They fell into stride together, shoulders brushing as they walked down the corridor. Rick caught the faint brush of Ash’s sleeve against his coat—nothing, really, yet it set his pulse off-beat. He told himself to keep walking, to keep his thoughts clean, but the awareness lingered.
“Lunch?” he asked.
“Sure,” Ash said.
The glass doors opened onto rain-slick pavement and the greedy sprawl of Calgrave beyond, wet and gray. The Eldorado sat waiting on the lot, its chrome gleaming in the drizzle. Ash slid into the passenger seat like he belonged there. Rick circled to the driver’s side, wishing they had more time, something more than a stolen breath, before the world closed in again.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
(6:27 p.m.)
Ash couldn’t believe he was hereagain. Calgrave’s police headquarters, of all places. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Last night, he’d stormed in flustered and desperate, demanding Rick’s address like some jilted lover; now he was climbing the grand stairs practically hand in hand with the CMPD’s golden boy. Voluntary, almost eager. He’d spent years avoiding cops, and here he was, strolling right into their lair for the sake of one broad-shouldered detective who’d somehow gotten under his skin. If irony had teeth, it was chewing his bones.
Rick moved beside him with that unbothered stride, a man at home in marble sanctuaries of law. Ash kept his own steps casual, almost insolent, but the dome of the ceiling pressed on him all the same. He, who lived most of his nights in bars and backrooms, felt the hush of judgment in its solemn, echoing air.
The same desk sergeant from last night—Higgins—manned his post, shoulders stiffening the moment Ash drifted into view. His jaw unhinged, as if words had turned to shrapnel on his tongue, and he half-rose from his chair before catching sight of Rick at Ash’s side. Whatever protest he’d been about to utter withered at once. Ash gave him a wink, almost flirtatious, before gliding past.
They crossed to the elevators, and soon the doors slid open with a pneumatic sigh. The ascent was brief, carrying him from cavernous luxury to the quick, beating heart of the station. The bullpen spilled open in a thrum of motion: phones ringing, keyboards clicking, boxy CRT monitors flickering theirblue-white shine across tired faces. Detectives prowled between desks, clutching their coffee cups, tension coiled in every gesture, the air thick with sweat and the low crackle of urgency.
Ash trailed Rick through it all, aware of stares that slid over him, lingered, and slipped away. He gave them nothing but a faint curve of lips, a mask of careless beauty, though inside he marveled at the absurdity: Ashton Hunter, back at the Spire, not in cuffs, not under suspicion, but as something far stranger—an accessory to the law.
Rick led him toward one of the corner desks, cluttered with folders and cold coffee cups, where a young woman bent over her workstation. The screen bathed her in pallid light, silvering the neat pins in her blonde curls and painting the beige of her sweater into baby blue. Her cat-eye glasses caught the glow and turned it to mirrors, hiding her eyes until she finally glanced up.
Startled, she blinked, as if surfacing from another world, gaze darting first to Rick, then snagging on Ash—and pausing. Color crept along her cheeks, blooming around the sharp red of her lipstick.
“Hey, dollface,” Rick said, easy warmth coloring his deep voice. He leaned a hip against her desk like he’d done it a thousand times. “Miss me?”
She pushed her glasses up her nose, trying for composure. “Rick, what are you doing here? I thought you’d taken a day off.”
He smirked, unbothered. “Couldn’t stay away from you.”
She tilted her head, giving him a look sharp enough to cut paper. “Which means you want something. Out with it.”
Ash caught himself smiling. The routine between them was practiced, familiar. Rick wore his guilt like a loose coat, and she saw straight through it. It was a small theatre, but one worth watching.
“This is Ash Hunter,” Rick said, dodging. “Pretty sure you two haven’t officially met. Ash, meet Kathryn Bennett, our best technician.”
Ash leaned in with a smile and offered his hand. “Hello, Kathryn.”
Her palm was small and sure against his, though the steadiness faltered a moment later. A spark ran across her expression before she let go too fast, brushing at a curl that didn’t need fixing. “Hi.”
Rick’s mouth curved at one corner. “Don’t mind him. Happens to everyone.”
She gave a quick, nervous laugh, more girlish than she probably intended. “Um—please, call me Kitty. Everyone else does.” She watched Ash over the rim of her glasses, a glint of mischief slipping past the fluster, as if she couldn’t help herself.
Rick cleared his throat, louder than needed, his voice dropping into business. “You’re right—I do need something.”
Ash caught the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the irritated note under the calm. He almost smiled.
“Color me shocked,” Kitty muttered.
“We’re searching for Ash’s twin sister. She was adopted by a separate family, so the name will be different from what’s in the birth records. We’ll need the adoption file, whatever you can shake loose—current ID, address, anything.”
Kitty arched a brow, lips pouting. “You realize I had to bend protocol just to pullhisfile, right?”
Rick scratched the nape of his neck, guilty but grinning. “Yeah. And now I’m asking you to do it again.”
She reclined in her chair, crossing her arms. “I’ll have to work the family court archives, run it through the bureau’s backend. Might take a while.”
