Chapter 40
By the time I pull up to my place it’s after four a.m. and I’m exhausted.
Holding up a guy at gunpoint will do that to a woman.
I still have his gun (no way was I leaving it behind).
Some jerk (my neighbor’s girlfriend, I think) parked in my reserved spot so I’m in the back of the lot, which means even more steps when I’m tempted to just sleep in my car.
I need a couple hours of sleep, then coffee, then I’m going to tear into the names of everyone Hannah and Godoy had blackmailed. I want to start tonight but I know even if I try to read, I’ll end up passed out so I need to make it to my bed at least.
I’m starting to feel the tingle at the base of my skull, the one I always get when working a case. I’m close to figuring this out.
And right about now is the time I wish I actually was a cyborg because I could simply plug myself in and recharge while I work.
“I would miss coffee if I was a cyborg,” I mutter as I slide out of the BMW. That’s another thing on my never-ending list: change the title of the vehicle over to myself and add it to my insurance. It’s low on my list, to be sure, but I at least need to take care of the insurance thing.
As I reach back in to grab my bag, I see a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s probably because of my hindbrain, but I manage to react-ish, jumping back as a huge man rushes me.
It’s Vincento, and he’s fast for such a big guy. He swings out with his fist and clips me on the shoulder when I try to jump back again.
Pain rattles through me at the impact, jarring my bones.
And I react on primitive instinct because this man is going to kill me. I can see it in his eyes. I scream, hoping it draws the attention of someone, though I didn’t see a soul when I pulled into the parking lot.
Clearly, I think, annoyed at myself for getting jumped like this. I should have seen him coming.
He charges at me again, this time like a bull, but at least I’m prepared. Adrenaline punches through me as I duck and quite literally roll away from him onto the pavement. Because he’s moving so fast I can’t run.
The gun!
I scramble for my fallen bag and reach into it, wrap my fingers around the butt and pull it out. As I roll onto my back, he’s running at me again, his expression wild. He sees the gun, doesn’t even seem to care.
I don’t have time to aim because this bull is almost on me. I pull the trigger and he’s like a marionette with the strings cut. He jerks back under the impact and then grunts in pain as he looks down, clutches onto his thigh.
I scramble to my feet and run. The only sound in my ears is my own blood rushing as I race for the front entrance. By the time I reach the glass doors, I risk a glance over my shoulder but he hasn’t followed.
Still, I race inside and run up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. By the time I burst out onto my floor, I pull out my phone and call Garcia.
It’s not instinctive to call the cops, but I need help right now and Garcia will show up. I know it.
***
I’m leaning against the front of Garcia’s personal vehicle as the Seattle PD finishes up with everything.
They took pictures of the scene, bagged the pistol as evidence, tested my hands for gunshot residue even though I told them I shot him, and collected samples of the blood on the pavement, likely from Vincento before he ran to wherever.
I was mostly honest about everything, except the ownership of the gun. I said that I thought Vincento must have dropped it when he rushed me, and I panicked and grabbed it. My fingerprints aren’t on the bullets and there are no security cameras back in this part of the parking lot to say otherwise.
So it’s my word against the man who attacked me and who has ties to a criminal.
I’m okay with lying about this. Because there’s no way that it’s linked to Godoy—or I can’t imagine it is. If it actually is registered to him, then I’ll cross that bridge later. Or Godoy will.
Those are problems for future Sloane.
“You sure you’re doing okay?” Garcia asks quietly as he approaches me.
“As well as can be expected.”
“I’m glad you called me.”
I don’t know what to say and I’m surprised that I called him and not Alex but…
he’s the cop. Of course I called him. That’s what I tell myself anyway.
Under normal circumstances I would have called Alex but…
whatever. I’m too tired to analyze my choice.
“He was a total psycho,” I mutter. And I still can’t figure out why he attacked me.
“He’s going down for this.” There’s more than a bite of anger in Garcia’s voice. “He might even flip on his boss.”
It’s not something I actually care about.
I want to know why the hell he attacked me.
And if he had anything to do with Cara’s death.
I still can’t make that one work in my head simply because she knew her killer.
But I’m not ruling out Vincento altogether because of tonight.
My sister kept things from me, so maybe she knew him somehow too.
“I don’t think he followed me,” I say instead of responding. “Or I didn’t notice anyone tailing me.” Though to be fair, I was running on fumes on the drive back after Alex dropped me at my vehicle.
“He was probably waiting for you. The detective in charge is going to let me know what they find on the security feed. Though he’s not hopeful it’ll be much.”
Yep. Because the security is mainly focused on the actual building and right around the direct exterior.
“I want you to pack a bag. You’re not staying here tonight.”
I blink at him.
“You’re coming with me,” he adds.
I blink again.
“The Seattle PD is leaving someone to watch your place and we’ve got someone at your sister and brother-in-law’s house, but you need to go somewhere safe. I have an extra room.”
I think of a dozen arguments (okay I think of maybe five) for why I should say no but find myself saying, “Okay.”
He looks as surprised as I feel, but he recovers quickly and nods. “Grab your stuff. I’ll pick you up at the entrance.”
Okay, then. This is happening. I’m staying at the hot cop’s house.
And yeah, Alex wasn’t wrong about that. Garcia is annoyingly hot.
I don’t even like that word, but it describes him perfectly—chiseled jaw, gorgeous bronze skin even in the cold winter months, and he’s protective.
That’s the thing that gets me, the protectiveness. The man cares.
Seriously, life would be a whole lot easier if I was a cyborg and didn’t have to deal with my emotions.