He couldn’t shoot worth a damn with his left hand, and Resa knew nothing at all about guns or shooting. Neither one of them would ever make good on their dream of stopping the Lock Rapist.
She left the gun on the counter and flexed her fingers. Just as he was about to tap her shoulder, she went still.
She realized he was there. She turned, removing the ear protectors and sent him a narrow glance.
“What do you think you’re doing with that gun?” he growled.
Her dark-green eyes flashed. “Learning how to shoot it, Detective.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “You’ll never learn like that,” he growled through clenched teeth. “And I told you I’m not a detective. Call me Geoff, or Archer.”
Something dark and soft flickered in her green eyes for an instant. “Sorry. I’ll be more careful, Mr. Archer.”
Mr. Archer. Was she deliberately trying to rile him? If so, she was doing a damn good job of it.
“I thought you were going to come back during the day and see Frank.”
“That was your idea. I told you Frank can’t help me with what I want.”
“All right, I’ll bite. What do you want?”
Her gaze faltered. She looked down at her fingers. “I want you to teach me how to protect myself.”
His jaw ached from clenching. He ought to turn on his heel right now. He sure as hell shouldn’t keep talking to her. “Protect yourself from whom? And why me?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. Suddenly she looked tired and small and vulnerable.
He steeled himself against the feeling that he should be nicer to her. Nice wasn’t going to keep her from doing something stupid. Nice wouldn’t keep her safe.
He’d had enough. Time to stop dancing around the truth. “I know who you are.”
Her back stiffened. “Do you?”
“Yes, I do. And I know that there’s a firing range about four miles from your brand-new apartment complex. So why did you come all the way out here to Cheatham County—three times that distance, to stand in a firing lane and stare at your empty gun?”
She shrugged, but her effort to appear nonchalant failed. “I heard about your range—”
He cut her off. “No, you didn’t. I don’t advertise. I don’t give lessons.”
“But you are open to the public.”
“Unfortunately.” His accountant had recommended that he make the range available to the public. He couldn’t afford to maintain the house just on his pension and his teaching salary. “But this range is primarily for my personal use and for the use of the Nashville P.D.”
She shrugged. “Well, your day manager, Frank, took my money quickly enough and assigned me a firing lane. You let me know if I’m taking up valuable space that your police buddies could be using.” She started to turn back to the range, but he caught her arm.
“You came here because of me, didn’t you?” He glared at her.
Resa swallowed and tried to look innocent. She hadn’t realized it herself at first. She’d convinced herself that she needed her days free for designing, sewing and client fittings.
She’d made friends with Frank, and through their conversations she’d found out that Archer spent his mornings at Tennessee State University where he taught two graduate courses in Criminal Justice. Then he drove to Vanderbilt Medical Center for two hours a day of physical therapy on his hand.
It had taken her a few days to admit to herself that she’d changed to evenings so she could see him.
All those thoughts rushed through her head in the few seconds while Archer took a deep breath.
“Don’t give me that wide-eyed look,” he said. “If you think I’m going to help you because we’ve both been affected by the Lock Rapist, you can get that out of your head right now.”
“Affected?” She stared at him. “Mr. Archer, people are affected by a sad movie or an unexpected compliment.”
Archer felt pinned by her dark-green eyes. “What do you want me to say? That he ripped our lives to shreds?” The words rasped in his throat. “Okay. I’ll give you that.”
She glanced down at his right hand, which was aching with the effort to hold on to her arm. When she looked back up, he saw that same soft, dark flicker in her eyes that he’d seen before. He jerked his hand away.
“You haven’t told me why you came here. Why me?”
“If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here.” She wrapped her arms around herself and looked at a point beyond his shoulder. “My sister left her husband in June of last year. She’d had enough of his drinking and violence. She came to stay with me to—as she put it—absorb some of my strength.” She laughed shortly. “If she only knew.”
He waited.
“Anyhow, she was doing really well. By December, she’d decided to file for divorce. But—”
“But she was attacked.”
She nodded, looking down. Her fingertips whitened as she tightened her grip on her arms. “It destroyed her. She was never strong—” Resa raised her gaze to his. “She depended on me to keep her safe. And I didn’t.”
Pain sliced through Archer’s chest. She depended on me. How many times had he thought the same thing? Resa’s sister sounded a lot like his wife. Fragile. Fearful. She’d depended on him to protect her. And he’d failed.
He and Resa were more alike than he’d realized. And he hated it. He didn’t want to be like her. He sure as hell didn’t want to know how she felt, or recognize how badly she hurt.
Resolutely, he pushed his own pain and regret back where it belonged, in the lockbox where he kept his heart. “So what now? You’re going to become a one-woman vigilante force and go after the guy the Nashville P.D. hasn’t been able to catch in three years?”
Her face turned bright pink, but she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I want to learn how to protect myself.”
Archer felt something break inside him. He tried to ignore it, but it was too late. The box around his heart had developed a crack, and compassion was leaking out and taunting him with his failure.
He hadn’t been able to save his wife. Hadn’t been able to stop the attacks. Could he leave Resa alone to face the monster who’d destroyed both their lives? He knew he couldn’t.
“Put your ear protectors on,” he said. He dug in his jeans’ pocket for a pair of earplugs and stuck them in his ears. “Can you hear me?”
She nodded. “Barely.”
“Good. Pick up the gun.”
Her head turned toward him. “You’re going to teach me? I thought you said—”
He shrugged. “I’d have a mess to clean up if you blew off your toe, or someone else’s.”
He heard a quiet huff. It almost made him smile.
She picked up the Glock 19 9mm. It was a compact gun, ideal for carrying as a concealed weapon.
“First thing—every time you pick up your weapon, check to see if it’s loaded.” His voice cracked. Self-loathing blanketed him. He knew better than to leave his gun loaded. Knew better than to leave it in plain view on his dresser. But it was too late now.
“It’s loaded,” Resa said. “I loaded it a little while ago. For the first time.”