Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
ASHES - Witchz
I shouldn’t have eaten so many flaming hot Cheetos. This is a regular thought of mine, but once I start, I can’t seem to fucking stop. And I always regret it. But they’re so fucking good .
Plus, I hate cooking.
My gut boils. Yet here I am, standing in front of Ronan Carter’s car on the tow truck.
The nosey neighbors are out. They always are. At least this time, no one’s vacuuming their porch.
You know what else is out? The sun. I checked the fucking weather, and it said clouds, so I wore my short sleeves and skipped the sunscreen. But of course, now the sun is out cooking my tattoos, fast-tracking them into shriveled blue raisins.
I have a thing for sunscreen on my tattoos.
My gut gurgles again as Clark comes to stand next to me. “Need anything else?”
She and I did a joint operation search warrant for this one. Aka, I had probable cause due to the tire matches and the comments Ronan made before he quit his job, so I did all the paperwork, and Clark came to help since it’s her jurisdiction.
I feel like Clark is one of the good ones. She doesn’t cut corners, she doesn’t break policies, and she doesn’t seem to be in the in-club with whoever sucks the chief’s dick. Minds her own and hates her job.
I blink back into the present, realizing Clark asked if I needed anything. I start to say no, but the word gets stuck in my throat. I’m frozen there for an agonizing second, the small letter sound getting stuck in my throat. I try to remember what they said in therapy about making open-mouth sounds and letting the words call out. Finally, I get out, “Nah.”
Clark doesn’t seem phased. She shrugs. “Keep me updated, will you?”
I just nod. The apartment was clean. The trash was out, and the laundry was done. Mostly, anyway. There was vomit on the sheets in the bathroom, and the bed was torn apart, but we did get a phone and an old laptop, which might be our only hope for anything.
I glare as the truck takes away Ronan’s car. I was hoping for more. Clothes with blood or trash with acid bottles in it. It’s embarrassing to come up with nothing in front of Savannah PD. Nothing like whipping your pants down just to find…nothing.
I move upstairs and grab the phone out of the evidence bag. Powering it on, there’s a passcode. I try a few basic ones, and then 0000 opens it.
Jesus. Wasn’t this guy a cop?
Turns out that the phone has almost nothing on it. It’s like the guy never used it, except for a text thread with some guy. Some hookup gone wrong? Ronan threatened to call the cops.
But that’s it. Did he…know we were coming? Was knocking at the door enough to ruin this whole thing?
Fuck. Now, my gut is on fire, and I’ve fucked shit up.
I’m in a foul mood for the rest of the afternoon. Immediately, I plug the computer into my forensic program. Surely, there’s something on here. Maybe even an internet search on how to get rid of a body?
The day goes endlessly slowly. The computer is just as dry as the phone.
This is a wash. Ronan didn’t kill anyone. Or if he did, he’s way too good at what he does to pin it on him.
An odd sense of relief and disappointment runs through me. I’m glad another cop isn’t out there axing people. But it’s always sad when the hunt comes to an end.
I still have thirty minutes left in my shift.
I rub my eyes and close my program. I go through the computer manually. There, I find a tab open with a document. It’s titled Things I Never Want to Do Again.
I’m nosey. So I can’t help but look. The document is nothing but a list.
Wrestle a crazy man in his tighty whiteys
Forget my gun in the jail locker
Eat sardines
I want to gag. I absolutely could not do sardines. Soggy fish sticks with the guts still attached? Fuck that. Fishy anything is a no for me.
The list goes on.
Walk into a training session with toilet paper hanging from my ass
Disappoint my family
I swallow. The list goes on.
Math
Fall for a coworker
I start skimming.
Fall in love
Go to church
Crack ribs doing CPR
Then, the list gets more serious.
See dead babies
Hear moms scream for their dead babies
See children who’ve been raped
Hear moms lie about their children who’ve been raped
See moms who shot themselves in the head
Hear children scream after finding their mom’s body
Have people beg me for help when I can’t help them
Watch children deny abuse while their eyes scream for help
Live
I suck in a breath. Even reading that list, I feel my own trauma filter to the surface. It sounds hauntingly similar to the things I’ve seen. The dead 2-month-old I saw a few months ago fills my mind, and my stomach turns. I might be sick.
I slam the laptop closed. Fuck that. It’s time to go back to ignoring my problems. That always works, right?
But as I go about my evening, I can’t get the loneliness of that list out of my head. I hate that I keep thinking about it.
Because Ronan Carter sounds a lot like me.