Her eyes searched his face, reading what he wasn’t saying.She was getting better at that.“Is it dangerous?”
“Yes,” he answered gently.Then, softer, “But not for you.”
Leo straightened, protector mode fully engaged.“I’m not leaving her.”
Kayne met his gaze.“Good.I want you glued to her.”
Leo snorted.“I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
Kayne nodded once, approval clear.He turned back to Chloe.“I’ll check in.Don’t spiral.”
She huffed.“I don’t spiral.”
From down the hall, Anja lifted one pale brow.
Chloe sighed.“Fine.I spiral a little.”
Kayne brushed his knuckles against Chloe’s wrist, a brief touch that saidI see youmore thanI promise.“Trust me.”
She nodded, even though he could feel her fear.He didn’t like leaving her, but he trusted Leo to keep her safe.
That was supposed to be his job.
The neighborhood where Joel Erickson lived looked as if it had given up sometime in the early 2000s and never bothered to recover.Boarded-up storefronts.Graffiti layered so thick it felt historical.A liquor store with bars on the windows and a flickering OPEN sign that lied as easily as people did.
Anja parked two blocks down, and they made their way up the cracked sidewalk.The apartment building squatted at the end of the street, concrete stained dark with age and neglect.The security door hung crooked on its hinges, permanently defeated.
“Well,” Anja said, “this place screams healthy life choices.”
They climbed the rickety stairs to the third floor, footsteps echoing too loudly in the narrow stairwell, looking for unit 3C.
Kayne knocked once.Firm.Professional.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
He didn’t like the quiet.There was no music or blaring TVs or voices bleeding through thin walls.There was no sign of life at all.
“This isn’t right,” he muttered, testing the knob.To his surprise, the door creaked open.
The smell hit them like a physical force.
Anja went still.“Decomp.”
Kayne exhaled through his nose and pushed the door the rest of the way open with his boot.“Of course it is.”
Joel Erickson lay sprawled on the stained carpet, one arm bent beneath him, the other stretched toward the bathroom as if he hadn’t quite made it.His skin had gone waxy, lips tinged blue.A syringe lay near his fingers, and another sat capped on the sink with a burnt spoon and a tourniquet.
No blood or struggle.Just a man who lost a fight he’d been picking for years.
“Well,” Anja said, scanning without stepping too far inside, “he’s not skipping work anymore.”
Kayne shot her a look.
“What?”she said.“Too soon?”Then, professional again.“Overdose.Heroin, maybe fentanyl.”
