Silent Fall

who knows what tomorrow will bring. It seems odd that you haven’t connected with Erica again."
    "I think I tap into her fear. Maybe she’s not afraid right now."
    "I hope she’s found a safe place to hide. I wish she’d call me back, though." His cell phone had remained ominously silent for the past few hours.
    "Well, good night." Catherine moved toward the door, then stopped, turning back to him. "Have you ever been in love?"
    "Where did that question come from?" he asked warily.
    "I just wondered. Erica was a one-night stand. I’m sure there have been other women. But what about a real relationship?"
    "I don’t do relationships," he said bluntly.
    "Not ever?"
    "No. And I don’t intend to start."
    "Your brother’s happy marriage hasn’t put you a little more in favor of the idea?"
    He shook his head. "I’m not husband or father material."
    "How would you know that?"
    "I just do. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree."
    Her gaze narrowed. "You’re not your father."
    "His blood runs through my veins. As much as I’d like to believe we’re completely different, I don’t think we are. Go to bed, Catherine, and stop trying to convince me or yourself that I’m someone I’m not."
    She looked like she wanted to argue, but after a moment of internal debate she left the room.
    Dylan blew out a breath of relief at her exit and sat back in his chair. Rubbing his eyes, he knew he needed a break from the computer. He got up and stretched out on the couch. Despite his physical exhaustion, his mind spun with unanswered questions, all of them traveling back to the most basic question of all -- how the hell had he gotten into this mess? He’d gone from having complete control over his life to having no control whatsoever, from being a respected TV news reporter to being a fugitive on the run, from living by a defined set of beliefs to not knowing what was real and what wasn’t. He was starting to sound like Catherine.
    And she was another problem. She was really getting to him. He didn’t like how easily she read his thoughts or how perceptive she was. He liked being the man of mystery. He preferred being a person whom no one could quite figure out, but Catherine kept challenging him. She didn’t buy into his act. She kept making him wonder if he was really who he wanted to be.
    Damn her. Shaking his head, he tried to force her face, her body, her touch, her kiss out of his mind. She’d been so proud earlier, so full of joyous satisfaction at having gotten into Erica’s house. She’d glowed in a way he’d never seen before. There was a new spark in her dark-blue eyes. She was coming alive. And he couldn’t wait to see her go all the way.
    But not tonight, he told himself, tempted to go upstairs and take them both for a ride. He knew she wouldn’t say no. She might not think it was a good idea, but once they touched each other neither one of them would be thinking anymore.
    Letting out a breath, he forced his mind off of Catherine, back to Erica. He brought up Ravino’s image, too. He remembered quite clearly the steel glint of anger in the senator’s eyes when he’d been arrested, when he’d looked at Dylan and realized a reporter had tracked down some of his biggest secrets. Ravino would love to get even. The only puzzling piece was not only why , but also how Ravino could get Erica to help him. If they were connected there had to be some proof that they’d spoken. Some phone somewhere had to have recorded that trail, or an e-mail could have been sent, or perhaps Ravino had used an intermediary, someone on the outside, someone who could get to Erica, make a persuasive case.
    Of course, the real beauty of the plot would be to kill Erica and frame him, Dylan, for her murder, thereby getting rid of them both.
    He should probably go to the jail tomorrow and confront Ravino. Maybe the man would give something away. It was worth a try.
    Feeling restless and revved up again, Dylan got up and went back to the desk. But as his fingers hovered over the computer keyboard, his eye was drawn to a photograph of his grandmother and his father on one of the bookshelves across the room. He wondered again if she’d ever known what a bastard her son was, and what she’d known about his mother. He should have asked her at some point over the years, but she’d never brought up the subject, and neither had he.