She imagined him having a beautiful smile, but she’d never seen it. Not even once. That’s how much he despised her.
Pima moseyed in with a toy in his mouth. He dropped it and started batting it around. She picked it up and threw it into her bedroom. Off he raced after it.
She half-dried her hair, then pulled it into a loose ponytail. Her favorite sweats were in the hamper, so she settled for a T-shirt and yoga pants.
In the kitchen, she flipped open her laptop and logged in to work. If she didn’t start filling out the police report now, it would eat up too much investigative time during the work day. She was too wired to sleep, anyway. The cat came flying into the room, hopped on a chair, then onto the table. As he made his way toward her, she stopped typing. And then Pima did what he always did, he decided her laptop would be the best place to sit.
“Not happening, Pima.” She blocked him with her arm. He sat on the table, curled his tail around himself, and stared at her. “Stare away. I’ve got work—”
Her phone binged with an incoming message. It was three in the morning and she knew exactly who was texting her.
She clicked on the app labeled, “Survivors” and read the private message.
“Hey, Boomslang, is my insomnia buddy awake?” Justice asked.
“Of course,” Emerson replied. “What’s your excuse?”
“Work,” Justice replied. “Yours?”
“Same.”
Ever since joining the online chat group for survivors who’d lost loved ones in the DMV—District, Maryland, and Virginia—Emerson had developed an online friendship with Justice.
“Someone wants to say ‘hey’.” Emerson snapped a pic of Pima and uploaded it to their chat.
“What’s he doing?” Justice texted.
“His favorite thing. Staring at me.”
“What for?”
“A treat, a head rub, to lay on my laptop the second I stop guarding it.”
“LOL.”
“How you doing, for real?” she asked.
Justice kept things chill, never said much or got too emotional. She liked that.
No reply. She waited a few more seconds, then clicked back to her police report.
Bing.
“I’ve had better days,” Justice replied. “You?”
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked.
“No. Good to know you’re out there. How ‘bout you?”
She wanted to tell him what she did for a living. That she spent her days, and a lot of her evenings, searching for killers. Instead, she typed, “Missing my bro.”
“I’m sorry,” he typed. “How can I help?”
“Talking now makes a diff. Knowing I’m not alone in my grief, you know?”
“We can’t bring them back. Gotta go on without ‘em. Never gets easier.”
“Talk soon. Try to sleep.” She clicked back over to her police report.
