“Your gut’s been pretty reliable so far.”
After Chris leaves, I sit in the empty equipment room for a few minutes. This is a risk. If anyone finds out Chris is investigating Lance while I’m under review, it could make everything worse for both of us.
But doing nothing isn’t an option anymore.
My phone buzzes with a text from Alice.
Alice: How was your day?
I stare at the message. My chest tightens. She's been distant since our conversation in the parking lot, but she's still checking on me. Still caring, even when she's trying to protect us both by keeping her distance.
Me: Long as usual. Yours?
Alice: Same.
Me: We should talk soon.
Alice: I know.
It’s not much, but it’s something. Alice isn’t giving up on us, even if she’s scared.That’s got to mean something, right?
I want to call her. Tell her about the cemetery—I drove past it an hour ago and saw her car there. Tell her I understand why she's pulling away, even if it kills me.
But I don't. Not yet.
I gather my things and head home. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
Tomorrow I’ll go through the motions of normal police work while Chris digs into Lance’s past. In a few days, we’ll know if my gut is right about Lance being more than just Alice’s abusive ex-boyfriend.
And if I’m right, we’re going to have everything we need to turn this investigation around.
But if I’m wrong, I might lose everything trying.
Chapter 35
Alice
Ineedmycornertableat the Cozy Cup. After everything with my mother last night and the stress of work today, I need the one place that’s always felt safe. My book, my white chocolate mocha, and the quiet corner where nobody bothers me.
But the moment I walk through the door, I know something’s different. The usual warmth of the shop feels colder.
The conversations don’t exactly stop, but they get quieter. My stomach drops. Three women at a table near the window glance at me, then lean closer together. I adjust my glasses, buying time to decide if I should stay. Mr. Peterson from the hardware store looks up from his newspaper, studies me for a moment, then goes back to reading.
I adjust my glasses nervously and walk to the counter, trying to act normal. Diane looks up from wiping down the espresso machine.
“The usual?” she asks.
“Please.”
While she makes my drink, I can feel eyes on me. The couple at the table by the door are definitely talking about me. I catch fragments: “that officer” and “poor family” and something about “stirring up trouble.”
My chest tightens.
Diane sets my white chocolate mocha on the counter. “Extra whipped cream today,” she says, which isn’t something I asked for.
“Thanks.” I give her my most genuine smile.
I make my way to my usual corner table, the one tucked away from the main seating area.
