Chapter 7
Alex
I don’t plan to stay long after dinner. She’s given me a copy of her patient notes, all withholding identifying information.
Apparently, she’d asked one of her coworkers about any patients she’d encountered similar to the one she’d responded to the other day and “Alice had seen more than me.” I was worried that would happen.
Night shift seems to be getting more issues with this than Liv’s shift.
Liv collected all of Alice’s patients with her own and it’s showing a much bigger picture than I’d thought we’d been facing.
I knew this was big, but it’s so much more than that.
Liv walks me to the door, her bare feet quiet against the worn floor. Her apartment feels smaller now than it did when I arrived. Not physically, it’s just… different. The world weighing down on me is making it feel too small.
“Thanks for not making fun of the mac and cheese too much,” she says, leaning lightly against the doorframe.
“I showed restraint.”
“Barely.” The corner of her mouth tips up slightly, playfully.
“That counts,” I concede, fighting the urge to try and talk her into moving out of the neighborhood. All of these cases were within just a six-block radius of this block. It doesn’t necessarily mean she’s in danger being in this neighborhood, but it doesn’t rule it out either.
“You got what you needed?” she asks. I hear her word choice. Needed, not wanted. Fair.
But it’s there, the reason I came. Or the excuse to anyway. “Some of it.” It’s not a lie; it’s just not the whole truth.
Her eyes narrow a fraction, pinching the chocolate brown circles into tight ovals. She knows the difference.
But she doesn’t push.
“Let me know if you think of anything else. Or encounter any more patients like that. And make sure to get PD involved if you do if they’re not already involved. We need a paper trail, contact information, all of that.”
She nods along with me while I list everything off. “And I’ll let Alice know as well.”
“And if any patient makes you feel off. Trust your gut.” I don’t think I need to tell her that, I’m sure it’s part of being a paramedic. But I have to make sure.
Her expression shifts, more serious now. “It all felt off,” she says. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Yeah, because we’re stuck in something much bigger than either of us. And I hate that she’s being pulled into this. But it’s her neighborhood and she’s responded to these calls and these patients. These possible victims.
And now it’s too late to keep her out of it.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” she adds.
It makes a band tighten around my chest. Because I know what “keeping an eye out” looks like for her. It means stepping closer, not backing away.
I’m glad that she’s willing to, but she shouldn’t have to. And I almost want her to keep her nose down when it comes to things happening around her. I don’t want to risk her being noticed by anyone in this damn neighborhood.
“Liv,” I start, calculating my next words before they leave my mouth. “Be aware. There’s a difference.”
She holds my gaze, “I know.”
I’m sure she does and she’s choosing anyway.
That’s worse.
“Goodnight, Alex.”
“Goodnight.” I step out into the hallway. Her door closes behind me with a soft click. I just stand there for a long moment. Listening to her apartment, the sounds in the hallway, the noise through the window at the end of the hallway. Like it can tell me something, anything.
I get nothing in response.
Then I move.
The night air hits colder than it should, the chilly nights becoming more common. Or maybe I’m just more aware of it now.
I take the front steps of the building two at a time, stepping onto the sidewalk and automatically scanning. The corners, the windows, an idling car across the street with no one inside.
There’s always something if you look long enough. That’s the problem. You can’t unsee it once you start looking for it.
Her building sits behind me, unremarkable but vulnerable. My jaw clenches tight. Everyone deserves to feel safe in their own home. I meant it when I told her that, I just didn’t expect it to matter this much.
I tuck the papers inside my jacket, throw on my helmet, and hop on my bike. I’ll bring them to Mason tomorrow morning but for tonight, there’s someone I need to talk to. I need someone else to bounce all of the things fighting for prevalence in my head off of.
I need to talk to my dad.
Family is supposed to be simple, or at least that’s what they told me in foster care.
The first family I remember living with acted like I was the problem for not fitting into their dynamic as easily as those baby toys with shaped holes that you push tiny, shaped blocks through.
But what they didn’t understand is that they were expecting a triangle to fit into their circle of a home, and they expected it to be as easy for me as it was for the circle shaped other kid.
They’d gotten lucky with their first foster kid; he was just like them.
So, they just thought that they were really good at it and that fostering was easy.
Then they met me, a grumpy five-year-old who’d just lost his world and wanted to take it out on everyone else. I needed care, not to be told to just accept it the way they wanted me to.
That was never going to happen.
Because family isn’t what you’re born into, it’s what you choose. And they never chose me. At the time, I thought that meant that I was the problem. It wasn’t until I met Arthur, my dad, that I realized that I was worthy of being chosen.
It seemed like a dream come true when he brought me home for the first time. The foster kid who gets to live in a legit mansion with a butler and a private school? It felt like something from a movie.
It took a while for me to realize that it was a dream come true, just not in the way I had first thought. Because the house stuck and he stuck around. Because he looked at a kid who wasn’t his and decided… mine.
It wasn’t instant, nothing ever really is. It took a while for him to break me down and get through the shell I’d formed around myself after repeated foster home failures. I didn’t trust him, expecting him to cast me away just like all the rest had.
By that point, I was eight years old and still just as grumpy at the world as I had been when my parents died.
But he kept trying. He didn’t push; he just kept consistent with it, letting me know he was trying, and most importantly of all, that he wanted to try.
He stayed and let me stay. That’s what made it real. There was no blood connection and sure as hell no obligation. For him, it was a choice. I was a choice. And he chose me.
Liv didn’t get that, not really. She got survival and self-sufficiency. Arthur adopted me when I was twelve years old. But when Liv was twelve, she was making herself boxed mac and cheese in an empty foster home.
I’m just about to kick up my kickstand when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
My mind jumps straight to Liv until I see the contact lighting up the screen.
Mason. Of course. Guess I’m not going to Dad’s after all.
I pull my helmet back off with a huff, hang it from the handlebars, and stick my phone to my ear. “Yes?” I ask more gruffly than I meant to.
“Still breathing?” he quips.
“Unfortunately.”
“Dang, I had high hopes.”
“What is it, Mason?”
“You done for the night?”
I glance back at her building once more right as she turns off her lights. Heading to bed, I guess.
“Yeah.”
“Perfect,” he says brightly. “I missed your sparkling personality.”
“You saw me three hours ago.”
“And it wasn’t enough.”
“Seek help.”
He laughs under his breath. “Already did. They said exposure therapy might work. Figured I’d start with you.”
“Bad plan.”
“Too late.”
I hop on my bike, ready to go but don’t turn it on yet.
“You talk to her?” he asks after a second.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
I grip my phone tighter. “We need to meet. This is bigger than we realized.”
“Because she’s involved or because it just is?”
I don’t like how right he is and it’s pissing me off.
When I don’t answer, he continues. “You like her,” Mason beams. I can hear his damn grin through the phone.
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
“That’s gonna complicate things,” he continues.
“It already has.”
“No kidding. Captain Grant heard you were meeting up with the medic from the shootout the other night. I didn’t hear all of it, but there were a lot of expletives being slung around in his office.”
Great, now I’ve got to deal with the captain on my back too.
There’s another pause then his tone shifts. The teasing gone, he’s being serious now. “You thinking straight about this?”
Always. “Yeah.”
“You sure?” he presses. “Because if you-”
“I know what I’m doing,” I butt in.
Do I?
He exhales hard, right into the mic. “Just making sure. We’ve got a case here. And if she’s in proximity-”
“She’s not a suspect.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I know. I’m grasping at straws here. Because he’s right, she’s going to cloud my attention on this case.
But I can’t back away now. She’s too close to it and she’s…
too in my head. I need her safe, part of why I’m so compelled to deal with this damn case.
I need her to be safe in her own home. I need… her.
Shit, Mason’s too right about this.
“She’s a civilian,” he continues. “Which makes her a liability.”
The word lands wrong. “She’s not a liability,” I say flatly.
“She is if she gets too close.”
My jaw hardens. “She already is,” I reply. “Besides, she fits the demographic and lives in the area. She’s a potential target.”
We’re both silent for a long time, it’s heavy but full of understanding.
I hated to admit it, but it’s true. She could easily be a target for this group, whoever it is that’s been trafficking women in the area.
She’s the same age range and build as the other victims, both the near grabs and the missing persons cases that have been piling up over the last few months.
And she’s pretty, what the traffickers want most. She’s beautiful, which undeniably makes her a potential target.
“Then the question is,” Mason says softly, “what are you going to do about it?”
I don’t answer right away, which is surely tipping him off. But there are options: distance, disengage, keep it professional. Let her stay out of it, that’s the smart move. It’s the right move. The move I should make.
I don’t want that fucking option.
Not after the way she read her patient like a book the day she responded to the most recent near grab.
Not after the look in her eyes when she noticed the vest under my shirt.
Not considering the way her mind works, writing down potentially connected cases and cataloging them.
Not after the way she didn’t back down when I ordered her to get back inside when she ran to me after I got winged the day we met.
Not after the way her touch lit my skin on fire that night.
She’s already in it, with or without me thinking about her too much.
And I’m pretty sure she knows both of those facts already. She’s in it and she’s a target. Which means walking away won’t protect her anymore.
It just leaves her exposed.
“Thornton,” Mason states, pulling my attention back to him.
I exhale slowly. “I’m not pulling her out.”
He pauses for a long moment before responding. “No?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I stare up at her dark windows, my decision settling into place. “I keep her closer. I make sure she knows enough to stay alive.”
“And the rest?”
“I handle.”
He’s quiet for too long, then, “that’s not just about the case.”
No, it’s not. “I know.”
Concern edges his voice when he speaks again. “You ever worry, that some things are just beyond your control?”
“I don’t get to step back from this,” I say finally. “Not the case. Not her.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Get over it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, yeah.” He pauses again. “Just don’t lose the line.”
By the time I get back to the precinct, the main floor is as busy as nighttime normally brings but the third floor, where my desk is, is mostly empty. A few stragglers still hang around the office, finishing up whatever they’re working on, crowding the printer, and filing shit away.
Across the open space in the middle of the office area, Mason’s standing between our desks, leaning against his with his arms crossed and watching me walk over. He leans down to swipe his arm across my desk and clear a spot.
I pull Liv’s notes out of my jacket and spread them out across the bare wooden surface, and we start pouring over each case listed, gleaming what we can about the descriptions of the victims from the notes, and plotting out the locations of each one on a city map on the corkboard nearby.
A pattern quickly becomes apparent as the map fills with more and more pins.
Each one signifying where an attack occurred, a near-grab happened, or was the last known sighting of a missing persons case opened in the last six months.
All within a twenty-block radius… with Liv’s apartment building in the center.