Chapter 2
Shay
Donovan sat behind his desk, displeasure etched into every line of his face.
The massive stretch of polished wood took up half the room, most definitely not overcompensating for anything.
An array of medals gleamed proudly on the wall behind him, a spotless illusion of integrity, perfectly preserved behind glass.
The rest of the office wore the same uninspiring beige as every other bureaucratic tomb in the building, interrupted only by military commendations and yellowing newspaper clippings from decades ago.
“Any new leads?” Donovan asked, his gold watch catching the light as he flipped through the file.
“Not yet, sir. We’re still working on it.”
There was a low hum. Another page turned.
“And what about Jared Finch?” Donovan asked, with all the energy of someone going through the motions.
“We haven’t found any evidence linking him to the crime scene.”
The case had turned out to be trickier than expected—the kind that followed me home and crawled into bed with me at night, keeping me wide awake at 3 a.m., staring holes in the ceiling.
There were no witnesses. No DNA. No fingerprints.
All I had was a body and a long list of dead ends.
It was a good thing that I loved a challenge.
Donovan clicked his pen once, twice, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. Finally, he set the file down. “Interview him again.”
It took considerable effort to keep my expression neutral.
That was it? That was his grand strategic insight?
Sure, it was true that Linda Fell’s boyfriend, Jared Finch, wasn’t exactly what you’d call a clean-cut citizen. His record read like a list of bad decisions and worse luck: possession, petty theft, disorderly conduct. Nothing ever violent, however.
When I questioned him, he had been cooperative, but dazed.
He spoke in starts and stops, his thoughts tangled, but there was no real fear there, just the quiet resignation of someone used to being on the wrong side of the interrogation table.
I had looked into his eyes and didn’t see a killer—only a man barely holding himself together, worn down by a harsh life.
“If I may, sir. I have a feeling we may be barking up the wrong tree.”
Donovan let out a quiet breath. “Of course you do, Detective Sawyer.”
He sounded like he expected nothing less.
It was anything but a compliment.
Fucker.
As if hearing the silent insult, Donovan lifted his head and met my eyes directly—the first real act of acknowledgment since I’d walked into his office. There was something glacial in his gaze, sharpened by years of unchallenged authority, meant to remind you of your place.
“Go question Jared Finch again. Then get back to me.”
I knew an order when I heard one. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
“Understood,” I responded, then turned around and left before I said something I couldn’t take back.
I’d have to go through yet another round of unnecessary interviews.
But there was nothing I could do about it. What the boss said, went.
Even if he was a stupid fuck.
I jammed the elevator button, hard. The plastic panel flickered under my touch, offering nothing but a dull, mechanical blink in return.
Useless. Slow. Just like everything else in this damn building.
Sudden movement stirred at the edge of my vision—Adam, appearing with his usual to-go coffee cup in hand. I snapped my head toward him, scowling.
“Where the fuck have you been? Did you forget we had a meeting with Donovan today?”
Adam took a leisurely sip, seemingly unbothered by the bite in my tone. “I was following a lead.”
Yeah, right. Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered. If I could, I’d work every case alone and be happier for it, if not for the stupid department policy.
Thankfully, Adam and I had come to a mutual understanding early on—we each did our own thing.
He followed his leads, I followed mine, and we met up and compared notes once the case demanded it.
I had to admit that out of all the previous partners I’d been saddled with, he irritated me the least, mostly because he had the good sense to stay out of my way.
“You seem a bit pissed off,” Adam observed as I stabbed the elevator button again.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
One of these days, I swore I was going to ‘accidentally’ run Donovan over with my car. Nothing too fatal, just a fractured rib or two, enough to keep him out of my sight for a couple of weeks.
After what felt like an eternity, the elevator doors finally slid open.
Adam made a quiet noise of understanding as we stepped inside. “You shouldn’t let him get to you so much.”
I let out a breath, pulled from somewhere deep inside my chest. “Easier said than done.”
Donovan was always watching, waiting for me to screw something up. Well, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I’d sooner die than let Donovan get one over me.
A dull ping sounded overhead as we passed another floor. Adam shifted beside me, tugging at his collar, trying to smooth out an invisible crease.
I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall.
The lighting here was unkind, harsh and artificial, flattening out my face and draining what little color I had.
I looked… tired. Not the kind that sleep could fix, but one that settled under the skin—a slow, creeping thing that dug its claws in and never let go.
Adam adjusted his shirt again. It had been perfectly pressed when we entered, but by now, he’d probably wrinkled it himself with all the fidgeting.
“So…” he said, clearing his throat. “Got any plans for tonight?”
I hummed noncommittally. “Absolutely. Extremely classified, highly important, official business.”
The business of getting as hammered as humanly possible before the bartender cut me off.
Probably not the wisest choice on a work night, but fuck it. After having to deal with Donovan, I figured I deserved a break.
Now, with a few drinks warming my veins, I could see I’d made the right call.
My go-to spot had a lived-in sort of charm, with warm wood paneling that glowed honey-gold under soft amber lights, and a layout that hadn’t changed in decades.
Music played at a forgettable volume: some indie track that was all velvet bass and breathy vocals, easy to tune out.
While it couldn’t be called a dive bar exactly, it wasn’t the type of place you went for craft cocktails, either.
I liked it, though. The alcohol was decent, and everyone minded their own business. It was the perfect place for a person to unwind after a long day at work.
I knocked back a shot, feeling the burn claw its way down my throat before settling into a slow, comfortable warmth. I signaled for another.
Beside me, Naomi rested her cheek against her palm, skin tinted with the telltale flush of one too many drinks. She’d been shredding a cocktail napkin for the last fifteen minutes, reducing it to a small mountain of paper confetti that she absently pushed around the bar top.
“How the hell are you still standing right now?”
“Please,” I said, flicking my hand dismissively. “It takes more than a couple of shots to put me down.”
Naomi gave a thoughtful hum, then shrugged and tossed back the rest of her drink. She set the glass down and her phone lit up beside it a second later.
“It’s Tommy,” she told me, eyes squinting as she glanced at the screen. “He says he’ll be running a little late.”
“You invited Hayes?”
It was a simple question, but something in my tone made her frown, her expression shifting from tipsy contentment to mild reproach.
“Seriously, what do you have against Tom?”
“Me?” I asked. “Nothing.”
Naomi’s disapproving look didn’t clear. “You should be nicer to him, you know. He’s a really sweet guy.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m always nice.”
“You’re really not. It’s painfully obvious that you don’t like him.”
“I don’t dislike him,” I countered. “That’s basically the same thing.”
Naomi crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Come on. You never smile at him, you never laugh at his jokes—”
“Because they’re not funny.”
“—and every time he so much as enters the same room, you glare at him so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t burst into flames yet.”
“Hey, now,” I argued, feigning offense. “That’s just my face. You know I’m self-conscious about that.”
“Shay, I’m being serious here.” Naomi tried to be stern, but the way she kept giggling didn’t exactly help her case. “You act like he ran over your dog in a past life or something.”
To be fair, this was entirely on me. I really should’ve known better than to argue with a drunk person, especially if that person was Naomi once she got fixated on something.
“Fine. When Hayes gets here, I’ll be on my best behavior. Happy now?”
“Genuinely? Or the kind of nice where you’re actually being an asshole, but in a way that’s hard to call out?”
“Guess we’ll both find out. And what do you care about how I act with him, anyway?” I asked. My senses started tingling. “Wait. Don’t tell me… Are you sweet on him, Naomi?”
She swatted my arm in response, accidentally knocking her elbow against the empty glass in the process.
It tipped precariously toward the edge, but I caught it just in time before it made a huge mess.
While Naomi had the nightlife habits of a college student, her tolerance was that of a rookie.
She really couldn’t hold her liquor to save her life.
“I just said you should be nicer to him, not that I wanted to get into his pants. And anyway, he’s not really my type.” She huffed, then tilted her head thoughtfully, a new gleam entering her eyes. “Him, on the other hand…”
I followed her line of sight, leading to a man at the far end of the bar.
He was in his early thirties, if I had to guess. Dark hair, slightly wavy but not overly styled. Tall, lean build. Athletic without excessive muscle definition. Clothes well-fitted, but not expensive—someone who knew how to look good without trying too hard.