. She found only a stark, wanting honesty that startled them both.
A shout echoed from the road above, distant but clear. “Lisbon? Jane? You down there?”
It was Cho’s voice. Teresa blinked, the spell shattering. She took a quick step back, his hand falling from her wrist. “We’re here!” she called back, her voice remarkably steady. She cleared her throat, adjusted her sweater, and became an FBI agent again. “We found a print. We need the casting kit.”
Patrick watched the transformation, a sharp pang of loss cutting through him. The moment was gone, folded back into the case. She was already climbing the slope, all business. He followed, his mind already compartmentalizing. The footprint. The fiber. The seventeen minutes.
But his blood still sang from the touch of her skin, and the memory of her pulse racing under his thumb was a piece of evidence more compelling than any plaster cast. As they reached the car where Cho waited, Patrick knew the real investigation had just become infinitely more complex, and the stakes had permanently, dangerously changed.