Epilogue
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Fletch and I called Danika’s parents soon after we were done with the New York case. We informed them we’d found their daughter and told them of a special act of kindness from a man currently incarcerated. When they asked, we gave them Tarran’s name and a way to contact him at the prison.
We talked them through the next steps—having her released from Minka’s facility—so they could make arrangements and lay her to rest the way she deserves.
Having your daughter murdered might be considered the worst thing that could ever happen to a parent. But not knowing where she is, not even knowing if she’s alive, is arguably worse.
For a year and a half, she was missing.
Eighteen months of worry, then acceptance. Of wondering, and then praying. Endless days and months where death must be acknowledged, but hoping with every cell in your body that it wasn’t painful or scary.
Yeah. There are definitely worse things in life than losing your child.
Gloria Donohue knows how that feels. The first time, more than twenty years ago, and the second, this week. She knows the pain a woman can feel when your child is hurt. Just as she knows how to inflict the pain she felt on another .
Eighteen little girls over twenty-four years, eighteen mothers who spent a year of agony, wondering, worrying, living their own nightmare while their children existed in hell.
To lose a child is pain. Unimaginable and unbearable for most. But to not know what happened is a special kind of torture I wouldn’t wish upon my enemy.
“You think she’ll be okay now?” Fletch leans against the counter in the George Stanley coffee room, his shoulder touching mine, and his eyes plastered to the side of Minka’s face. Though she’s on the other side of a wall of glass, pacing with a phone pressed to her ear, and the mayor on the other end of the line.
Because he worries for her the way any parent worries for his child.
“The case is finally closed,” he continues. “Serena and the baby have been buried. She relaxed a little when she thought the killer was gone, and then turned into a complete zombie when he came back.”
“Closure is good for her,” Aubree inserts, her posture the same as ours, though she’s on my other side. We’re just three people standing in a line, each with a mug of coffee, each of us watching a woman we love because we want to know she’s okay.
Different kinds of love. Different levels of attachment.
But the woman who abhors social gatherings and too much peopling would be horrified to know she may be the glue that keeps us all sane.
“The first few cases in New York created a kind of trauma. For basically everyone,” Aubree adds. “The lack of answers meant no closure. The fear of who will be next compounded the damage. Then the breakdown of her parents’ marriage, and later, her father’s suicide.” She sets her cup down and her hands on the countertop, boosting herself up to sit. “It was a perfect storm for the little girl left alone too often. A child on the spectrum whose ability to regulate came only in the quiet. She doesn’t know what to do with all this ,” smirking, she tilts her head toward her pacing boss. “She has no clue how to handle the crowd she lives amongst and the unrelenting pressure of a man she’s not actually related to, checking in to ensure she’s okay.”
“This world isn’t quiet.” I tamp down on the dread that swirls sneakily, like an odorless, noxious gas creeping toward my heart. “Her desire for peace isn’t just a personality thing, Aubs. It’s who she is on a cellular level. It’s a medical necessity. Isn’t it possible she’ll rebel someday and go back to the quiet she craves?”
“Sure.” She grins when I glance her way. “But you’re the peace she craves. You’re the quiet she needs. Be you, and she’ll be okay. Leave her,” she exhales, shaking her head, “and watch the world burn.”
“I’m not leaving her.” I bring my gaze around again and scratch my jaw while, twenty feet away, Minka throws her hand in the air and dramatically argues with a man whose entire career was spent in a courtroom. He won’t be bested. “She’s my peace, too.”
“Heard from that cop from New York today?”
And there’s that dread, coiling in my stomach and squeezing just tight enough to make it hurt. “Not today. She swears it’s all platonic, and we already had that big fight that damaged us. So when he calls her every fucking day, there’s nothing I can say about it. Nothing I can do. Because the fear of showing my ass and pushing her into his arms is way fucking worse than the ache of listening to his smarmy voice when he wants to chat like they’re best friends.”
Aubree’s brows furrow in my peripherals, her lips flattening into a long, straight line. “He’s not her best friend. I’m her best friend.”
“He’s called every day since the op. It’s always about work. Always professional. But still?—”
“But still,” Fletch sighs. “Hurts, huh? She’s done nothing wrong, but the idea that it could go bad is like being stabbed with a fucking ice pick, over and over and over again.”
“You’re not helping my anxiety, you know that?” Scowling, I sip my coffee and hiss as hot liquid rolls across my tongue. Still feels better than thinking about my wife and another man . “She’s a good girl,” I decide, my voice firm. My trust, complete. “She doesn’t lie or cheat. If she wanted out, she’d say so.”
The elevator dings, so all three of us lazily look left and watch as the doors open.
I expect an autopsy tech to step out, or a white coat from the lab, or fuck, a dead body, brought back to life and having fun on a pair of roller skates. Nothing could surprise me as violently as the smiling Detective Gilbert who strides out, his eyes instantly zeroing in on Minka. He’s tall and broad, his jeans tight around the thighs and his shirt, two sizes too small. Though I suppose that’s the look he intends, considering the way his chest leads the way.
He wears a black leather jacket with a red racing stripe along the arm, his NYPD shield hung from a chain and resting on his chest.
“The fuck?” I straighten my spine when he walks to her office door and steps in. No invitation. No pause to make sure he can. He strides through like he fucking owns the place. So I shove away from the counter, ready to remind him what happens when a Malone’s boundaries are crossed.
And fuck him. He knows where the line is.
But Aubree places her hand on my arm, her grip like steel and drawing me to a stop. When I turn to meet her eyes, panic lancing through my blood, she merely shakes her head.
“You need to leave this one alone.”
“She’s my wife! I have a right to be in there.”
“That’s your ego. She’s not in danger, and you know she’s not running into his arms and driving off into the sunset with her new man. You want to be there for you, not her.”
“Aubree!”
“This is her journey.” She drops her hand, but pins me with a look that says I’ll regret moving. “Let her walk it.”
Minka turns to continue pacing, her mind still wholly on the mayor, only to skid to a stop when she notices her guest.
Her former lover.
On the wrong side of the country.
“Paxton?” Her eyes sling my way, her cheeks paling and her heart thundering, so her pulse becomes visible in her neck. But then she looks at Paxton again, then down to the envelope he pulls from the breast pocket of his jacket.
I growl. “If that’s a marriage certificate already signed by Cordoza’s judge, I’m gonna set this whole fucking building on fire.”
Aubree snickers, sliding off the counter but leaning back, faux casual. “Doubt he’d have those kinds of connections or that Cordoza would grant the favor. He likes Minka, and he’d be insane to marry her off to Gilbert when he can keep her securely within his own coffers.” She tilts her head and watches as Minka brings the phone back to her ear and snaps out a fast dismissal for the mayor. Finally, the call ends and Minka’s eyes drop to the envelope.
“He wants her to sign off as medical examiner,” Aubree murmurs, her voice almost too quiet to make out the words. “It’s like a closure thing for them, too. She was there for Alana, and now he wants her to finish it out.”
“Uh…” Fletch leans forward to eye her. “You reading lips, Emeri. Or minds?”
“Neither.” She dips her chin toward the glass wall. “I’d recognize a death certificate anywhere. Any time. Wouldn’t even have to be written in English.”
“He didn’t have to do that,” I snarl. Adrenaline bubbles in my veins, like popping candy readying to explode. My head throbs and my hands curl into balls. Fuck, I know she’d be mad if I went in there and made a mess. But he didn’t have to fly across the country for this. “He wanted to see her,” I spit out. “And came up with the flimsiest excuse he could find to make it not weird.”
“And she’s a grown woman,” Aubree cuts in. “With a brain in her head and a heart in her chest.” Though, she makes a face, audibly swallowing when Minka and whatshisface step closer together. She glances up into his eyes, their toes almost touching.
Well, they’re two feet apart. But still.
Then she shakes her head and hands the death certificate back. “ No thank you, Pax. Your request has been denied .” Aubree makes a joke of their conversation. That’s nice for her. I can barely fucking breathe. “ You didn’t have to come to my workplace, Pax. Do you not see my husband? Right over there?”
Like magic, the pair look this way. Though I’ll be damned, Paxton’s smile remains.
“ Malone wants to cut your tongue out and feed it to the pigs . And you were already warned that hitting on me would end with a broken arm .”
“He hasn’t actually hit on her,” I grumble, the words sour on my tongue. “Technically. His actions till now prove he’s decent and isn’t?—”
Minka swings her arm back, her face burning red and her right foot coming back to create a solid base to stand upon. Then she barrels that arm forward and punches Paxton right in the fucking jugular .
“Oh, shit!” Fletch claps his hands to his mouth, squeaking, then laughing. “Uh…”
“He hit on her,” Aubree laughs, while in Minka’s office, Paxton grabs his throat and folds at the waist, heaving for fresh air and choking when it doesn’t come. His skin turns a dangerous tomato red, while Minka’s lips curl into an unforgiving sneer. “Something about fuck that guy ,” Aubree cackles. “ Why’d you have to think with your dick and prove my husband right ?”
“Get out of my damn office!” Minka charges toward her door and swings it wide, the glass almost slapping the man in the ass. “You wasted your time and a lot of air miles coming here, Paxton.”
“But Min?—”
She snarls ferociously. “ Get out .”
“Your marriage is more secure than the chastity belt Aubree wore pre-Timothy Malone.” Chuckling, Fletch pushes away from the counter and swaggers into Minka’s office. He folds his arms and bends his knees to get a little lower. Waiting for Paxton’s eyes, he flashes a taunting grin and shakes his head. “You must be the dumbest son of a bitch alive.” He fists Pax’s collar and walks him toward the elevator. “And you’re damned lucky the chief’s wrath is all you felt. If you’d dealt with Archer, your intestines would be dangling from your mouth.” He waits for the elevator doors to open, then pushes him in and leans in to tap the button for the ground floor. “You tried. You failed.”
“You can go to her now.” Aubree’s cheeks fire with a sweet blush, her hair fluttering with how fast I move. “Don’t pick a fight with her, though! She’s feeling sassy.”
Minka’s face pales, her eyes locking onto mine as I stride her way. My expression is hard. My lips firmed into straight lines. My whole fucking soul pounds and aches. But the fact she looks terrified, like she’s the one about to get into trouble, makes my heart squeeze. “I didn’t ask for?—”
I wrap my hand around the side of her neck and yank her closer, folding her back and slamming my lips to hers before she has time to speak. Or think.
Or worse, tell me no.
I put on a show for the entire ninth floor, slipping my tongue past her lips and grinning when her arms automatically circle my neck. Her nose is still blocked from her cold, which means she gets no air. No respite. No fucking mercy. But she kisses me back, humming her pleasure and ignoring the fact we’re at her workplace.
Later, when her brain is braining again, she’ll punish me for being a Neanderthal. But she nibbles on my lips for now, her heart pounding against mine.
Then she gasps, loud and dramatic, when I pull back and allow her space to breathe.
She heaves to fill her lungs and burns a furious pink her colleagues—her employees —would so rarely get to see. But her eyes, a molten chocolate I’ll love until my dying day, flicker between mine.
There’s no anger.
No impatience or humiliation or intolerance.
There’s just love. And when I smile, there’s pleasure.
“He asked you to marry him, huh?”
“What?” Giggling—perhaps a little of her stolen innocence is back now that the New York case is closed—she shakes her head. “No, he didn’t ask me to marry him.”
“Asked to fuck, then?”
Panting, she shakes her head and snickers. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?” Dread sits heavily in the base of my stomach, and curiosity marches through my blood. “What did he say?”
She chews on her bottom lip, considering. Weighing her options. Braining while she still has a chance, before finally, she murmurs, “Something about you, me, and him.” She swallows. “At the same time.”
“What?” Stunned, I tear my gaze to the elevator, the smarmy cop long gone. Then back to her. “The three of us?”
“But I don’t share.”
“Possessive.” Pleasure ripples through my veins. “I love that about you.”
“Penguins mate for life, and I have no interest in changing that.” She brings her hand up and swipes her thumb across my top lip. “Sorry. Got a little dried booger on you.”
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