Page 63 of Dancing in the Dark

“Fletch?”

“Yep. Sorry.” I lock my screen and slip it into my pocket. “I’m in the middle of formally requesting things from fuckface over there.”

“I estimate time of death to have occurred late last night. Somewhere between ten and midnight.” Minka shifts in her crouched position and picks up our Jane Doe’s hand. “Looks like she might’ve taken a swipe at someone before she died.”

“Scratched them?” I lower and stare at the muck under her nails. “Got her killer’s DNA under there?”

“Could be. I’ll grab some samples for the lab and see what we see. We’ll also test for alcohol in her system. Drugs and whatnot.” Her eyes shift to the woman’s panties. “I feel like we’ll find signs of sexual activity shortly before her death, too.”

“Consensual?” I sigh. “Or not?”

“We’ll know soon.”

“Alright,” Archer rumbles. “You finish those official requests, Fletch, then we’ll start talking to some people. Let’s see if we can formally identify her and get you home in time for dinner. Mia with Cato this afternoon?”

“Mm. He’s picking her up from school for me. I’m pretty sure he’s logging the hours and making sure all the right people notice, so when he officially abducts her, he’ll be able to tell the courts he’s been her primary caregiver all along.”

“It’s an aggressive strategy,” he chuckles. “You should’ve taken the million when he offered. At least then you could’ve hired a decent lawyer.”

“Or a hit man. The second is quicker.”

“I’ll be here, detectives.” Minka reaches into the depths of her murder bag and takes out a stack of little plastic baggies. “We’re only two hours from the end of shift, and being this early in the thing none of us are allowed to talk about means we should strive for less overtime. More attention to the home front.”

“Subtle,” I drawl. “Good work, Chief.”

She snickers. “Thanks. I’ve been practicing.”

23

SERAPHINA

Late nights. Early mornings. A thousand what-ifs playing through my mind. These are the things that keep my nervous system buzzing and a sheen of exhaustion weighing me down.

I saw a dead woman today. I saw her mottled skin after God knows how long in the water, and the unnatural twist of her leg as she lay in the dirt and sand. I saw the way Chief Mayet approached her newest patient, and how Archer protected her by sticking near.

I saw how Charlie protected them both, but also, the way he watched me, his expressive eyes constantly flickering away from his work and across to where I stood thirty feet back.

For the entire hour I remained on scene, Anderson’s lips flapped. About the case: Malone shouldn’t be here, Sera. It’s a conflict of interest. And about us: You left last night without saying goodbye. Why are you intentionally trying to create conflict?

He spent equal amounts of time staring at Archer’s back, like he considers himself some kind of Port Vigilante, which makes Archer the big bad criminal he’s intent on saving us from, and the other half of his time, he stared at me, his penetrating glare growing hotter for every moment I refused to engage in the conversation he so badly wanted us to have.

Pass.

Now I’m at home, and I have no gowns to squeeze into, no heels to torture my feet with, no fancy dinners to consume, and flutes of expensive alcohol to drink. In fact, I have no plans at all, besides stepping into a sloppy pair of sweatpants, slouching in front of the television, and ignoring everything except the text messages I’ll receive later, when Charlie’s finished with work.

Hopefully.

Assuming he doesn’t forget me.

Crossing my apartment and scrolling through my Spotify playlists, I select a song and wait for the device to sync with my Bluetooth speaker, then bending in front of my heavy coffee table, I push, push, push the sixty-pound monstrosity ten feet to the side and create a space between the couch and the television.

My phone dings, then Siri’s robotic voice interrupts my music to announce, ‘Text message from Anderson Markum.’

I roll my eyes and stop in front of the first of three picture windows lining my living room wall. Grabbing the cord and releasing the blinds, I breathe a little easier as my home grows fractionally darker.

Another text, another disruption to my music, another set of blinds.

I ignore the first, grow irritated by the second, and bring myself another shred of peace with the third.