Chapter 6
Alex
I didn’t mean to turn onto her block. I just… turned early. Onto her street.
Technically, we need to be at the next block down anyway-
“Thornton.”
Mason doesn’t look up from the file in his hands when he says it, which is exactly how I know he’s paying attention.
“You’re gonna wear a tire path in the pavement,” he adds.
“I’m working,” I reply.
“Uh-huh.” He flips a page. “Three drive-bys in the last two days. One warehouse sweep, one informant that gave us nothing, and somehow you keep ending up on the same block where-” He finally looks up. There’s a look on his face I don’t like. “-your EMT lives.”
I don’t respond because anything I say is going to confirm it, especially in his mind.
He exhales through his nose, leaning back slightly. “You want an excuse; I can give you one.”
“I don’t need an excuse.”
“No, you need a reason that sounds better than ‘I can’t stop thinking about her,’” he corrects.
My jaw goes rigid. “She was on scene during a near-grab,” I concede instead. “Same profile we’ve been tracking. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Mason watches me for a moment. Then, “so talk to her.”
I go still as the car rolls by the front of her building.
“That’s no-”
“You’re already circling it,” he cuts in. “At least make it useful.”
It makes sense, that’s the problem.
“She might’ve seen something,” he adds. “Just from living in the neighborhood. Patterns, faces, routines. EMTs sometimes notice things cops miss.”
I know that. I’ve been counting on it. Just… from a distance. “Yeah,” I say finally.
Mason’s mouth twitches. “And if you happen to get her out of that apartment for a few hours, I’m not gonna file a complaint.”
I ignore him… mostly.
I’ve been staring at her contact info on my phone screen for longer than I should.
I got it from Mikey in Forensics. Apparently he’s a cousin of Jett, a coworker and close confidant of Liv.
Mikey looks a bit like the black-haired guy working with the blonde medic the night I got shot.
So I’m guessing that’s Jett. Mikey called in a favor to Jett, who passed along Liv’s number with a grinning emoji.
I can only assume what kind of chatter this could cause if Jett starts spreading it around the station. Those medics just love to gossip.
I type up a simple message, at least, it feels like that. Then delete it, rewrite it, delete it again... This is ridiculous. I’ve interrogated suspects with less hesitation.
Finally, I send it.
Me: Hey, it’s Alex Thornton. I got your number from a cousin of Jett. You mentioned a recent call and I wanted to ask a few questions about it. It could be relevant to something I’m working on.
It’s clean, detached, and professional… ish.
Three dots appear pretty quickly, then disappear. Reappear. My pulse does something I won’t dare acknowledge.
Liv: I just got off a shift. I haven’t noticed much, been working extra since if happened. But you can come by if you want to talk about that other call.
I stare at that longer than I should. Inviting me over? Already?
Probably just for… logistics. So that she can point out parts of the neighborhood. Or so I can get a feel of the inside of her building for safety concerns.
That’s what I convince myself of anyway as I pull up in front of her building twenty minutes later.
I park my bike and tug off my helmet while climbing the front steps of her building. It looks worse at night. More shadows and more blind spots.
I clock all of it out of habit as I press the call button labeled with just her last name and when it crackles to life, I can barely recognize her voice through it.
“It’s Alex,” I say into the speaker, hoping it’s more comprehendible on her end than it is on mine.
I find out it is when the lock clicks open. I push open the door and head for the stairs, having seen “4B” on the name list under the call button. Helpful, since I hadn’t been able to comprehend what she said through the speaker when, I’m guessing, she’d told me her apartment number.
At the landing for the fourth floor, I spot her door right away. She doesn’t have any decorations or even her name to attract attention to the fact that a young, single woman lives here by herself.
Smart.
I knock and there’s footsteps followed by a pause, just long enough that I know she’s checking the peephole first.
Then a deadbolt and chain lock are both audibly undone before the door swings open. And for a second I forget what I came here for.
She’s changed out of her uniform and into a loose t-shirt with soft fabric and a collar just stretched enough to hang nearly off one shoulder.
Her sweatpants sit low on her hips with bare feet underneath them.
But her hair’s still pulled back into the same ponytail that she was sporting the night I met her.
And then again when she was walking to the corner store.
And again, the night she responded to that near-grab call.
The ponytail that bounces when she moves. The ponytail that I want to wrap my hand around. The ponytail I want to yank just hard enough to hear what sounds she makes.
“Hey,” she says, her soft lips tugging up slightly at the corners like she can’t help it.
“Hey,” I parrot simply.
Brilliant response, Alex.
“Come in,” she adds, stepping aside.
I do and immediately notice everything. Not consciously, just by instinct.
It’s a small apartment but well laid out.
The kitchen is to the left with a small bar flanked by two stools, all that can fit, to eat at.
There’s a door behind that I can see a toilet through; it must be the bathroom.
The main room fits a tv stand with a tv on top, a small couch just bigger than a loveseat because a full-sized couch could never fit in here, and a small coffee table between them.
There’s a walkway behind the couch leading to another door that I’m assuming is the bedroom.
And the other side of the couch has… stairs?
Leading to the window ledge where a pale orange cat lays curled up, sound asleep.
“Stairs?” I gesture at them after she closes the door and steps up beside me.
“Yeah, Pip only has one front leg. Jumping down can be dangerous for him so I got those to make sure he can get down from the window safely. It’s one of his favorite spots; I didn’t want to deprive him.
” She explains it so gently as she passes me and heads back into the kitchen where a pot sits on the stove.
I take my time following her, taking a closer look around her space. Things are where they need to be, not where they’d look best: shoes by the door instead of in a shoe rack, bag within reach, keys hanging on a hook beside the chain lock.
The kitchen looks stocked but not full. Enough for a few days, maybe a week. There’s no excess and no waste.
It’s self-sufficient in a way that I didn’t expect but that still suits her. She isn’t relying on anything she can’t control. I’ve seen it before. Just… not like this.
“Don’t judge the mess,” she says, stepping up to the stove. I can’t imagine how she thinks it’s messy; she’s probably just saying it on instinct.
“It’s not a mess.”
She glances over her shoulder. “That’s generous.”
“It’s efficient,” I correct.
That earns me a look. “Wow,” she deadpans. “You really know how to flatter a girl.”
“I’m working on it.”
She lets out a quiet laugh making something in my chest loosen. This is dangerous, the way I want more of that, more of her. I’m here for work not to flirt.
Still, I find myself leaning against the counter, watching as she moves around the kitchen with easy familiarity.
“What are you making?” I ask.
She hesitates. Then, almost defensively, she says, “mac and cheese.”
I wait.
“…from a box,” she adds.
There it is. I raise an eyebrow.
She points a wooden spoon at me. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“It’s good,” she insists.
“I’m sure it is.”
“It is,” she snips, full of bite. But it almost instantly evaporates. “Sorry, it was a long shift. I haven’t eaten in…” her gaze drifts to the clock over the stove. I can see the mental math she’s doing. Finally, she gives her answer. “Too long.”
“It’s fine. I get it. Believe me, I do.”
“Do you want any? Are you hungry?”
“Mason and I ran through fast food an hour ago. I’m good but thank you.”
That seems to satisfy her. I watch as she pours the noodles into boiling water, movements automatic.
“Normally I’d make a protein with this, but I just don’t want to take the time tonight.”
Her tone tells me she’s tired.
“You said you’ve been working extra,” I say after a moment.
Her shoulders shift just lightly while she stirs the contents of the pot. “Yeah.”
“Because of the call the other day?” I press.
“No, my coworker, Alice, Jett’s partner, she’s been out of town visiting family. So, I’ve been picking up extra shifts to help fill in.”
But that’s not all, I’m sure of it. Not by the way her shoulders sag, not in a tiredness that has her eating just boxed mac and cheese.
“And what else?”
She stiffens, the spoon stilling in the pot for a moment. Her shoulders shift again as she takes a deep breath. “Had a bad call today. DV. But she wouldn’t say it, just that she ‘fell down the stairs.’ I think he pushed her, but I can’t prove it and she wouldn’t say it.”
She isn’t blaming me, or the police in general, for not helping this woman. No, her tone shifts when she uses “he.” She’s putting the blame on the man.
I make a mental note to see if I can figure out what that call was and learn more when I get to the precinct tomorrow.
For now, I focus on how she’s dealing with it… by not dealing with it. Avoidance is temporary but she’s taking that route. “You’re trying not to think about it. Keep moving so that the thoughts don’t catch up with you.”
“Stopping doesn’t help,” she replies.
No, it doesn’t always. But not stopping catches up with you and leads to burnout.
“I’ve seen that before,” I state quietly.
“In suspects?” she asks, her tone light but edged.