Recognition slams into him.
He forces out a breath, slow and strained, like he’s pushing it past a boulder lodged in his chest.
“This is 2-L-17,” he says into the radio, voice quieter than before, flattened out, controlled through sheer will. “Confirming a DOA. Notify Sergeant Rodriguez. We’re going to need a CSU and a detective at Blacklidge Drive and First Avenue.”
He releases the mic but doesn’t move. His gloved hand lingers near the victim’s shoulder as he stares, unmoving.
From where I stand, I don’t need to hear his thoughts. I can see it.
The stillness in his face. The tightness in his jaw clenched harder than before, and there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there a minute ago—something brittle and distant. It isn’t the kind of detached composure I’ve seen him wear before. No. This is different.
He knows her.
TEN
EMILIO
It’s the bartender.
Even under grime and the first ragged bloom of decay, even with bruises mapping her face like a bad roadmap, some things don’t lie.
The red top—ripped and stained—is the same one she wore the night Kline and I hit Zeke’s.
A week ago.
Fuck.
My jaw tightens until my molars ache as I look down at her. She’s splayed in the drainage wash like a discarded ragdoll, limbs tangled in garbage and tumbleweed, hair matted to her forehead with grit and something darker. The smell hits me in a low, metallic wash that pushes bile at the back of my throat.
She served me drinks.
She joked with Kline.
She was so full of life.
Now she’s just another body, waiting for a toe tag and a press release.
Behind me, I feel Raelynn watching. I turn, just for a second, and meet her eyes. There’s something there that is not only sympathy. It’s sharper: curiosity, intuition, suspicion.
She’s probably watched enough crime shows, or something, to know the cadence of recognition when it lands on someone. She knows I recognized this woman. If she doesn’t yet, she will once Detective Meyer arrives and the questions start to land.
I motion for her to follow and head up the embankment. Gravel skitters under my boots; each step throws up a dry, dusty cloud. Raelynn moves a few steps behind, breaths a little uneven, gaze fixed on the scrubby channel below like she’s memorizing the angles of the scene. The wind plays through the barbed reeds, and the caution tape snaps like a small flag.
We barely make it to level ground when an unmarked black Dodge Charger rolls into the lot, its engine cutting as it pulls up beside my cruiser. The front door opens with that deliberate, practiced movement, and Detective Eliza Meyer steps out.
Auburn hair cascades in loose, polished waves down her back, catching the morning sunlight and glowing like embers. Her deep purple silk blouse is sleek and fitted, tucked neatly into tailored black dress pants that hug her frame with precision. The sharp click of her polished leather boots marks each step as she approaches, her badge catching the light from its place beside a matte black sidearm holstered on her hip.
Her smooth and naturally sun-kissed skin adds to the impression she always seems to give off—composed, focused, and completely in control.
“Perez,” she calls as she makes her way toward the scene. “Fill me in.”
Her eyes shift briefly to Raelynn. “Good morning, Miss Carson,” she says, her voice level and professional, lips curving into a soft, polite smile.
“Good morning, Detective,” Raelynn replies. Her voice is calm, measured—but I can still hear it. That subtle waver beneath the words. She’s not focused on Meyer.
She’s focused on me.
And I can’t blame her. She saw the shift in my expression the second I laid eyes on the body. She’s sharp—sharper than most interns I’ve met.
