“Watch me.” I shrug. “Kitten, I’ve been bullied my whole life for being the bottom in a gay relationship. I don’t give a flying fuck what people think. I thought you felt the same.”
“True, fuck them,” she declares, gripping my hand tighter, intertwining our fingers and making my heart race.
As we sitat our usual cafeteria table, I glance at her, impressed that she’s eating what Josh got her without a fuss.
She has come such a long way already.
“We spoke to the witness today,” I begin, knowing this will capture her immediate attention.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “You did?” she asks, leaning in.
“Yes, but it got us more questions than answers,” I admit, furrowing my brows.
“How so? What did she say?” Sophia asks, sipping her water.
“They did crash into the wall at high speed, but she saw Carolina’s dad and…” I hesitate, searching for the right words.
“And?” Carolina frowns.
“And she believes he looked sober and was trying to avoid the crash,” Josh chimes in, his voice steady. “He even honked to warn her. If he hadn’t, he would’ve hit her. That’s not something someone high on heroin would do. So, at least we have an answer to that question.”
I lean back, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot Del Moro Jr. and his partner, Taylor, standing nearby, glancing our way. “Since the blood wasn’t really—” Josh starts, but I nudge him to stop. “What?” he asks.
“We should discuss this at home,” I suggest, not willing to let anything else be overheard.
Carolina tries to see what caught my attention and mutters a curse. “Do you think he heard us?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure, but he seems a tad too curious for my liking.”
TWENTY-TWO
After our dinnerwith Sophia and Carolina, we are back on the street, sitting in the police car. It’s nearly midnight, and we just got ourselves tea and coffee.
“Attention all units, attention all units,” the dispatcher’s voice echoes through the car, clear and urgent. “We have a 10-31 in progress at 1423 Hamilton Place, West Harlem. Suspect is armed and dangerous. Proceed with caution.”
My grip tightens on my teacup, spilling a few drops. I quickly set it down, starting the car. “That’s just a few blocks from here,” I say, flipping on the siren.
Clay grabs the radio, pressing the button to respond. “Unit 47 responding. ETA two minutes.”
We speed out of the alley, sirens wailing, and as we approach Hamilton Corner Mart, the flashing blue and red lights illuminate the storefront. The glass door is ajar, and a faint alarm bell rings in the distance. I park the car at an angle, blocking off the entrance, while Clay jumps out, gun drawn, taking cover behind the car door.
“NYPD! Come out with your hands up!” he shouts, his voice echoing in the empty street.
A moment of silence follows, and then the sound of shuffling filters out from inside the store. A not-so-tall figure emerges, masked and holding a bag that presumably contains the stolen goods. In his other hand, he grips a gun.
“Stay back!” the guy warns, his words muffled by the mask. He has a sharp Italian accent, a quiver in his voice, and shaking hands.
“Look, just drop the gun and the bag. No one needs to get hurt.” Clay steps forward, trying to reason with him since he looks more scared than dangerous.
In a swift motion, the guy lunges at Clay and pistol-whips him across the face. Clay stumbles back, a sharp cry escaping him as he falls to the ground, clutching his eye.
The robber bolts, disappearing into the maze of alleys behind the store with Clay down and me too far away. I rush to Clay’s side, helping him sit up. He has a cut under his eye, bleeding down his cheek. “Dammit, Clay,” I mutter, checking him for other injuries.
He winces. “I’m okay,” he argues, his voice pressed. “We need to catch that guy.”
I nod, pulling out my radio. “Dispatch, this is Unit 47. Suspect has fled the scene on foot, heading east from Hamilton Corner Mart. Requesting backup.”
The dispatcher’s voice crackles back. “Backup is on the way. Stay safe, officers.”
