31. Maverick
MAVERICK
TOMORROW WE FIGHT
“The press conference is in two hours. We’ll release the sketch and a few details about the crime scene from this morning.” Riley rubs her temples as she speaks, the exhaustion evident in her voice.
Guilt is a persistent itch, burrowing beneath my skin. I should be out there with them. I hate the feeling of being sidelined—even when I know I’m not. I’ve never wanted to be in two places more than I do now.
Riley opens her mouth to say something else when her eyes catch on movement behind me. I turn and find Clara entering the kitchen, heading straight for the table. Juno trails close behind, her little shadow.
I gesture to the seat beside me, where I’ve already laid out her breakfast and coffee.
She slides into the seat without hesitation, drawing her chair closer to the table.
Her determined gaze settles on the phone propped up against a bottle of orange juice.
Juno huffs and drops to the floor with a soft thud, curling up against Clara’s feet .
“Hi, everyone. I’m Clara,” she says with a steady, clear voice.
When I glance at the screen, I see a silent question in Riley’s eyes, and I respond with a subtle nod. Clara’s here on her own terms. She’s ready to be a part of the conversation.
“It’s good to finally put a face to the name, Clara,” Evie says warmly, a genuine smile gracing her face. “This one here is Riley,” she adds, a thumb pointing to her left. “She’s the one who thought of the fuzzy slippers, by the way.”
Clara beams. “Thank you so much for those! And the rest of the clothes. You two were lifesavers.”
She picks up her coffee mug, and I notice the way her fingers flex. She’s holding it like an anchor.
“And these three unintimidating gentlemen are Jesse, Arlo, and Spencer,” Cruz says, flashing a grin as he gestures to each man.
Clara shakes her head in amusement, waving at them politely. Her fingers tighten on her mug again as she assesses the room through the screen.
“Have we gotten anything back from the ME?” I ask, pulling the focus back to the case.
Jesse raises his hand and leans toward the camera. “I found semen on the victim’s body. Ran the DNA as soon as I got back to the lab.” He pauses to open the file in front of him. “One hundred percent match to the other samples, boss. It was him. No doubt about it.”
Beside me, Clara doesn’t flinch, but I see it—the way her jaw tenses ever so slightly. Her expression remains stoic, but her dark brown eyes appear even darker.
Spencer clears his throat. “Sammie conducted a rushed autopsy. She hasn’t completed the final report, but she called to share information she thought was time-sensitive.
No semen internally. No defensive wounds.
No skin beneath the victim’s fingernails.
No restraint marks. Cause of death was cervical fracture. ”
“So far, everything points to consensual sex,” Riley notes. “My guess? He snapped her neck at the end of the act—or just after.”
Clara inhales deeply, her exhale barely audible. Her shoulders rise and fall with each slow, measured breath. She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t shut down. But her fingers curl tighter around the ceramic mug, like it’s the only thing tethering her to the moment.
I slide my hand under the table and gently clutch her thigh, offering silent support. She turns her head just slightly, giving me a sidelong glance. Her mouth twitches, and her chin dips in a small, almost imperceptible nod, letting me know she’s okay.
“What do we know about Marie?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“Marie Ann Douglas. Thirty-two. Moved to Rochester six months ago from Wichita, Kansas,” Arlo replies. “No family nearby, no car in her name. She worked as a receptionist at the art gallery downtown—same block as the mayor’s office.”
Clara’s eyes narrow a fraction, her brows knitting together as if in thought. She doesn’t speak, but I can tell she’s absorbing everything—connecting dots I can’t see.
“I’ve got a team helping Arlo and Spence review exterior surveillance footage from businesses within a mile of the art gallery,” Cruz says.
Arlo nods. “We hope to spot her, maybe with our guy.”
“And I sent uniforms to her place on Rolland Street.” Cruz sighs and shakes his head. “Might be nothing, but if this started as a consensual encounter, maybe she brought him back there.”
Clara shifts beside me, her body angling slightly forward as if leaning into the conversation. She wants to understand. Wants to face this.
“Keep me in the loop,” I say. “Let me know if you need me down there, yeah?”
“We will, boss,” Jesse replies. A chorus of agreement follows, firm and familiar.
I glance at Clara again. Her mug is still in her hands, untouched. But she hasn’t looked away from the screen once.
As soon as the call ends, I pull Clara into my lap. She doesn’t resist—just shifts until she’s settled. She’s tense but leans into me. I tilt her chin, locking eyes with her.
“You okay, sunshine?”
She blows out a sharp breath, cheeks puffed before the exhale. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
She finally lifts the coffee mug to her lips, taking a tentative sip. Her eyes remain distant, brows drawn as her thoughts churn.
“That poor girl didn’t die the way the others did,” she murmurs. “And he didn’t do the same things to her. Why not? What changed? ”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I say, though my answer feels thin.
Clara’s gaze drops to the mug, her finger tracing the rim. Then, quietly, she says, “The girl… Marie. She died because of me, Maverick.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a scathing glare. Message received; I close my mouth.
“She did,” Clara asserts, voice unwavering. “You said he sent a message. He said if I come back to him, he’ll stop.”
“You’re not going back to him.”
She inhales slowly, closing her eyes for a beat. But when she opens them again, they’re fierce—burning with anger, and all of it aimed at me.
“I’m not an idiot,” she says. Her voice has a sharp edge—cold and clipped. She starts to shift off my lap, trying to create space between us. I stop her with a steady grip on her thighs, keeping her in place—keeping her grounded.
“I’m not stupid enough to say I’ll go back to him just to make it stop.
To stop him from killing anyone else,” she continues, voice rising slightly, the words tumbling out faster now.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that he killed her because of me.
If he kills someone else, it’ll be because of me, and that’s blood on my hands. ”
“No,” I say in a firm tone. I lift one hand, curling it around the back of her neck. My thumb brushes just beneath her ear as I guide her face back to mine. “Look at me.”
She does.
“He will kill again whether you went back to him or not. That’s what monsters do. You didn’t start this. You didn’t choose it. He did.”
She holds my gaze, breathing hard, and I see the battle playing out behind her eyes: guilt battling logic, trauma strangling reason. And underneath it all, fury. Not at me. Not entirely. At him. At herself. At everything she’s lost. At this whole fucked-up situation.
“I should’ve died in that hole.” Her voice cracks on a broken whisper. “If I had, maybe he’d be done by now. And Marie would still be here.”
My grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor her.
“Don’t say that,” I growl. “Don’t ever say that. You hear me? Don’t ever fucking say that. You’re where you’re supposed to be. Right here with me.”
She doesn’t cry. Her body is rigid, but she doesn’t pull away again. She leans in, bringing her forehead to rest on my cheekbone.
He’s not fucking getting her back.
An hour later, we’re on the couch, the tenseness in her body quieted but not gone. Clara’s curled into my side with her head resting against my shoulder, legs folded beneath her. Juno’s at her feet—apparently his permanent spot.
The TV is a quiet hum in front of us; the news anchor droning on and on through the lead-up to the press conference. A banner at the bottom of the screen flashes: brEAKING: Rochester PD and FBI Task Force to Release Suspect Sketch in Recent Homicide.
Her fingers are laced loosely with mine, her thumb moving in slow, absent circles over my knees. Clara hasn’t said much since the conference call earlier. She hasn’t had to. She’s here. Still fighting.
She doesn’t need me to be proud of her, but I am. Fuck, I am.
I glance down at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She doesn’t look away from the screen, but her hand tightens around mine ever so slightly.
“You ready for this?” I ask.
“As I’ll ever be,” she breathes.
The screen shifts, cutting to a live feed of the podium outside the precinct, reporters already jockeying for position.
The countdown begins.
We both watch in silence, waiting for the world to learn what we already know.