I sighed, annoyed at this. "I heard screams, Detective. I ran there to help. I protect people. Or at least, I try to."
"Try and fail, apparently." His tone was a mix of mockery and challenge.
"Enough, Larson. You have zero reason to hold me."
"Except for being the only suspect in a murder case."
"Because I reported it?"
"Because you found the body. Because you have no alibi. Because?—"
"Because you've never liked me. Is that it? Personal vendettas now count as evidence?"
He leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "This isn't personal, Thomas. This is about justice."
"Then find the real killer instead of wasting time with me."
"Trust me, I intend to."
Larson stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor like an echo of his frustration.
"You're free to go… for now. But don't leave town. We’re not finished here."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I retorted, pushing back from the table, my resolve hardening like armor. "And when you're done chasing shadows, I'll be finding the truth."
I walked out of that interrogation room, a mixture of indignation and adrenaline fueling each step. Larson might have doubted me, but I knew one thing for certain: a killer was loose, and we had been looking in all the wrong places. The answer I needed to find now was why. Why did Carol have to die? I was determined that if we found that out, we would know who our killer was.
The doors of the police station swung shut behind me, the echo of their finality sending a chill down my spine. Dawn was breaking, painting the sky in strokes of pink and orange, but its beautywas lost on me. I took a ragged breath, the taste of freedom bittersweet on my tongue.
I was out, yet not cleared; liberated, yet shackled by suspicion. The detective's eyes still burned into my back, his doubt a shadow that clung as tightly as the salty breeze of Cocoa Beach. I touched my badge, feeling its outline—a reminder of who I was and what I needed to do.
As I Ubered back to my car, I kept thinking of Carol. Her lifeless body flashed before my eyes, haunting and urging me to act. My fingers itched for the comfort of my gun, for the senseof control it gave when everything else was slipping through my grasp like sand.
Once back in the neighborhood, I slid behind the wheel, the leather seat cold against my weary body. Every bone in me screamed for sleep, for escape from the night’s relentless questioning. But slumber was a siren's song—tempting, yet dangerous.
The key turned, the engine roared to life, and with it, so did my resolve. The detective be damned; his narrow suspicions wouldn't deter me. There was a killer out there, a predator masking in plain sight, and I would not rest until I had unmasked them. I grabbed my phone.
"Diane, we need to talk," I said. “Meet me at the Coffee House on St. George’s Street in an hour.”
I hung up, determined as ever. As I pulled away from the curb, the sun crested the horizon, its rays like fingers peeling back the darkness. A new day, a fresh start.
"Carol, I will find who did this to you," I promised the silent dawn. "And they will pay." My grip tightened on the steering wheel. No more running, no more hiding.
The real killer was about to meet their match.
Chapter 20
THEN:
Angela's fingerstrailed along Will's arm, her touch light but insistent. She nestled closer, her breath warm against his neck. Once, twice, she pressed her lips to his skin, a silent plea.
Will's response was a quiet, "Not tonight, Angie."
"Come on, Will," Angela's voice held an edge, a whine that grated more with each syllable. She shifted, the sheets whispering with her movement, her knee nudging his leg. He turned away, a wall of flesh between them.
"Seriously?" Her tone spiked, disbelief and something else—resentment—coloring it ugly.
"Angie, please." His words were a tired exhale, his body tense beside her in the same bed where they had once made two beautiful children but hadn’t made love since.
