“No, you need a reason that sounds better than ‘I can’t stop thinking about her,’” he corrects.
My jaw goes rigid. “She was on scene during a near-grab,” I concede instead. “Same profile we’ve been tracking. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Mason watches me for a moment. Then, “so talk to her.”
I go still as the car rolls by the front of her building.
“That’s no-”
“You’re already circling it,” he cuts in. “At least make it useful.”
It makes sense, that’s the problem.
“She might’ve seen something,” he adds. “Just from living in the neighborhood. Patterns, faces, routines. EMTs sometimes notice things cops miss.”
I know that. I’ve been counting on it. Just… from a distance. “Yeah,” I say finally.
Mason’s mouth twitches. “And if you happen to get her out of that apartment for a few hours, I’m not gonna file a complaint.”
I ignore him… mostly.
I’ve been staring at her contact info on my phone screen for longer than I should. I got it from Mikey in Forensics. Apparently he’s a cousin of Jett, a coworker and close confidant of Liv. Mikey looks a bit like the black-haired guy working with the blonde medic the night I got shot. So I’m guessing that’s Jett. Mikey called in a favor to Jett, who passed along Liv’s number with a grinning emoji.
I can only assume what kind of chatter this could cause if Jett starts spreading it around the station. Those medics just love to gossip.
I type up a simple message, at least, it feels like that. Then delete it, rewrite it, delete it again... This is ridiculous. I’ve interrogated suspects with less hesitation.
Finally, I send it.
Me:Hey, it’s Alex Thornton. I got your number from a cousin of Jett. You mentioned a recent call and I wanted to ask a few questions about it. It could be relevant to something I’m working on.
It’s clean, detached, and professional… ish.
Three dots appear pretty quickly, then disappear. Reappear. My pulse does something I won’t dare acknowledge.
Liv:I just got off a shift. I haven’t noticed much, been working extra since if happened. But you can come by if you want to talk about that other call.
I stare at that longer than I should. Inviting me over? Already?
Probably just for… logistics. So that she can point out parts of the neighborhood. Or so I can get a feel of the inside of her building for safety concerns.
That’s what I convince myself of anyway as I pull up in front of her building twenty minutes later.
I park my bike and tug off my helmet while climbing the front steps of her building. It looks worse at night. More shadows and more blind spots.
I clock all of it out of habit as I press the call button labeled with just her last name and when it crackles to life, I can barely recognize her voice through it.
“It’s Alex,” I say into the speaker, hoping it’s more comprehendible on her end than it is on mine.
I find out it is when the lock clicks open. I push open the door and head for the stairs, having seen “4B” on the name list under the call button. Helpful, since I hadn’t been able to comprehendwhat she said through the speaker when, I’m guessing, she’d told me her apartment number.
At the landing for the fourth floor, I spot her door right away. She doesn’t have any decorations or even her name to attract attention to the fact that a young, single woman lives here by herself.
Smart.
I knock and there’s footsteps followed by a pause, just long enough that I know she’s checking the peephole first.
Then a deadbolt and chain lock are both audibly undone before the door swings open. And for a second I forget what I came here for.
