Archer
ARCHER
“ M inka’s freaking out, ya know?” I stride out of the boardroom inside the Copeland City Police Department’s homicide division, my best friend and partner, Charlie Fletcher, on my right, his shoulder brushing mine as we make a beeline for the escalators that will get us out of here. “She’s trying really hard not to ask you about Booth. But she’s crawling out of her skin with curiosity, and if you’re not careful, she’s gonna explode and make a mess all over you.”
“You mean like how you’re trying really fucking hard not to ask right now?” He moves onto the steel escalator landing and glances across with a teasing smirk. “You think you’re suave because you’re technically not asking, but you’re dying to know, anyway?”
“No.” Yes. Fuck yes! “I’m not asking. I believe in a man’s right to keep secrets, even when the secret is huge and probably should be shared with his best friend.”
He chuckles, slipping his hands into his pockets so his shoulders expand and the leather holster stretches with the movement. But then he drops his gaze and studies his shoes.
So he’s not forced to lie to my face, I suppose.
“Booth deserved to die.” He peeks up from the corners of his honeycomb eyes. “He was a shit-stain on society. He did bad things to vulnerable people and took my daughter’s mother away from her. Jada was on a crappy path, I know, and she’s better off where she is now— we’re better off now—but that doesn’t mean Booth walks away without punishment.”
“So you’re…” Just say the fucking words, Charlie ! “You hired a gun?” I lower my voice since we’re inside a police station. “You had him popped, knowing he would probably go to the funeral to see her one last time?”
“I confirm no such thing.” Grinning, he lifts his head again just in time to step off the escalator, then he starts toward the front doors and the darkness already waiting for us outside. “I’m just saying, he deserved to die, and I’m not crying that he ate steel in the end.”
“You’re a?—”
“Detective Fletcher?” That thick, booming voice that belongs to none other than Captain Bower brings Fletch and me to a skidding stop just fifteen feet from freedom. My stomach drops into my asshole, and Fletch’s face turns deathly white in my peripherals.
Because Bower following us through the belly of the precinct is… unheard of.
“We weren’t talking loud, were we?” Fletch nervously smooths his shirt and turns to face our captain’s slow approach. It’s like torture, the way the escalator moves at a crawling pace. Torment, the way Bower’s expression gives nothing away. Nothing, except that whatever is on his mind doesn’t translate to a smile on his lips. “We didn’t just narc on me, did we?”
“No.” I sniff and turn, fixing my shirt, too, and standing shoulder to shoulder with my best friend. “We didn’t say shit, and you won’t admit to a damn thing. Straighten your spine,” I grit out, “look him in the eye. You have an alibi that won’t be broken, and you’d like to focus on yours and Mia’s grief right now.”
“What if he heard us?”
“He heard nothing,” I snarl. I stand tall and watch the captain work on the last twenty feet that separate us. “ Omertà means you shut the fuck up. ”
“It means you’re going to prison, too; accessory after the fact.”
“Shut up.” I broaden my chest and drop my chin in a nod when he comes to a stop in front of us. “Captain Bower. Shift just ended, so we were heading out for the day. Did we forget something?”
“I wish to speak to Detective Fletcher.” Way too fucking serious, he lifts a single brow, his stare boring into mine. “Alone.”
“Sure. Of course, Cap.” Anxious, I look across at Fletch, only to find his face too pale and his chest visibly pounding. He’s gonna narc on himself if given half the chance. So I tap his arm with my elbow before following orders and stepping back a mere three feet to give them privacy.
Except Bower clears his throat.
So I give them an additional three.
And that’s it. That’s as far as I’m going.
I give them my back and drop my eyes to my shoes. Don’t mind me. I’m just over here, paying attention to the specks in the cheap floor. I’m definitely not listening to someone else’s conversation.
“Is there a problem, Captain?” Fletch’s voice is scratchy with nerves. Gravelly with fatigue after living through the worst month of his life. “Our slate is clear, and Arch and I are on call in case something fresh rolls in. But?—”
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
“I’m concerned,” Bower rumbles, his rounding body double the width of Fletch’s. And I know that because, of course, I turn my head and peek at the pair. “Things are very serious right now, Detective, and I’m worried.”
“About?” Fuck me over and stick a flagpole up my ass, because Fletch’s voice cracks like he’s fourteen all over again . “I’m doing the job, Cap. I’m turning up and working through our case load. Our reports are on Lieutenant Fabian’s desk every day for his approval, so it’s not like I’m getting lazy and going unchecked.”
Stop. Fucking. Speaking.
“I’m concerned because you’re coming to work,” he grumbles. “You buried your wife a week ago, Detective.”
“ Ex -wife. We haven’t been together for a long time.”
“You buried the mother of your child,” he snaps. “Just one week ago. You stood up under the scrutiny of Midtown Detectives while they investigated her death.”
“I was cleared. Quickly and easily. My alibi was tight, sir. And the Midtown cops got what they needed without turning it into a whole fuss. My focus is on moving forward now. It’s about getting my daughter through this mess and coming out the other end with our hearts and minds intact.”
“Exactly my point.” He shifts on his feet, his two-hundred-and-fifty-odd pounds moving with his new stance. “You should be at home, Detective, concentrating on your child and probably a grief counseling session or two. Despite your divorce, Ms. Watson was someone you once swore your life to, and she was still very much your daughter’s mother. Her grief is your grief. I need to know you’re here, Detective Fletcher, healthy and intact.”
“I am. I swear.”
“It’s too soon.”
“Being at work is how I’ll heal. Keeping my daughter out of school helps nobody. Staying home does nothing but breed racing thoughts and those annoying what ifs a man is apt to conjure in situations like this.”
“Detective Fletcher?—”
“My daughter needs to be in school with her friends. Routine and normalcy, so when we’re together in the evenings, we can be healthy and positive for each other. I’m better off coming to work,” he insists, “being with my best friend, sitting at my desk, seeing my colleagues, and nearly shitting my pants because my captain singled me out just now.” He chokes out a nervous laugh, lowering his gaze as he toes the floor. “I’m fine, Cap. The school is handling things and helping Mia through. They have a counselor on staff, not only for when my baby needs it, but as a weekly check-in from now until I decide we can do without. I have my own therapist, too, and I see her almost daily. My family and friends have set these safety nets up for us because they care that we’re okay. So with those precautions in place, I’d really like to just get back to work.” He brings his eyes up again. “Let this be my normal. I’m begging you. I’m ready and able to be here. ”
Bower considers for a long beat, searching Fletch’s face, then glancing over his shoulder and catching my stare. I swing my head around again and go about my task of minding my own business— not —until finally, he huffs. “Fine. But Lieutenant Fabian has been ordered to pay particular attention to you, Detective Fletcher. You’ll be last on the on-call register until I decide otherwise.”
Curious, I peek their way again.
“Sir?” Fletch’s brows drop low to shadow his confused stare. “We’re on-call tonight. That’s the job.”
“The job is whatever I say it is. And for now, staying home with your child instead of crawling out of bed and onto a crime scene at three in the morning is what I’m ordering.”
“You’re benching me?”
He smiles, the bushy lines of his mustache rolling with his lips. “No, Detective. But I’m cutting you a little slack for the next little while. I’ll toss you and the eavesdropping Detective Malone back into full rotation when I see fit.”
One thousand speckles. One thousand and one. One thousand and two.
“Until then, you’ll do your standard hours and go home in time for dinner.”
“If you’re not benching me, then you’re allowing us to catch a case. If we catch a case, then we don’t get to clock out at five just because it’s nearly dinnertime.”
For God’s sake, dude. Shut the fuck up.
“We’ll juggle,” Bower counters, though his eyes dance with subdued humor. Reaching out, he pats Fletch’s shoulder. “I’ve said it before, but I want you to know you have my condolences. If you need time off, ask for it. Otherwise, I expect Fabian’s reports to come back squeaky clean. Once I’ve deemed it appropriate, I’ll toss you back into rotation and you won’t even notice my presence anymore.”
“Sure. Fine.” He exhales a breath of relief. Appreciation. Exasperation. “It’s a deal I’ll take. Oh, and thanks for hooking me up with the Commissioner’s Fund for Jada’s burial.”
“The Commissioner’s Fund?” Curious, Bower’s eyes come across to me .
“Yeah,” Fletch continues. “It made everything so much easier, knowing I didn’t have to find the money for all that.”
I nod, stony faced and serious, until Bower’s eyes flicker back to my partner.
“If I find myself in a position to contribute in the future, I’ll do my best to pay back what we took, so someone else can make use of the fund.”
“The Commissioner’s Fund…” He firms his lips into an almost straight line. “No problem. Glad we could help.”
“If that’s all, Cap?” I give up on my farce and move to Fletch’s side again, my shoulder touching his and my heart pounding in my chest. For a million reasons, really . “Mia’s gonna be waiting for him, so it’s probably best that we head out now.”
“Of course.” Bower takes a step back, releasing Fletch from his obligation to stay the fuck still. “You’re dismissed.”
I grab Fletch’s arm and turn us, my feet moving fast and my entire body crashing against the heavy door to shove it open, only for a burst of freezing air to sprint into the precinct. “Let’s go.”
“Jesus.” He brushes my hand off and stops on the sidewalk, dropping his shoulders back, his eyes searching the dark sky and his chest lifting and falling in search of fresh air. “I thought I was cooked.”
“You’ll never get through trial without admitting to stealing a fucking cookie when you were five. Here, Judge, I pre-wrote a list of confessions so as not to inconvenience you, the jury, or the entire American legal system . So sorry it’s not double spaced for ease of reading. Fucking newb.” I fist his sleeve and yank him away from the front of the precinct, just in case Bower is still watching. “How are you, Charlie Fletcher—badass homicide cop, street kid, dude who knows how to fight with his hands, or else— but you’re out here whiter than a ghost all because the captain wanted to talk for a second?”
“Shut up.” He wrenches his arm from my grip, but at least he continues walking. “Mind your business.”
“I don’t need to ask if you popped Booth. You have GUILTY written across your forehead.”
“I said,” he snarls, screeching to a stop and burning me with a glare. “Mind your business. ”
“You stepped into the big leagues, kid, but you’re gonna strike out because you’re so fucking green. If you can’t live with the decisions you’ve made, you shouldn’t have made them in the first damn place.”
“I’m living with it, Capo . And whatever it is, is none of your business. My life is mine, and Booth’s death needn’t be discussed.”
“That’s the party line, anyway.” I run a hand through my hair and scratch in hopes of easing the tension coiling in my belly. “Fuck, Fletch. You can’t keep the secret! The second Bower calls you into his office, it’s all over.”
“You shouting this shit in the street is the only reason anything could be over for me.” He rolls his eyes and turns on his heels. “I’m going home. My baby is waiting for me, and our best lives are just getting started.”
“Fletch!”
“New episodes of Bluey dropped today.” He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “It’s called priorities, son.”
“Wait!” I plant my feet shoulder-width apart and put my hands in my pockets. But at least he slows and peeks back, his honeycomb eyes scouring my face and his lips curling subtly.
When I say nothing, he lifts his chin. “What?”
“You have a therapist you see most days?” My heart thrums to a steady, comforting pace, because I had no clue my best friend was taking care of himself so well. This new knowledge soothes hurts I didn’t know I was carrying. “Really? I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah.” He laughs and licks his lips. “Her name is Seraphina Lewis, and I see her as often as I can.”
His words are like a bucket of ice water tossed on my head. “What?”
“We don’t really talk,” he chuckles. “Mostly, she has no clue I’m around. Sometimes the only seeing I get to do is when she’s on the news with Lawrence. But alas, she’s puuurrty , and the fire in her eyes is like a balm on my burning skin.”
“You’re a jackass. For a second there, I was really fucking touched. Like you were truly prioritizing your mental health. Made me proud. Seraphina Lewis?” I turn and shake my head. “Someday you’re gonna end up in a hospital for the mentally deranged because you never gave yourself time to heal from things you needed to heal from. ”
“You’ll visit me. That’s what best friends are for.”
“I’ll write you a letter on the first of every month,” I growl. “They’ll all say I told you so, you fuckwit .”
“I look forward to them.” Laughing, he spins and continues toward his apartment. “Love ya, Arch. Enjoy your full night’s rest. My grief bought you relief from being on-call.”
“Mmhm.” Shaking my head, I start toward home with the happy anticipation of what I’m walking toward rolling in my belly. A hot meal, a steaming shower. Both to be enjoyed with my wife. My brother will probably be nearby, but he knows when to skedaddle. He’s young and a little stupid, but he respects a man’s need for alone-time with his wife, and he has somewhere else to go to wile away his time.
Taking out my phone and swiping the lock screen away, I spy a pebble on the sidewalk, round and smooth, but with a sharp edge on one end, like it was dropped from somewhere high up and part of it broke away on impact. Scooping it up, I slide it and my hand into my pocket while typing with the other.
I’m heading home, Mayet. I’m craving Mexican and you. I’m about to walk past the George Stanley, so you better not be in your office rotting away.
I hit send, only to cut right at the revolving glass doors of her multi-story building and catch the security guard’s eyes before I have to move more than four feet into the lobby. “She here?”
He shakes his head. Silent, stoic, straight to the fuckin’ point, exactly how I like him.
“She went home?”
He nods.
“Thanks.” I spin again and catch the momentum of the moving doors, only to re-emerge on the sidewalk and continue my trek home. Unlocking my phone screen, I jump across to the call log and find her name right at the top, where it should always be. Hitting dial, though I’ll see her in two minutes anyway, I bring the phone to my ear, smiling despite the cold biting at the tip of my nose and the way the chill makes it runny.
I shiver and bounce with my steps, working to get my blood flowing and a little warmth into my limbs, and all the while, I follow the glowing sign of Tim’s bar calling me home .
It’s our true north. Our light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.
It’s a promise of warmth and family, a meal and a safe space to be.
Ironic, considering it belongs to the heir of a dead mafia kingpin.
My call rings. And rings. And rings again. Then it cuts out, sending me to voicemail, so I frown and pull the device down to check the screen. I don’t leave her a message, but I swipe to my text screen again and type: If you’re already in the shower, prepare to have another. I wanna get sudsy and wet with you. We’re not in a drought and water is cheap, so I’m gonna waste the shit out of it tonight with you.
Hitting send, I lock the phone and quicken my steps. It’s too damn cold to stay out here for more than a few minutes, and that’s with multi-story buildings on both sides of the street, blocking a lot of the wind cutting through the city.
I pass the corner store where Fletch and I ran a homicide case a little over a year ago. Dead guy who liked to hurt little girls. He had a reputation amongst the nearby residents that, although he went unchecked and remained a free man, a mother’s intuition meant she knew to keep her baby home, especially when it was dark out.
It snowed that night, too.
It was also the first vigilante murder Copeland City ever knew.
What a fuckin’ coincidence that I would go on to marry that guy’s killer.
Shaking my head, I keep my eyes down all the way until I’m out front of Tim’s bar, but just like I did at the George Stanley, I push the door open and duck my head in. Instead of catching my brother’s eyes, I find Daisy’s instead.
I lift my left hand, pointing my thumb at my ring finger—though, of course, I wear my wedding band on a chain around my neck—but Daisy is smart enough to understand what I silently ask.
She shakes her head.
I point to our apartment building to my left.
She shrugs, which means she hasn’t seen Minka all afternoon.
I’ll take it.
I back up and onto the sidewalk, only to cut right and shove through our apartment building door. If one could expect inside to mean warmer air, they would be wrong as hell when they come into this building. The stairwell is made of concrete, the walls, brick. Each separate apartment has a poor excuse for heating and cooling, but the communal spaces are even less comfortable than an igloo in Antarctica.
I rub my hands together and pass a watchful Steve, white fog floating into the air in front of his mouth.
“How’s it going?” I don’t stop to talk. But I glance over my shoulder as I move onto the stairs. “You good?”
“Good as can be.” He lifts his chin up . “Chief Mayet had a rough day, I think.”
“Yeah?” I screech to a stop and turn back, my hand gripping the railing and my brows pinching tight in concern. “What happened?”
“Don’t know.” He breathes into his gloved hands. “She didn’t say. But I could see the trouble in her eyes. I said hello and asked about work, but she was somewhere else in her mind.”
She was probably all peopled out , to be honest. But instead of saying so, she dissociates and floats through life. So I turn and start up again. “I’ll make sure she’s good. Thanks for watching out.”
“You’ll send Cato down for a bit?”
I chuckle and turn at the landing to continue up. “Maybe. Probably. Give him work to do. Saves you a little labor, and it’ll keep an energetic teen on the straight and narrow. I’ll catch you in the morning.”
“Alright, Detective.” Steve huffs and mumbles, making himself comfortable at his post, though fuck knows, he doesn’t need to be this building’s security detail.
My thoughts are on Minka, whether she had a bad day or is simply too tired to socialize, so his words trail off and cease to exist in my mind. My steps turn to a jog, and my jog allows the blood to flow warmer in my veins. White fog races me all the way home, but I welcome the challenge, pushing myself faster until I reach the fourth floor and stride through the door.
“Minka?” I turn to lock up and shrug my jacket off, the end of my nose stinging now that paid-for warmth touches the freezing skin. I toss my jacket onto the hook, then I dig things out of my pockets and dump them in the bowl by the door.
My badge. My wallet. Keys. Coins.
The rock with the sharp edge.
I place it with the dozen others I’ve brought home over the last month or two, then I turn and find the top of her brown hair peeking over the back of the sofa. That’s all I see, which means she’s hunched. Terrible posture. Too tired to sit up straight.
“It’s not infusion night, Mayet.” I rub my hands together and start across the apartment, peeking into each corner to ensure Cato isn’t hiding anywhere. Then I stop at the back of the couch and frown when I not only find my wife mentally captive in a whole other world, but a messy pile of files and a laptop perched on her folded legs.
“Hey?” My heart knocks in my chest, crushing my lungs and settling in with a tang of anxiety pulsing in my blood, so I grab her ponytail and gently pull until she’s forced to look up at me. But even then, her eyes are absent. Her focus, somewhere else entirely. “What’s going on?” I bend and press a gentle kiss to her lips—it’s like kissing a wall—then I spy the files laid out in front of her. “You have Diane Philips’ case notes out again?” I release her hair, but only so I can crouch and rest my arms on the back of the couch. “What’s going on?”
“January eleventh.” She flips through pages. One after another after another. “It’s January twenty-seventh now.”
“Uh… Yes?” I study her laptop screen and find it split in two: one half has a spreadsheet, dates and times, facts and figures spelled out in neat lines, and the other half, a picture of a little girl. Smiling face, missing front tooth. Could be pudding on her lips, and bright brown eyes staring down the barrel of the camera. “It’s been about two weeks since the eleventh, right? You told me to stop making it into a big deal.”
“Sixteen days,” she rasps, setting a stack of papers aside and leafing through the next pile. “Sixteen days, six hours, thirty-seven minutes.” She swallows and brings her haunted eyes up to mine. “Since 9-1-1 was called.”
“What?” I snatch the laptop and minimize the spreadsheet, so I can scan the article about a girl named Janiesa Sawyer. “Was playing in a park under her mother’s watchful eye,” I read out loud. “Coffee cart. January eleventh. Abduction?” My stomach drops like a lead fucking balloon, but it grows exponentially heavier when I find the dozen other tabs open at the top of her screen. Nausea and curiosity create a tangled web in my mind as I go to the next and find a different article. Same girl, different picture, same story, different perspective. “Negligent single mom,” I snarl. “Child was alone.” Then the next. “Similarities to the Body-In-The-Bag killer who began his reign in the winter of ‘98. Janiesa Sawyer may be the newest victim of a crime that spans over twenty years. What the fuck?” I snap the laptop closed and meet Minka’s stare. “What?”
“Soph called me at work.” Her voice is weak. Tired. Her throat is dry, and her eyes are void of… anything. These are the eyes I’ve seen in the past. Rarely. But I’ve seen them. “She called this afternoon and told me about Janiesa’s case.”
“You don’t believe it’s the same guy, though, right? He stopped.”
“I mean…” She unfolds her legs, groaning as she sets her feet on the floor and slumps against the back of the couch. This might literally be the first time she’s extended her spine and given her organs space to breathe since she sat down. “I said no. I believed myself when I said it.”
“Minka?” I throw my leg over the couch and slide onto the cushions so I can sit beside her, crumpled papers between us. Pens poking my leg. Seventeen lifetimes crushed between me and a couch cushion. Grabbing her chin, I drag her focus back around. “He stopped. Like, five or six years ago.”
“That’s what I said, too.” The whites of her eyes turn a horrifying shade of pink, tears making them shimmer. But she refuses to let them fall. “He stopped. That’s what I told Soph. But she’s Soph, ya know? She doesn’t do wrong .”
“Babe—”
“January eleventh, a little girl was taken from a park in Bronxville, New York. She’s the only child of a hard-working single mom doing it all alone. Her father, who was otherwise absent in her life, has an airtight alibi and is actively and passionately helping with the investigation. He’s not a suspect at this point.”
“The others were taken closer to Manhattan!” Why do I argue? How does it help? She’s still missing, and finding her abductor, whoever he is, is the most important next step. “Does she have a connection to any of the seventeen who came before her?” My eyes spring wide when a thought hits me. “Did he leave a dead girl at the park before taking her?”
“No.” She reaches out and carefully, robotically, takes back her laptop. “Detectives have been working the case for a little over two weeks already. They’ve run through everyone’s alibis, every single relative, school teachers, bus drivers, daycare workers, and even the owner of the coffee cart. They’ve found no one of interest, not only for this case, but have found no connections to any of the previous seventeen.”
“So…” Fuck ! My brain stretches and strains to figure her out. “Apart from the day she was taken, what makes them connect this one to the others?”
She opens the laptop, listless and waning, and shrugs. “They consulted the primary detective from the original cases. And since everything else in Janiesa’s life has been worked through, I guess they landed on this being too much of a coincidence. Or maybe they haven’t been forthcoming with the information they have so far.” She reopens her spreadsheet and slowly reads each line. I see dates. Times. Names. Locations. She’s scoured countless articles and files to gather as much information as possible until…
Obsession .
“Babe? You did all this today?”
She drags her bottom lip between her teeth, the shine of the laptop screen glittering against the unshed tears in her eyes. “Some. I started this spreadsheet years ago.” She releases her lip, but doesn’t pull her focus from the screen. “Before I even met you.”
“And now you’re adding to it?” I snag the piles of paper and things stuck between us and set them on the coffee table, all so I can scoot closer and see the screen easier as she scrolls. “Justine Desmond?”
“She served Janiesa’s mother the coffee at the park.”
I narrow my eyes and scour the spreadsheet. “And Tahnee Staines?”
“Was at the park with her kid when Janiesa was snatched.” She leans forward when I set my arm on the back of the couch, escaping my touch and eliciting a stabbing spire of dread spearing through my gut. “Not a suspect, but she had contact with Janiesa before she was taken. Her kid was playing with Janiesa on the swings approximately twenty minutes before Janiesa was taken.”
“How do you…” Scowling, I stroke a lock of her hair between my thumb and finger and feel the silky strands on my skin. “How do you know this stuff? Did Soph pull the files?”
“Some.” She brings her legs up again, crossing them under her laptop and rests her elbow on one side, setting her chin in her hand. “I got some from the investigating detective, too.”
“The New York detectives? Why would they send that?” But horror whistles through my blood as theories populate my mind. “Jesus, you didn’t use that fake fuckin’ badge Sophia gave you, did you? You know that’s gonna land your ass in prison long before the vigilante shit will.”
“Didn’t use my badge.” Her brows roll with confusion as she flicks from one tab of her spreadsheet to another. “Estelle Bagley… what time did you leave?”
“Minka?” I give her hair a gentle tug. “If you didn’t use your badge, how’d you get information any decent cop wouldn’t dare hand over?”
“Estelle was at the park earlier in the day.” She types notes into her spreadsheet to keep the data accurate. “Approximately an hour before the Sawyers arrived. Seems to have left about the same time they arrived but doesn’t recall seeing them.”
“Hey?” I fist her hair and force her around. “How’d you get the case files?”
She stares in confusion, blinking and processing my question. “I already said. The detective.”
“But how? Why? It’s not like Fletch and I are out here handing over that shit to any random medical examiner on the other side of the country.”
“I asked Pax for it.”
Impatience bristles in my veins. “Who the fuck is Pax?”
“Detective Gilbert.” She gently drags her hair free of my hand and goes back to studying the screen. “We knew each other in New York before I moved here. Worked a few cases together. Soph said he’s the new lead now that Detective Lowe has retired.”
“So you just…” Why do I feel like the fucking idiot here ? “You picked up the phone and asked, and he just… sent them?”
“I emailed.” She taps away at the keyboard and enters more information into her database. “Said I heard about the new case, explained that I was interested, and requested a professional courtesy. He knows I’m decent and not apt to gossip or leak files, so he sent them over.”
“Just like that?” I push off the couch, only to twist and sit on the coffee table, staring at my wife over the top of her screen. “He didn’t call you to make sure he wasn’t being punked? Didn’t call to say hey?”
“Didn’t call,” she responds in monotone, typing, typing, typing . “Sent the files and said he’d be in touch in a day or two when he can catch a spare second.” She pulls her lip between her teeth again, abusing the plump line and creating wrinkles in her brow while she thinks. “I’ve never broken professional trust in the past. I see no reason why he’d refuse my request.”
Frustrated, because she doesn’t actually see me here, I shove up from the table and stalk into the kitchen to get a bottle of water. One for me, and one for her.
“What are you planning to do about this, Mayet?” I crack the lid of her water and walk it across the room. “You don’t live in New York anymore. The case isn’t yours, and even if you flew across the country and tried to insert yourself into the investigation, it would look suspicious to anyone curious enough to pay attention. Chief Medical Examiner, Minka Mayet, is so invested in this string of murders when she’s not actually connected. Then we have the vigilante killer who targets men just like this guy, with unsolved cases in two different states, and with time stamps that just so happen to have you in those states at those times. Your freedom relies on the fact no one would ever think to look at you in the first place. But if you horn in on this case, you’re tacking your face to the murder board.” I stop at the end of the couch and stare down at the woman hunched over a computer. “Minka?”
“Hmm?” She peels her focus from the screen and glances up. “What?”
My temper spikes. Anger roars in my veins, and most potent of all, horrifying dread eats me up. Because Minka Mayet is to remain a free fucking woman. Even if it kills me, I’ll keep her on the right side of prison bars.
But I remember who she was when we met, too. Singularly focused. Obsessed with justice. Riddled with unhealthy coping mechanisms and a lack of self-preservation. She was a hunter, and they were her prey.
And now, it seems, her thirst for the hunt is back.
“I need you not to lose yourself over this.” I crouch and rest my arms on the end of the couch. “I need you to stay here with me?—”
“I am. ”
I grab her chin when she attempts to turn back to the screen, pulling her around until I can hold her eyes. “Mentally. Emotionally. And physically. You can’t go back to who you were before; not eating, not sleeping, tracking dangerous men down in the fucking dark, and risking your life just so you could end his. I need you to let the cops do their job, Minka. And I need you to stay here and do yours.”
“I’m just reading the case files.” She leans away, pulling her chin from my fingers, then turning back to her screen despite the snarl rolling along my throat. “I’m not going to New York.”
“Do you promise?” I set her water on the coffee table. “Minka? Do you promise, no matter what happens with this case, you won’t go to New York?”
“I mean…” Frowning, she types and taps. “That’s a broad promise to make. If something comes up that I?—”
“No.” I snap her laptop closed and draw her fiery ire. “Make a promise you’ll stay right here. If you need eyes on the case, do it via case files, just like you are right now. Watch the news. Talk to Soph if you must. But I want your ass to stay in this state. I want you to be able to sleep when you need to sleep and eat when I fucking tell you to eat.”
Like the spell is broken, with the laptop closed and the power Janiesa’s case has over my wife momentarily severed, she blinks and allows a little of the real her back into her eyes.
“Promise me.”
“Okay.” She swallows and softens, transforming from the vigilante I met to the woman I married. The woman she is when the world is right, and she feels safe. “I promise.”
“I want you to make healthy choices. Keep up with the case if you must, watch it on the news or whatever. But you live here now. You have your own building to run and cases to work on. This is your life.”
“I said I promise.” Setting one foot on the floor and leaning over the other, she stretches closer and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “I can’t ignore that this is happening.” Another feather-soft kiss. “But I trust the New York team to do their best. Janiesa is in a better position than Diane ever was because now they have seventeen cases of history to consider and fresh eyes to look the case over. If it’s the same guy, then we know the girls live for the entire year he has them. He doesn’t kill them until the day before the drop. So if Gilbert is half as good as I remember him, we might get her home alive.”
Not unscathed , I think to myself. Not without scars . She’s been with this fucker for sixteen days already. God knows the hell she’s living within.
But I don’t voice my thoughts out loud.
I merely nod and reach around to grab the bottle I set down. “Drink. When was the last time you had water?”
Her cheeks warm, but she looks down and takes my offering. “Plain water? Or water sprinkled with coffee and cream?”
“So, this morning.” I kiss the top of her head and turn away to get my phone. “I’m ordering burritos, because I’m starving. Then I’m taking you to bed, because I’ve had a stressful fucking day and, turns out, so have you.”
“Where’s Cato?” As though this is the first time she’s truly taken stock of her surroundings since getting home, she glances around the room. “Late class?”
“I guess so.” I swipe to my delivery app and hit ‘ order again ’ on our usual. Our address is already pre-filled, as well as my card details. I add a tip and select faster delivery, then I watch the progress circle spin, spin, spin until the order is confirmed. Finally, the phone dings to let me know my credit card has been charged, so I lock the screen and slip the device into my pocket. “You’ll never guess what Fletch basically admitted to tonight while we were leaving the station.”
I glance across to find her focus back on the sheets of paper on the table. The files I moved, now that the laptop is shut.
“Minka? Did you hear me?”
She bends her neck in an entirely unnatural, uncomfortable way, hunching over the files and scanning the information, barely conscious of the fact I speak. “Hmm? I heard you.”
“Fletch and Fifi got married today.” I stalk back to the couch and stare down at her with enough heat, surely she feels it. “Fifi’s pregnant and Mia’s thrilled.”
“Yeah?” She flips to another page.
“And the mayor announced on live TV that he was adopting you and that you graciously accepted his invitation to become part of the family.” I crouch and snag the bottle of water that tilts dangerously unlidded on the couch. “He said he loves you, and you love him.”
“Uh-huh.” And another page. “ Sunny Skies Daycare .” She snags a pen and circles the new information. “She’s in school now, but she was in daycare last year. I should ask Pax if any of the other girls went to Sunny Skies.”
Fuck.