The doctor inclined his head. “Yes. He’s lucky you got him here as quickly as you did.” His gaze shifted, belated but earnest, settling on Stella. A quick flush of contrition showed in his expression. “Mrs. Burton? Forgive me—your husband is awake, though groggy. You can see him now, but keep it brief. We’ll be running more scans tomorrow.”
Relief softened Stella’s features, but she didn’t falter. She gave the doctor a steady nod, fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Rick laid a hand on her shoulder, and she squeezed it once in silent gratitude before moving past him, heels tapping toward the room. She slipped inside without a word, her presence already filling the space beyond the glass.
He lingered in the hallway with the doctor, shifting his weight, watching through the narrow window as she went to her husband’s side. Frank looked ashen against the sheets, but his chest rose steady and strong, and his mouth curved faintly as Stella took his hand. Rick’s jaw eased, a weight uncoiling inside him. Frank was going to be fine. That was the headline, and for now, it was all that mattered. “You’ll keep him under watch?”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “He’s in good hands.”
“Appreciate it, Doc.” He touched the brim of his hat and turned on his heel. Time was running short. The pull in his gut was getting stronger, that low growl in his blood that told him the moon was climbing. He needed to get off these whitewashed floors and behind the wheel, get home before the change came clawing out of him.
The night swallowed him again as he pushed through the hospital doors, the Eldorado waiting, chrome gleaming under the streetlamps. He didn’t look back.
{ VII }
Friday, October 27
Chapter Thirty-Five
(12:09 a.m.)
If someone had told Ash he’d be at the police station after midnight, willingly, he would’ve laughed in their face. Yet here he was, in Calgrave Central’s entrance hall, desperate enough to beg for someone to talk to him. He hadn’t planned on showing up, but after half a dozen calls to CMPD’s main line—all met with polite stonewalling—he’d decided the direct approach was faster. And if ‘faster’ meant annoying the hell out of some cop until they slipped, so be it.
“Look,” Ash said, mustering his most disarming smile, “I just need to talk to Detective Slade. He’s not answering his cell, and it’s urgent.”
The desk sergeant was a broad, doughy man with the kind of weary face that looked carved from stale bread. His nameplate readJ. Higgins,and his eyes held all the warmth of a dead fish. “Yeah, well, detectives don’t give their addresses out to the general public,” Higgins replied, tone flat as asphalt. “And unless this is about an active case, you’ll need to make an appointment.”
Ash drummed his fingers on the granite counter, the sound sharp in the vaulted quiet. Above, the chandelier’s brass arms gleamed like spider legs, casting fractured light across geometric patterns on the marble floor. “You think I came all the way up here to talk about the weather?”
Higgins didn’t blink. Somewhere beyond the ornate railings, a keyboard clattered in short, irritable bursts. “I told you,” the sergeant said, “Slade’s out. I can leave a message.”
Ash leaned forward, smile thinning.Brick wall. Always the brick walls.The restless charge still hummed under his skin—Rick’s scent, Rick’s touch, the memory of his mouth—making every nerve sing like a live wire. Patience had never been his strong suit, and tonight it was paper-thin. “I don’t think you understand,” he said softly, lowering his voice until it brushed the sergeant’s ear like velvet. He let his gaze linger, let heat unfurl in the edges of his tone, coaxing, inviting. “Ineedto see him. Rightnow.”
For a second, Higgins’ pupils dilated, his shoulders slackening as though gravity itself had eased its grip. The chandelier buzzed, then stuttered, its dozens of bulbs flickering like dying stars. A tremor ran through the gilded framework, shadows lurching across the patterned marble tiles. And then—crack. A few of the bulbs burst in a shower of sparks and glass.
Higgins swore, startled, his hand flying to shield his face. The counter phone shrieked with static and went dead. A vending machine near the wall spat coins onto the floor with a metallic clatter. Radios on the officers’ belts sputtered nonsense, coughing out fractured syllables before collapsing into white noise.
In the sudden dimness, chaos broke loose. Chairs screeched against the marble, officers shouting over one another. Someone stumbled and sent a stack of paperwork scattering like white doves. A young patrolman sprinted for the breaker room; another tried slapping his radio, swearing that comms were fried. The whole lobby throbbed with nervous confusion, a hive rattled from its order.
Ash cursed inwardly.Again.Too much. He’d pushed too hard, and the force inside him had spilled over. His pulse quickened, and for a moment, he thought the entire station might black out.
Through the blur of voices and shuffling bodies, he noticed one solitary figure: a young man in a lab coat, frozen mid-step, staring at him. He was thin, brown-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on a narrow nose, and the awkward stoop of someone more used to shadows than the spotlight. Yet his eyes, slightly magnified behind the lenses, had snagged on Ash with an intensity that belied his posture. Wide, startled, as if he’d stumbled into a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.
Ash recognized that look. He’d seen it a thousand times on men and women alike, on strangers who lingered too long at the club’s edge. Hunger, hiding behind awe. He pounced on it.
“Hello,” he said, closing the space between them. “These clowns are useless, and I need to reach Detective Slade. Maybe you can help me out?”
The young man jerked, clutching a folder in front of his chest like it might ward Ash off. “I—I’m just a coroner’s assistant,” he stammered, voice paper-thin. “Gordon Cooper. I was on my way to—”
“Listen, Gordon,” Ash cut him off, his tone edged with impatience. “This is urgent.”
“Well, as far as I know, Slade checked out hours ago.” Gordon’s nervous smile twitched, vanishing almost instantly. “He should be home, I guess.”
Ash stepped closer, close enough for his shadow to swallow the technician’s polished shoes. “Home,” he echoed, voice low. “And where’s that?”
Gordon’s mouth gave a helpless twitch. “I—I wouldn’t know.”
Ash let his eyes half-close, lashes lowering into a sultry heaviness. “Can you find out? Please, Gordon.”
