Page 53 of Until You

“Noted,” I lie.

“So?”

“I need you to run someone for me.”

“Why? What did they do?”

“Nothing. It’s just a new tenant I want to check out. Make sure she’s on the up and up since she’s offered to watch the girls for me.” And because I’m worried about her.

“I hear you. Smart. Not a problem.”

I take the next few minutes giving Dusty the small amount of information I have on Tennyson—her name, her license plate number, her bank account info I have off her rent that’s direct deposited into Ian’s account. It’s not much, but it’s enough for him to run a check.

“Now it’s your turn,” he says.

“My turn?”

“I need you to do that thing you do for me.”

“Dude, you’re going to get me in more trouble than I already am,” I groan.

“Two things. One, you’re not in trouble. You’re just waiting for the department shrink to clear you. We all know she has a serious hard-on for you so she isn’t because she just wants you to stay in her office longer. She’s hoping in time you’ll recognize your undying love for her.”

“Bullshit.” I cough the word out.

“And two, you’re the one who can work magic finding the shit we need. Besides, Sarge may have even hinted for me to give you a call on this.”

I look over at my computer setup and secretly itch to dig up the information he wants. Anything to stretch my mind and feel useful again when I haven’t been able to.

“What’s he need?” I ask.

“He just needs you to work your sources and figure out what we’re missing on this big case we’re working on. No one pieces together a trail of almost clues quite like you do.”

“Send over what you need. As it is, I’ve got nothing but fucking time.”

“Great. Will do. And three—”

“Three? You said two things.”

“I lied.” He laughs.

“Fuck off.”

“When’s the last time you talked to Justin?”

His words hit hard. The accusation woven in his tone even more so. Both have me sucking in a deep breath and scrubbing a hand through my hair, struggling for a response that I’m not embarrassed to give. “I—uh—texted him a few days ago.”

“Texted?”

“Yep.”

“That’s fucked up, man. You guys rode together for over eight years. Spoke to each other every damn day and twice on your day off. And all you can do is text him?” He mutters a curse. “Don’t you think this is when he needs you the most?”

Guilt. It hits me like a sledgehammer to the solar plexus. Or maybe the heart. Both are scarred but used to this feeling.

Usually, it’s self-inflicted.

“Dusty—”