Chapter 9
The rhythm of my knife striking the cutting board creates a steady background pulse to the chaos of the kitchen.
Chop, slide, gather, repeat.
My hands move without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding the blade through onions, peppers, and potatoes while the din of the diner’s dinner rush filters through the swinging doors.
Grease hangs thick in the air, coating my skin, while the heat from the grill draws sweat down my back beneath the stained black T-shirt and apron.
Wednesday at Beacon on Beacon is predictable, demanding, and the kind of distraction my mind needs after several days in a row of Rowan popping up at random to give me rides, followed by me riding him.
After years of denial, my body seems hell-bent on making up for lost time, and the Alpha is my catnip, however much I want to deny it.
“Order up!” The cook’s shout cuts through the clatter of pans, followed by the slap of a bell. “Ash, I need those veggies yesterday!”
My knife picks up speed, blade flashing as I scrape the peppers into a metal bowl with the flat edge.
The vibration of my phone against my thigh almost goes unnoticed in the constant stimulation of the kitchen. When it buzzes a second time, insistent, I pause mid-slice, a sense of unease trickling through me.
No one calls during my shifts. Not even Lena.
The phone buzzes a third time.
My boss, Hector, takes his attention off the grille to look at me, his thick brows drawing together. Sweat beads on his upper lip as he flips a row of burgers with practiced efficiency. “Problem?”
“No.” I slide the knife down, wiping my hands on my apron as I turn away. The weight of his stare burns between my shoulder blades as I fish my phone from my pocket.
The screen lights up with Lena’s name, and my chest constricts. She knows better than to call during work hours unless it’s an emergency.
I hit accept and hold the phone to my ear, the plastic warm on my skin. “Lena?”
The background noise on her end is muffled, but I catch the sound of unfamiliar voices, deep and authoritative. I grip the phone tighter, nails digging into the case.
Her voice comes through the speaker, sounding thin. “Ash, there are police at the apartment. They’re asking questions.”
My blood runs cold, turning to ice in my veins. Police. At our apartment. Every instinct screams danger.
“About what?”
“Danny,” she whispers. “They found his wallet with our address written inside.”
The knife I left on the cutting board gleams under the fluorescent light, but in my mind, a different blade takes its place, a different night, blood pooling on plastic.
“Stay calm. I’m coming home now,” I say, steady even as panic surges through me. “Don’t say anything else until I’m there. You’re a minor, so they can’t question you without me present.”
“They want to know where you were last Friday night.”
The night I cut a man’s throat while a stranger coached me through it.
“Twenty minutes.” I end the call, shoving the phone back into my pocket.
I untie my apron with numb fingers.
Hector tracks me as I move toward the back door. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Family emergency.” I hang the apron on a hook.
“We’re in the middle of the dinner rush,” he snaps. “You can leave at eight.”
I head for my locker. “My sister needs me.”
He flushes red with anger beneath the sheen of sweat. “You walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.”
The threat is meant to stop me in my tracks.
It doesn’t even slow me down.
Backpack over my shoulder, the door swings shut behind me, cutting him off mid-curse. The alley behind the diner reeks of rotting food and cigarettes, the air cool after the stifling heat of the kitchen.
My feet hit the pavement at a run, carrying me toward the bus stop on instinct alone.
Eight minutes to the next bus. Twenty-two minutes to reach Brickwell if traffic is light. Thirty minutes total, minimum, before I can reach Lena.
My breath forms clouds in the autumn air as I arrive at the stop, scanning the faces of people waiting. No uniforms. No one watching me. Not yet.
The street hums with the sounds of a city in motion, but none of it registers past the pounding in my head.
They know.
The bus rounds the corner, diesel engine rumbling as it stops at the curb. My knees bounce with constrained energy as I count the seconds it takes for the doors to open, for the passengers to disembark, and for it to be my turn to climb the steps and deposit exact change into the meter.
At this time of night, it’s packed with people getting off work, and bodies crowd in from all sides as I grab a pole, knuckles white around the cold metal. The bus lurches forward, throwing me into a man in a business suit who grunts his displeasure. I don’t apologize.
My watch says five thirty. Lena would have been making herself dinner alone in the apartment when the police arrived.
How did they make it past the front door? Did she let them in? Did they have a warrant? Does it even matter now?
The bus stops every few blocks, the hydraulic brakes hissing each time. I count the stops, calculating distance and time, willing the driver to move faster through the crawling traffic.
Four more stops.
The sweat on my back cools in the over-air-conditioned bus, raising goose bumps along my arms beneath my thin jacket, while bitter, metallic adrenaline coats my tongue.
Three more stops.
The woman beside me shifts, her perfume a cloying cloud of artificial flowers that rolls my empty stomach. Her shoulder bumps mine as the bus takes a corner too fast, and I fight the urge to push her away.
Two more stops.
My nails tap with impatience on my thigh, keeping time with the seconds ticking away in my head.
Did Lena remember what I told her about talking to the police? Not to answer questions without me present? To ask if she was being detained? To request a lawyer?
One more stop.
The brakes squeal as we pull to the curb, the doors folding open with a mechanical wheeze.
I push past bodies, ignoring muttered complaints, and hit the sidewalk at a run.
The cool air fills my lungs as I sprint the remaining blocks to our building, backpack bouncing as I dodge pedestrians who don’t move out of my way fast enough.
The concrete steps to our building blur beneath my feet, my focus narrowed to a single goal. I need to reach Lena. The lobby door slams behind me, the sound echoing up the stairwell as I take the steps two at a time, not bothering to attempt the elevator that’s always broken.
By the fifth floor, my lungs burn, and my calves ache, but I don’t slow. The hallway stretches before me, identical doors on either side, with ours at the very end. As I approach, I notice the silence. No voices, no police radio chatter.
Maybe they’re gone. Maybe it was only routine questioning. Maybe—
My hand closes around the doorknob, and it turns beneath my palm.
Unlocked.
Pulse racing, I push the door open, and my blood freezes in my veins.
Two uniformed police officers stand in my living room, their blue uniforms stark against the stained white paint. Their presence alone would be enough to spike my pulse, but what turns my muscles to stone is the third person in the room.
Rowan sits on my couch, in the spot I prefer, with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his posture relaxed as if he belongs here. As if this is his home and not a space he has invaded without permission. Again.
My skin prickles with awareness as everyone turns toward me. The female officer straightens, her hand moving to rest near her belt in an unconscious gesture that speaks volumes. Her partner, a thick-necked man with a crew cut, studies me.
“Mr. Halloway?” The woman steps forward, her boots creaking on the worn floorboards. “I’m Officer Park. This is Officer Ramirez. We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure,” I say in understanding as the second officer draws my attention. Something about him niggles at the back of my memory, putting me on high alert.
My gaze flicks to Rowan, who offers the barest hint of a shrug, as if to say this is all routine.
I step inside, closing the door behind me. “What’s this about?”
“It’s regarding a man named Daniel Humphry.” Officer Ramirez flips open a small notebook, his thumb running along the edge of the pages. “We understand your sister may have had contact with him.”
My tongue turns to sandpaper in my mouth. “My sister’s sixteen.”
“We’re aware.” Officer Park’s voice remains professional, but she never stops cataloging my reactions. “That’s why we’re here.”
Movement in the hallway catches my peripheral vision. Lena hovers in the shadows, her arms wrapped around herself, and my body angles to position myself between her and the officers.
“The thing is, Mr. Halloway,” Officer Ramirez continues, “Daniel Humphry hasn’t been seen for several days. His employer reported him missing when he didn’t show up for work last week.”
My pulse counts time in my ears, steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. “I’m not sure what that has to do with us.”
“We found your sister’s school ID photo in his wallet.” Officer Park stares at me, waiting for a reaction. “Along with your address written on a piece of paper.”
The room contracts around me, the walls closing in. I was so careful to remove her name from his little trophy book, but it never occurred to me to search his wallet.
My fingers flex, curling into loose fists before I force them to relax.
“Your sister mentioned he approached her at a bus stop.” Officer Ramirez looks toward Lena and back to me. “What we need to establish is when this occurred and whether either of you had any contact with him after that initial encounter.”
An obvious trap, and I calculate my words.
“He harassed her on her way home from school.” Half-truths flow easier than outright lies.
“When was this?” Officer Park asks when I offer nothing further.