She shut her phone off and got back onto her treadmill, ramping up the speed quickly, and this time also increasing the incline. She went faster and faster. Higher. She felt like she was going to throw up. And went yet harder. Steeper.
Nausea washed through her and up into her throat. Struggling to keep down her stomach contents, she jumped off the treadmill and staggered to the bathroom. She clasped her hands on the sides of her toilet bowl, hanging her head down, gagging.
How much more could she push?
How had she come to this place?
When had it actually all started?
What all was she in self-denial about?
She cursed and gave another dry retch. She hurt. Bad. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally—deep inside her heart. It pained her to think about her mom. And her dad so alone. Hash, gone. She thought about what she’d done to Maddocks—how close she’d come to killing or critically injuring him. She couldn’t do this anymore—she could no longer try to numb this shit with the chilled vodka in her freezer or mindless fucks at the club.
She owed Maddocks, too. And he was now the gatekeeper to her job, her continued involvement in the investigation, and it was killing her to be cut out of it. Policing was her life. Pure and simple.
Angie pushed herself upright from the toilet bowl and hobbled over to her sliding glass door that looked out over the Gorge. She opened it and stepped out into the cold air on her tiny balcony. Gripping the railing, she turned her face up toward the pale winter sun and closed her eyes.
Slowly, in the warming sun, listening to the sounds of the city and the waterway below—boats coming in, gulls squabbling, thekeeeeof an eagle up high, the blare of horns, the yells of coxswains giving orders to shells filled with rowers—she realized this was it.
She wanted to live. Really live. Be alive in this city. Be present.
She wanted her job.
And right now she was on the cusp of losing everything. Angie wiped the sweat from her brow, returned inside, and rummaged around in a desk drawer. She found what she was searching for. An old business card. She powered up her phone and punched in the number on the card, wondering if it would still work.
Angie tensed as it began to ring. She paced up and down her tiny apartment, trying to distract herself with the pain in her body.Her call connected. She caught her breath.
“Hello?” came the male voice.
For a second words eluded her. Then she cleared her throat. “Alex? Hey. It’s Angie. Angie Pallorino.”
“Angie ...Pallorino?Christ.” A pause. “How long has it been? How in the hellareyou?”
“Got time for an old friend?” she said.
“Always.” Another moment of hesitation. “Professional or personal?”
“I ... maybe a bit of both. I don’t know yet. I ... just need to talk to someone, sound something out.”
“Want to come to my home office? I’m out of town at the moment, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow morning would be good.”
“I can manage early afternoon. How does two thirty sound? I’ll have a pot of tea waiting. Like old times.”
She smiled, fond memories of her old psychology professor—mentor, academic advisor, and friend—resurfacing, the copious amounts of Darjeeling, Earl Grey, and Ceylon tea consumed during vigorous debates. “You still at the same address?” she said.
“Same cottage. James Bay. See you then.”
“Thanks, Alex.” She killed the call. Her heart felt lighter.
She’d taken the first step.
CHAPTER 52
The briefing this morning had gone as Maddocks had expected. A chilly reception to the news of Buziak. Mistrust for him. Audible grumblings from Leo. A sullen mood all around as the investigators headed out on their assignments for the day. Their only consolation was probably the fact that it would be Maddocks—the new guy—who went down as the scapegoat if they all failed spectacularly in their hunt to catch this killer before Christmas.
This witch hunt of Fitz’s was wreaking the expected damage. The case was stalling because of it. Plus there remained a suspected deep throat among them—Maddocks wasn’t buying that it was Buziak. Or some old-guard Gunnar-supporting conspiracy. Why would the old guard want to leak information that was politically damaging to Gunnar and feeding into Mayor Killion’s clean-sweep-the-old-guard threats?
