ME:
I’m on the swing shift this week, so you won’t see me at work anyway. But I’m free on Friday.
The message sends with a softwhoosh, and I keep my eyes fixed on the screen, imagining the exact moment she reads it. The way her face will light up. The nervous little smile she won’t be able to hide. Hell, maybe she’s chewing that lip again, right now, wondering what the hell to say back.
The thought makes me grin, but it’s cut short when the radio chirps, sharp and insistent, snagging my attention and dragging me back to reality.
“All units, be advised—Priority One. Possible home invasion in progress at an apartment complex, 2400 block of North Stone Avenue.”
The words snap me out of my thoughts instantly. My phone slips from my hand and lands on the passenger seat as I grab the radio.
“2-L-17, copy. I’m a half mile out. Responding Code 3.”
I slam the handset back into its cradle, and my body moves on instinct—lights, siren, gearshift. The red and blue lightbar ignites the wet street, throwing warped reflections across windshields and puddles as the siren’s wail tears into the night. I drop the cruiser into gear and floor it, engine growling as I push through traffic.
“This is 2-L-17. I’m on scene,” I announce into the radio, voice clipped, steady, betraying none of the adrenaline alreadyhumming in my veins. “Standing by for backup. Beginning perimeter check.”
I cut the siren but leave the light bar going—red and blue pulses throb across the lot, washing the rain-slick pavement in color, bouncing off windshields, ricocheting off the tired stucco walls. Stone Ridge Heights towers above me. Six stories of weathered beige, paint bleached and streaked from too many summers, and chipped black trim curling like old bark. Rust chews through the fire escapes bolted to the face of the building, and water trails in thin lines down the metal, dripping onto the cracked sidewalk below. Under the pulsing light, the rust looks like dried blood running in rivulets down the walls.
The handset clicks back into its cradle as I shoulder the door open. My boots splash into shallow puddles, water spraying against my pant legs, the sharp tang of wet asphalt mixing with the heavy scent of motor oil hanging in the air. The mist hasn’t lifted, clinging to everything, making sounds carry strangely and muffled.
Instinct takes over. My hand brushes the Glock at my hip, the weight familiar, grounding. But I don’t draw yet. Instead, I unclip my flashlight and flick it on. The beam cuts through the mist in a narrow cone as I sweep the lot, forcing myself to take in every detail, one at a time.
A TV flickers through a half-drawn curtain on the second floor, the screen strobing blue and white. Somewhere below, muffled chatter leaks from a first-floor unit—casual, almost bored voices, like nothing’s wrong. I’m rather surprised no one has peeked out their windows to see what’s going on. People are inherently nosey. But then my light catches something that makes my jaw tighten: an open window on the fourth floor.
Purple curtains billow against the damp air, flapping faintly in the breeze. I shift my eyes, noting the fire escape ladder has been pulled down. Someone has recently gone up or down it.
I key the mic on my vest. “Dispatch, confirm—any additional calls from this location?”
Static hums back for a moment too long, making my pulse quicken, before the line crackles to life, a woman’s voice cutting through the quiet.
“Affirmative. Another call came shortly after the first.”
My grip tightens around the flashlight. “What was reported?”
“Caller said they heard screams and what sounded like a struggle coming from an adjacent unit.”
A cold knot twists in my gut. “Did we get a unit number?”
“Apartment 4018,” Dispatch confirms.
I tilt my head back, beam aimed higher. The window gapes black now, swallowing the light whole.
I press the mic again, voice low and firm. “Copy. How far out is my backup?”
The reply is immediate.
“2-L-21 is two minutes out. Sit tight.”
I exhale through my nose, jaw tight. Two minutes. Two long minutes. I force myself to keep moving, sweeping the light across stairwells, darkened corners, the narrow gaps between parked cars. Every shadow feels heavier than it should, stretched long by the pulsing red and blue, twitching at the edges of my vision like they’re waiting to move.
Then, faint at first, I hear them—sirens. Cutting through the wet night, building fast. Relief and urgency spike in equal measure.
Headlights swing into the lot, tires hissing on wet pavement. Another cruiser rolls in hard, light bar already strobing. The beams of red and blue double mine, throwing the whole building into a violent wash of color.
The car brakes to a stop just a few feet from where I stand, and the driver’s door pops open. Kline climbs out, jaw set as his eyes land on mine.
“Fill me in,” he says, voice low.
