Chapter Thirty-One
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lincoln/ Five Years Ago
A fter almost a twenty-eight-hour stint following a twelve-hour shift, two court subpoenas, a drug bust, and a meeting with the captain, bone-deep exhaustion settles in on my drive home. It takes driving over the rumble strip on the side of the road to snap me out of my wavering consciousness, reaching for the radio to turn up whatever station is playing to keep me awake.
“You’re listening to ninety-two point three, late-night rush hour. It’s now eight forty-five on Thursday, the twenty-second. If you’re just joining us, we’re doing a countdown to the top ten in today’s pop hits. Coming in at number three is—”
“Shit,” I hiss, slamming on my brakes and pulling over to reach for my phone from where it’s charging in the center console.
The twenty-second.
My wedding anniversary.
And the only thing I texted my wife about was that I was going to be late.
“Fuck me,” I murmur, swiping a palm down my face and googling florists near me. Most of them are closed, except for one twenty minutes away that’s supposed to close at nine.
The one piece of advice my father gave me when I told them I’d gotten married was to never forget an anniversary. Georgia didn’t want to make a big deal out of the first one because she didn’t think it counted. I made it a point to disagree. And now she probably thinks she was right the first time around because I’ve been so focused on building my portfolio for my BCI application that I didn’t think twice about what day it is.
I make it to the shop in twelve minutes as an elderly woman is sweeping the floor. It’s clear she wants to tell me to come back tomorrow, but my desperation must be obvious.
“Twelve of anything,” I tell her, pulling out a credit card. “It’s my anniversary.”
Her sigh is loud and disapproving, but she doesn’t turn me away. “What is your wife’s favorite flower?”
I go to answer but realize I don’t know. “I…”
The disapproval thickens in her eyes. “Men,” she chides with a tsk, filling a vase with water and getting to work.
Ten minutes later, I walk out with an assortment of carnations and some sort of greenery for filler that I’d never be able to identify unless she told me.
When I slip into the apartment forty minutes later, all the lights are off except the lone lamp in the bedroom. I poke my head in to see Georgia reading the same book she’s been working on for the past week. The bookmark has barely moved from the page it was on the last time I saw her with it. Am I the reason she’s distracted?
“I’m sorry,” is the first thing I say, catching her attention. Her eyes drift from the book to me, then to the flowers I hold out. “Happy anniversary, Peaches.”
Slowly, her book lowers as she stares at the various shades of pink and white petals I extend out to her.
“I know it’s late, and I should have been home sooner, but I’ll make it up to you.” Setting the vase down on her nightstand, I reach for her hand and interweave our fingers. “Anything you want to do tomorrow, we can. I’ll take you to the bookstore and buy whatever books you want.”
Her face flushes. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I do,” I insist, caressing her jaw. “I’ve been working nonstop, and you never complain. I owe it to you for how supportive you’ve been.”
She starts shaking her head. “Linc…”
I press a kiss against her cheek and lean my forehead against hers. “I know you don’t think our anniversary matters, but it does. Being with me isn’t easy, but I appreciate how much you put up with just so I can work toward building a better life with you.”
Her eyes stay locked on my hand on top of hers before briefly darting to the flowers. “I…”
“I love you, Georgia.”
My words recapture her focus, her eyes widening as they dart to my face.
I nod, kissing her temple, then her cheek, then her mouth. “I mean it.”
She blinks slowly, absorbing the words that I’ve never said until now. Two years. I’ve shown her a million times and almost admitted it to her on more than one occasion. But she never looked ready.
And maybe part of me was nervous that she never would be. But the more I thought about what Conklin said about her choosing me, the more I remember that she didn’t have to be here.
I never forced her into anything.
She could have walked away.
But she’s here.
Her lips part, but only the smallest exhale escapes them.
The smile I offer her is warm. “You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. I just wanted you to know. Take your time.”
Her throat bobs. “I…I don’t know what love is, Lincoln. I’m not sure I’ve ever really witnessed it. Not since my mother died.”
Her eyes dart to the flowers, and she pales, as if remembering something.
Moving a piece of her newly blond hair away from her face, I tuck it behind her ear. “I don’t think it’s just one thing. Love is a compilation of a lot of little things that mean something to people. One day, I hope to show you exactly what it feels like because it’s…” A warmth settles into my chest. “It’s a damn good feeling.”
She gapes at me, then her eyes go back to the flowers for a third time. “I’ve never gotten flowers before.”
I ignore the fact I’m still in my regular clothes as I slide into bed beside her and tug her into my body. “I’ll make sure you get used to it then.”
We lie in silence as sleep calls to me. She curls into my arms, but her body is stiff. Eventually, I drift off.
But not before I hear the softest whisper in the night that sounds awfully like Georgia’s voice. “One day, I hope to deserve your love.”
When I wake up early the next morning, there’s a note from Georgia saying she went to work to cover somebody’s shift.
The sheets are cold.
The flowers are still on the nightstand.
And there’s something in the air that makes it hard to fall back asleep.
*
Georgia acts off the next few weeks, but asking what’s wrong gets me nowhere. So I stop asking and wait for the day the smile returns on her face, hoping it’s not me who somehow knocked it down.
On my way out the door, Sergeant Anderson calls out to me from the breakroom, where he’s pouring himself a cup of coffee. “You have a minute, Hawk?”
Glancing at my watch, I cringe at the time. “I need to get going, sarge. Trying to avoid being part of those divorce statistics they tell us about in the academy.”
He lifts the mug to his lips before gesturing for me to follow him to his office. “It’ll only be a minute. I wanted to talk to you about your interview.”
Aw, Christ. If it’s about the interview I did with the BCI, I don’t know if it’s going to be good. I’d been nervous leading up to it and was working with four hours of sleep the morning I went in. I was pretty sure I nailed the questions, but I knew it took more than that to be considered for a spot. My file was thick when they pulled it out, and I was fairly certain it was to gauge my reaction.
I’m a damn good cop, and that’s what I told them. Any other reaction was held back while they started the questioning. I was honest, blunt, and to the point. As far as I could tell, they were intrigued. Maybe even a little impressed. But this is the first time anybody has brought it up in a month since it happened.
“I spoke to Rigley,” he says of the senior investigator who has one foot out the door into early retirement. “He seemed impressed by you. Asked what I thought about your time as a trooper.”
“I’m sure you sang my praises,” I muse, unsure of what Anderson might have said. We’ve gotten along, but I know I get on his nerves sometimes with my stubbornness. I think it makes me good at my job. He thinks it makes me risky. I wonder what Rigley’s opinion is.
Anderson chuckles. “Like Mary Poppins.”
His mood loosens some of the coiled stress in my back. “Who doesn’t love Mary Poppins?”
The zone sergeant, who’s leaving in three weeks, leans his arms against the edge of the desk. “I told him that you were driven to do the right thing for the people, and it makes you good at your job. Truthfully, I haven’t seen somebody willing to stay so many days in overtime since I was on the road.”
As much as staying late sucks, it’s nice to be recognized for it. “I appreciate that, sir.”
“I was being honest,” he says with a shrug, grabbing his coffee. “But what impressed him the most was your connections.”
My connections? “What connections was he referring to?”
He sips his coffee. “You never told me you knew Captain Chamberlin. The man basically endorsed you to Rigley. Having those kinds of friends in high places will get you far.”
Captain Chamberlin spoke to Rigley about me ? I haven’t even met the man before.
My teeth grind, knowing there’s only one person who could be behind that. But why the hell would Nikolas Del Rossi do me any favors? “He encouraged the promotion?”
Anderson’s eyebrow pops up. “Of course he did. He seemed to know you well. Said you were dedicated to cleaning up the streets and making this patrol area safe again. You’ve been leading the station with DUI arrests for the past two years, and your record shows that. It’s about time someone noticed outside of your peers here in the troop. You’re a shoo-in for the position now. Rigley would be an idiot not to accept your application with someone like Chamberlin endorsing you.”
It takes everything in me not to let my eye twitch. I’ve wanted to become an investigator since my first year on the job, and the desire has only grown as I’ve worked with detectives on interdiction cases tied to organized crime in the city. The CSU guys working undercover to get high-priority dealers have gathered a list of names that have been affiliated with the big bosses. Del Rossi’s name hasn’t been dropped, but I wonder if they’re close to finding him out.
Why else would he ask Chamberlin to move me off the road where I can’t make the same number of arrests as before? And what is the captain getting out of putting a good word in for me? Because I highly doubt a man I’ve never met before would help me get promoted without some sort of benefit in his favor.
“Most people would look happier right now,” he notes skeptically.
I have to look away and collect myself, not willing to show my cards so easily. “I prefer getting jobs on my own. Influences like Chamberlin don’t make it feel as rewarding.”
Especially because it seems like there’s a price tag attached to this little gesture.
Maybe Del Rossi realized I was determined to come after everything he had, regardless of the setups he tried organizing. If they didn’t work, he needed to try something else. Using the captain is a genius move on his part. If Del Rossi can’t change the playing field, the captain can. And with me off the road, it keeps the dealers suspected of work for him in business. Does he get a cut of that? Is that where the money is coming from?
Millions seems like a lot for the limited amount of drugs we’re pulling from cars. There’s got to be another source. Another reason.
Chamberlin made everything I’ve worked my ass off for a fuckton less rewarding—like he’s taken away any gratification I could earn by getting this job on my own.
“Take it from me. Life is all about knowing the right people. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He sips his coffee and slides it back onto his desk, the hot liquid sloshing over the side. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be glad to know my future is secure.”
Secure . I scoff mentally. If he only fucking knew how untrue that was. “Right,” I murmur, wondering what game Del Rossi is playing.
“Well, you best get home,” Anderson says, dismissing me and waving toward the door. “I’d hate to be the reason you join the club for divorced law enforcement officers.”
I’d forgotten he’d been married before. Twice, if memory serves. He used to bitch about paying alimony that wiped out any retirement he earned for himself, which is a reason he stayed past the typical twenty years most of us work.
“Don’t let this promotion be another reason,” he says as I walk toward the door. “You’ve worked our ass off more than anybody else I know to get where you are. Eventually, you’re going to need to slow down. Maybe now is the perfect time to start building a foundation for yourself and the missus.”
I think of the woman waiting for me at the apartment, wondering what she’ll say about the news. She told me she knew I’d get the job. Now, I’m starting to wonder why she was so sure.
“Yeah,” I force myself to answer, gripping the doorjamb. “Maybe you’re right.”