What the fuck was I going to tell Raelynn? How the fuck was I going to tell her?
I grit my teeth hard enough that my jaw aches. “CSU and the detective need to hurry their asses up.”
Several minutes later, the stairwell swells with bodies—CSU techs hauling cases that clatter against the steps, the medical examiner lugging his kit behind them, and extra uniforms squeezing into the narrow hall until the air feels stifling. And then comes Detective Martin.
Martin (or Fucktard, as I call him) strolls in like he owns the place. No urgency. No respect. Just that smug, lazy stride that makes my teeth grind. Meyer and I clash more often than not, but I’d take her clipped orders and sharp tongue over Martin’s empty swagger any day. At least she gives a damn.
When he finally steps inside the apartment, it isn’t reverence for the dead I see in his face—it’s the self-importance of a man who thinks the world can wait on him.
I brief him on what we found, and he immediately dumps scene security back on me, because it is at this time that the damn neighbors decide they want to be nosy. Figures.
Doors creak open, whispers crawl up the hallway like a tide of insects. Because sure, the sight of half the damn department—cops, crime scene techs, a detective, and the ME—all cramming into a stairwell since the elevator’s busted… yeah, that draws attention. But a girl screaming for her life? A cop pounding on her door before kicking it off the hinges? That didn’t stir them from their holes. If they’d been nosy when it mattered, maybe Khloe would still be alive. I doubt it. But it’s a lie I wish I could believe.
The murmurs grind on me, each one scratching against already raw nerves. People piss me off on a good day, and tonight isn’t one of those. Kline must see the tension in my jaw, the stiffness in my shoulders, because he quietly takes over perimeter control, shoving rubberneckers back inside with the authority I’m about to lose.
It should buy me a moment, but it doesn’t. Because just as I think I’ve got myself under control again, the ME crouches, seals Khloe into the black bag, and drags the zipper closed. The sound cuts through me like a blade—sharp, final, and it tears through me worse than the sight of her body on the floor. They cart her off as evidence instead of a girl whose laugh I can still hear in my head, still see teasing Raelynn just a few nights ago.
The rage comes back hot, bubbling over until I’m ready to walk out.
Fuck the paperwork. Fuck talking to the only witness we have. Fuck waiting for Detective Fucktard to permit me to leave.
Because Raelynn doesn’t know.
She’s home right now, blissfully unaware. She doesn’t know that one of her best friends is headed for a slab in the morgue. And the thought of her finding out from the evening news—or from anyone but me—burns acid in my throat.
She deserves better than that. She deserves to hear it from me.
To my surprise, Martin waves me, Kline, and the extra uniforms off not long after Khloe is carted away. The neighbors finally retreat behind their doors, the hallway falling back into uneasy silence. CSU is still combing through every inch of the place, logging, photographing, and bagging what’s left of the night. There’s nothing more I can do here but write the report.
And I can’t stay another second.
By the time I shove the building’s door open, rain is coming down again, cold and relentless. It soaks through my uniform as I cross the lot, plastering fabric to my skin. I don’t even care. My boots splash through puddles, and I climb into my cruiser, shutting the door on the storm. I flick off the light bar, jam the key into the ignition, and peel out of the lot, desperate to put distance between me and that apartment.
Hours blur together. It’s past midnight by the time I finish the supplemental report, nearly one when I finally sign out at the station. My nerves buzz like static under my skin as I cross the empty lot to my truck. The rain has slowed to a mist, clinging cold against my face, but it does nothing to quiet the storm in my head.
I climb into the cab, twist the key. The engine rumbles awake, the radio sputtering to life with a burst of static. I snap it off immediately, leaving only the steady thrum of the motor and my pulse in my ears before throwing my truck into drive and pulling out of the lot.
The drive to Raelynn’s apartment should take fifteen minutes. I shave it down to almost ten, speeding through the slick streets like distance alone is the enemy.
I wish I were pulling up under different circumstances. I wish I could be here to keep my word from Friday night and finally give us both what we wanted. Instead, I’m here to shatter her world. To deliver another loss she doesn’t deserve.
By the time I roll into the lot, my chest feels tight enough to split. I kill the engine, step out into the damp air. Each step toward her door drags, heavier than the last. The closer I get, the harder my chest tightens—because I know what waits on the other side isn’t relief, or comfort. It’s heartbreak. And I’m the one about to hand it to her.
Finally, I’m there. Standing in front of her door, staring at the wood grain like it might swallow me whole. My hand hovers, useless for a beat as I pull in a deep breath, forcing my pulse to steady as I raise my fist.
And then I knock.
And a cell phone lying face up on the floor, its screen spiderwebbed.
SEVENTEEN
RAELYNN
The microwave hums low,its steady drone the only sound in the apartment. I lean against the counter, arms folded, eyes locked on the red digits ticking down. 0:39… 0:38… 0:37. The smell of buttered popcorn fills the kitchen, thick and salty, a small comfort in the silence. At my feet, Max waits like he always does, tail sweeping against the tile in slow, steady arcs, his gaze locked on me with patient hunger. He knows what’s coming.
I should be asleep. God knows I need it with my alarm set before six. But sleep never comes easily anymore. My insomnia’s a cruel bastard, showing up only when I’m bone-tired before kicking my brain into overdrive the second my head hits the pillow. So here I am—midnight creeping past—feeding the silence with junk food and reruns ofThe Rookie.
The timer hits zero and the microwave beeps. I pop the door open, and hot steam rolls out, curling around my face. I give the bag a few shakes to coat the kernels, before tearing it open. Max’s restraint lasts exactly two seconds. He lifts a paw and taps my leg, his eyes wide and pleading as drool dribbles from the sides of his chops.
