Chapter 16 Emilio
SIXTEEN
EMILIO
Blood splatters across the cream-colored walls, a grotesque pattern painted in wide arcs that glisten under the thin light bleeding in from the kitchen to my right and the pale flicker of the television in the living room.
The air is heavy with the sharp, metallic stench of it—so thick I can taste iron in the back of my throat.
At the center of the living room, a body lies crumpled in a pool of crimson. The blood has seeped into the wood grain, spreading outward in dark rivulets that reach for the furniture like grasping fingers.
I force my voice steady as I key my mic, though my pulse hammers in my ears.
“Dispatch, this is 2-L-17. We’ve got blood and a body. No signs of movement inside. Beginning room-by-room clearance.”
“Copy that, 2-L-17,” Dispatch answers, her voice sharp, urgency bleeding through the static.
My gut twists, but training keeps me moving. Every detail registers. Every sound, or lack of it. The creak of the floor under our boots is the only thing breaking the silence.
We clear the kitchen first. It’s empty, nothing but dirty dishes stacked haphazardly in the sink and an overflowing trash can—normal things in an abnormal scene.
“Hallway,” I whisper, jerking my chin toward the shadowed stretch ahead.
Kline nods, his shoulder brushing mine briefly before we fan out.
The hallway yawns long and narrow, dim as a tunnel. A closet door hangs wide open, stuffed with a fake Christmas tree shoved into its box and a couple of cheap jackets dangling on wire hangers.
Two other doors wait at the far end of the hall. One is sealed shut. The other is slightly ajar, slivers of red and blue light filtering through from my unit’s strobes outside.
My mouth goes dry. I nod for Kline to take the one on the right while I advance toward the open door.
Blood streaks around the knob, and my pulse climbs higher.
I raise my gun, draw a steady breath, and nudge the door open with my boot.
“Clear,” Kline calls from the other room as I cross the bedroom, towards the partially open closet. Keeping my gun trained, I shove the closet door open the rest of the way in one quick motion.
A hiss erupts from the shadows, sharp and furious, as a calico cat launches itself forward. My heart jerks into my throat.
“Shit!” I bark, stumbling back a half step as the cat bolts past me, claws skittering across the floor before it disappears under the bed.
“Perez!” Kline yells, bursting into the room.
I suck in a breath, steadying. “I’m good, Kline. Just a damn cat. We’re all clear.”
But my eyes are already dragging toward the window.
The purple curtains we’d seen from outside flutter faintly in the night breeze. Blood smears stain the white sill. Whoever was here, whoever murdered the occupant of this apartment, was no longer here.
I holster my weapon and press the mic again. “Dispatch, scene is clear. We’ll need CSU. Notify a supervisor and a detective.”
“Copy 2-L-17,” Dispatch replies.
Kline and I step back toward the living room. The body waits, the pool of blood expanding slowly across the floorboards. My hands move on autopilot, tugging a pair of nylon gloves from my pocket and snapping them on.
I crouch low, the smell of copper sharper this close, and brush sticky blonde hair away from the victim’s face.
Her features are pale, blood streaking down across skin that’s far too young to be this lifeless.
The pale blue tank top she wears is shredded, dozens of ragged punctures punched through the fabric, each one evidence of sharp force trauma.
Too many to count at a glance. Rage simmers low in my chest.
Then recognition hits me like a bullet. I had only met her once, but I don’t forget a face easily.
I stagger to my feet, ripping the gloves off, my throat dry and tight. “No.” The word escapes me in a rasp, then again, harder. “Oh no.”
Kline frowns, crouching to see for himself. “What is it?”
My fists clench so tight the gloves squeak in my grip. I wanted nothing more than to storm out of here, to release this anger out on something, to go to Raelynn because—god—she needs to know, but I can’t. I can’t leave until a detective takes over, and then there’s the damn paperwork.
I force the words out between clenched teeth, jerking my chin toward the body. “Take a look for yourself.”
Kline leans closer, squinting in the dim light. After a beat, he exhales heavily and slowly, rising back to his full height. His face says it before his words do.
“It’s Khloe,” he confirms.
The sound of her name rattles inside my skull, louder than the hum of the strobes outside. I want to drive my fist straight through the blood-painted wall. Instead, I stand frozen, rage and heartbreak burning in equal measure.
What the fuck was I going to tell Raelynn? How the fuck was I going to tell her?
I grit my teeth hard enough that my jaw aches. “CSU and the detective need to hurry their asses up.”
Several minutes later, the stairwell swells with bodies—CSU techs hauling cases that clatter against the steps, the medical examiner lugging his kit behind them, and extra uniforms squeezing into the narrow hall until the air feels stifling. And then comes Detective Martin.
Martin (or Fucktard, as I call him) strolls in like he owns the place.
No urgency. No respect. Just that smug, lazy stride that makes my teeth grind.
Meyer and I clash more often than not, but I’d take her clipped orders and sharp tongue over Martin’s empty swagger any day. At least she gives a damn.
When he finally steps inside the apartment, it isn’t reverence for the dead I see in his face—it’s the self-importance of a man who thinks the world can wait on him.
I brief him on what we found, and he immediately dumps scene security back on me, because it is at this time that the damn neighbors decide they want to be nosy. Figures.
Doors creak open, whispers crawl up the hallway like a tide of insects.
Because sure, the sight of half the damn department—cops, crime scene techs, a detective, and the ME—all cramming into a stairwell since the elevator’s busted…
yeah, that draws attention. But a girl screaming for her life?
A cop pounding on her door before kicking it off the hinges?
That didn’t stir them from their holes. If they’d been nosy when it mattered, maybe Khloe would still be alive.
I doubt it. But it’s a lie I wish I could believe.
The murmurs grind on me, each one scratching against already raw nerves.
People piss me off on a good day, and tonight isn’t one of those.
Kline must see the tension in my jaw, the stiffness in my shoulders, because he quietly takes over perimeter control, shoving rubberneckers back inside with the authority I’m about to lose.
It should buy me a moment, but it doesn’t.
Because just as I think I’ve got myself under control again, the ME crouches, seals Khloe into the black bag, and drags the zipper closed.
The sound cuts through me like a blade—sharp, final, and it tears through me worse than the sight of her body on the floor.
They cart her off as evidence instead of a girl whose laugh I can still hear in my head, still see teasing Raelynn just a few nights ago.
The rage comes back hot, bubbling over until I’m ready to walk out.
Fuck the paperwork. Fuck talking to the only witness we have. Fuck waiting for Detective Fucktard to permit me to leave.
Because Raelynn doesn’t know.
She’s home right now, blissfully unaware. She doesn’t know that one of her best friends is headed for a slab in the morgue. And the thought of her finding out from the evening news—or from anyone but me—burns acid in my throat.
She deserves better than that. She deserves to hear it from me.
To my surprise, Martin waves me, Kline, and the extra uniforms off not long after Khloe is carted away.
The neighbors finally retreat behind their doors, the hallway falling back into uneasy silence.
CSU is still combing through every inch of the place, logging, photographing, and bagging what’s left of the night.
There’s nothing more I can do here but write the report.
And I can’t stay another second.
By the time I shove the building’s door open, rain is coming down again, cold and relentless.
It soaks through my uniform as I cross the lot, plastering fabric to my skin.
I don’t even care. My boots splash through puddles, and I climb into my cruiser, shutting the door on the storm.
I flick off the light bar, jam the key into the ignition, and peel out of the lot, desperate to put distance between me and that apartment.
Hours blur together. It’s past midnight by the time I finish the supplemental report, nearly one when I finally sign out at the station.
My nerves buzz like static under my skin as I cross the empty lot to my truck.
The rain has slowed to a mist, clinging cold against my face, but it does nothing to quiet the storm in my head.
I climb into the cab, twist the key. The engine rumbles awake, the radio sputtering to life with a burst of static. I snap it off immediately, leaving only the steady thrum of the motor and my pulse in my ears before throwing my truck into drive and pulling out of the lot.
The drive to Raelynn’s apartment should take fifteen minutes. I shave it down to almost ten, speeding through the slick streets like distance alone is the enemy.
I wish I were pulling up under different circumstances. I wish I could be here to keep my word from Friday night and finally give us both what we wanted. Instead, I’m here to shatter her world. To deliver another loss she doesn’t deserve.
By the time I roll into the lot, my chest feels tight enough to split.
I kill the engine, step out into the damp air.
Each step toward her door drags, heavier than the last. The closer I get, the harder my chest tightens—because I know what waits on the other side isn’t relief, or comfort.
It’s heartbreak. And I’m the one about to hand it to her.
Finally, I’m there. Standing in front of her door, staring at the wood grain like it might swallow me whole. My hand hovers, useless for a beat as I pull in a deep breath, forcing my pulse to steady as I raise my fist.
And then I knock.
And a cell phone lying face up on the floor, its screen spiderwebbed.