My current case broke wide open last night after we arrested a man we believed was involved in the murder.
He was ready, willing and incredibly eager to share what he knew because he was scared shitless of his friends who had taken out an innocent bystander in their anger-fueled rampage to get revenge for some guy hitting on one of their girlfriends a week ago.
Once we had the names of everyone involved, we set out to track them down. It took all night, but by day’s break, we had two confessions and a third ready to talk in exchange for a reduced sentence.
I handed the entire mess over to Darrell before I left the station.
It’s his to sort through. I need to sleep.
I toss my keys on the table as I look toward the open door of Matilda’s bedroom.
I know she’s not here.
When I sent her a text message last night to tell her that I wouldn’t be joining her in bed, she replied that she understood.
She also said she would be meeting her sister for brunch to go over some preliminary wedding plans.
I curse under my breath as I survey the empty apartment.
The silence is deafening. The vase of pink roses sitting next to the white ones I bought a few days ago is a surprising sight.
I stalk toward them, my gaze stuck on a small pink envelope on the table near the vase.
I pick it up.
Tilly Bakeris written across the front of it in blue ink along with our address.
It’s been opened, so I slide my hand in but come up empty.
I push the roses apart, looking for any sign of a card. When I don’t find one, I drop the envelope at my feet and gaze at her open bedroom door.
I want to know who the fuck the other flowers are from.
My strides are long and brisk as I cross the apartment. I stop just outside her bedroom.
I don’t have the right.
I can get into her bed and fall asleep in her sheets, but I don’t have the right to go through her things searching for a card.
I lean both hands against the wall on either side of the doorframe.
I could do this the easy way and take the envelope to the flower shop that’s listed on the back of it. I’d flash my badge, tell them I needed to know who sent them and I’d have that name within ten seconds.
It’s wrong on so many levels.
I close my eyes against the urge.
The chime of an incoming text message yanks me back to the moment. I look down at my phone.
Hillary: Where are you?
Sebastian: Why? You ok?
Hillary: Can I see you?
Another message comes in before I have a chance to reply that I’m dead tired and headed to bed.
Hillary: I really need to talk to you. Please.
