Chapter 4
Loco
Murder scenes have a smell.
It’s not just blood. It’s an entire space of toxic air and something stale that settles in the back of your throat and stays there long after clearing the tape. I had learned early on not to breathe too deep when I stepped into one. Not because it helped—because it gave me the illusion of control.
Lamonte was already inside the apartment when I ducked under the yellow tape, gloves snapped on, eyes scanning. We’d been working together long enough that we didn’t need to talk much at the beginning. You read the room. You read each other.
Late thirties male. Single gunshot wound to the chest. No sign of forced entry.
Domestic-adjacent, possibly, but not textbook. Definitely someone he knew. There was no disarray like he even attempted to fight back. He was comfortable in the space and with the person who did this.
“Wife’s downstairs,” Lamonte shared quietly as I crouched near the body. “Claims she was out walking the dog.”
I glanced up. “Dog real?” I had to ask because once, only once, but once was enough to stick with me, there was someone with an imaginary dog.
And as crazy as it sounded even then, thinking back it still left a knot in my stomach because that person had a whole set up for a dog.
Bowls, leashes, even damn booties and a winter coat.
There was no dog. And someone lost their life questioning the man about the invisible pet.
“Unfortunately.”
I sighed. “Always is.” Because the imaginary one was an easy open and shut case.
The district attorney took that straight to trial, and the defense sited psychiatric problems. Second degree murder was the charge, man slaughter was the official plea agreement charge and time in a facility for mental health kept that man from getting back on the street without staying on his meds.
We worked the scene methodically. Photographs. Measurements. A slow reconstruction of someone’s worst night. I asked the right questions, took the notes I’d need later, compartmentalized like I always did.
Three months ago, this would’ve followed me home. Lately, it didn’t.
That was new. Then again, home had a whole new appeal. Work wasn’t all I had anymore.
Lamonte caught me watching the hallway a second longer than necessary. “You’re distracted.”
“I’m efficient,” I stated.
He snorted. “You’re thinking about Char.”
I didn’t bother denying it. “Things are good,” I replied instead, straightening. “Really good.”
And that, too, was new. Char and I had settled into something that felt real. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just steady. Dinners that turned into nights. Nights that turned into mornings. A toothbrush at my sink. Her shoes by the door.
I had given her a key two weeks ago. I had thought about it for days before I did it.
Turned it over in my head like a piece of evidence I didn’t quite trust yet.
But when I handed it to her—when her eyes had gone soft and surprised and a little emotional—I knew I had made the right call.
It had been years since I my personal space was open like this for someone else to share.
My mind was thinking more than simply having a key to my place. Her lease was up in two months. I already started planning how to ask her to move in.
Lamonte clapped me on the shoulder as we stepped back outside. “You coming over Friday?”
“Char says I don’t have a choice. Nita isn’t to be denied according to my girl.”
He grinned. “Smart woman.”
“She’s trouble,” I shared with ease.
“She is,” he agreed. “The good kind.”
We finished our preliminary scene notes and headed out. I checked my phone on the way to the car. No missed calls. No texts. Char knew I would be late. Still though, she usually checked in. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. Sometimes her period left her tired and she would sleep after work or classes.
That night, traffic crawled and my patience wore thin. I replayed the scene in my head, already outlining next steps, when my phone buzzed.
Char: I’m at your place. Hope that’s okay.
I smiled despite the exhaustion settling into my bones.
Always, I typed back thinking to myself that’s what I gave you the key for.
The lights were on when I pulled into the lot. Her car sat in my usual spot, crooked like she’d been in a hurry. I clocked it automatically. Filed it away.
Inside, the apartment felt off. Not wrong. Just quiet in a way it usually wasn’t when she was there.
She was sitting on the couch, hands folded in her lap. Not curled up. Not relaxed. She stood when she saw me, too quickly, like she’d been waiting for a cue.
“Hey,” I greeted, dropping my keys. “You okay?”
She nodded. Didn’t smile. That was the second thing I filed away.
“I made tea,” she stated. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah, whatever you want, baby. My house is your house.” I replied slowly. “Thanks for having it ready for me.”
I set my gun and badge on the counter like always. Took off my jacket. Watched her from the corner of my eye. Everything about her was contained. Like she had packed herself into a smaller version of who she had been this morning.
“Char,” I said gently. “What’s going on?”
She inhaled. Exhaled. Looked at the floor. “I can’t do this anymore.”
The words landed wrong. Too practiced. Too flat. “Do what,” I asked completely taken off guard.
“This,” she shared coldly, gesturing between us. “Us.”
I stared at her, waiting for the punchline that didn’t come. “Did I miss something?” I asked. “Because we were fine. We’re good.”
She shook her head. “You’re good. I’m not.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
She flinched. Not at my tone—at the fact that I wasn’t letting it slide.
“I thought I was ready,” she stammered. “I wanted to be. But I’m not.”
My chest tightened. “Ready for what?”
She looked at me then, eyes shiny but resolute. “For this kind of life. For stability. For you.”
That one hurt.
“I haven’t pushed you,” I stated quietly.
“I know. That’s the problem.”
I took a step toward her. She stepped back. That was the moment something cold settled in my gut. “Talk to me,” I begged. “Please.”
She swallowed. “I feel like I’m pretending. Like I’m playing house in someone else’s life.”
“That’s not,” I began and she cut me off.
“I don’t wake up scared anymore,” she said, voice breaking. “And that should be good. But it makes me feel guilty. Like I’m betraying something I haven’t finished paying for.”
I understood trauma. I understood guilt. I didn’t understand why she was doing this alone.
“We can slow down,” I offered. “We don’t have to change anything.”
She shook her head again. “If I stay, I’ll keep leaning on you. And I need to stand on my own.”
“That doesn’t mean you leave.”
“For me, it does.”
I searched her face for hesitation. For doubt. Found none. “You’re walking away,” I stated blankly. I studied her for a beat more. Her eyes were void. “You have thought this through? You mean it?”
“Yes.”
The word echoed.
I could’ve argued. Could’ve told her about the ring I hadn’t bought yet. The future I’d been quietly building room for. I could’ve fought. Instead, I saw the tightness in her shoulders. The way her hands trembled despite her calm voice. This wasn’t about me.
Not entirely.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Her breath hitched.
“I won’t stop you,” I continued. “But I don’t believe this is out of nowhere.”
She closed her eyes.
“There’s more to whatever is going on in your head,” I stated firmly.
She didn’t answer.
I stepped aside, giving her space. “Take what you need.”
She gathered her things quickly while inside I silently shattered. She was efficient. Like she couldn’t afford to linger. At the door, she hesitated.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered but never wavered.
“So am I,” I replied the truth.
She left.
I stood there long after the door shut, listening to the quiet settle in. Everything about her had been off. And I wasn’t the kind of man who ignored evidence. Whatever had sent her running—it wasn’t done with us.
And neither was I.
This couldn’t be it.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence that followed felt louder than any argument we never had. Because we didn’t fight. Maybe that was the problem. We seemed to effortlessly fit together.
I stood there for a long time. Long enough for the tea she had made to go cold on the counter.
Long enough for my muscles to start aching from holding myself still, like if I didn’t move, the moment might rewind.
Like she might knock again and tell me she said it wrong. That she was scared but staying.
She didn’t. I couldn’t even manage to hallucinate her image here.
I tried to eat. Took chicken out of the fridge, stared at it like it had personally offended me, shoved it back in untouched. My stomach twisted anyway, hunger and nausea tangled together until neither won.
I sat on the couch where she’d been sitting, where her warmth was probably still lingering, and let my head fall back against the cushion.
Her eyes.
That was the part I couldn’t get past.
They’d been empty. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just hollow. Like something inside her had gone quiet and taken the light with it.
What the hell changes in forty-eight hours?
I had only been gone two nights. A brutal case, back-to-back shifts, the kind that bleeds into your bones. She knew. She kissed me goodbye like always, told me to be safe, told me she would see me when I got back.
Nothing about her then had hinted at this.
I lay down fully clothed sometime after midnight. Stared at the ceiling until the streetlight outside cast moving shadows that looked like someone pacing.
I didn’t sleep.
At three a.m. I checked my phone again, like it might magically contain an explanation if I stared hard enough.
Nothing.
By morning, my head was pounding and my thoughts were jagged, looping the same questions over and over.
What scared her? Who said something? What memory got loose in her head? And the worst one—What did I miss?
I went for a run at dawn, punishing my body because it was easier than sitting still. Miles blurred together. Sweat burned my eyes. My chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.
By the time I got back, I knew I couldn’t keep spiraling alone.
So I called Nita. She was supposed to be staying at Lamonte’s last night.
She had text him dinner was waiting and so was she for when he got off shift.
Things were good for them and I was happy.
I felt like a fucking idiot calling my girlfriend’s sister to ask why she dumped me, but Char wasn’t answering my texts or calls because I tried them.
She answered on the third ring. “Dante.”
“I need to ask you something,” I said, skipping pleasantries because I didn’t trust myself to keep my voice steady if I didn’t.
There was a pause. “Okay.”
“She ended things last night.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I know,” Nita explained shocking me.
That hit harder than I expected.
“She didn’t tell me why,” I stated. “Not really. I need to understand what changed.”
Nita exhaled slowly like she knew this was coming but she really didn’t have the patience for it. “And I need you to hear something you’re not going to like.”
“I’m listening.”
“If Char asked for space,” she explained, “you need to respect it.”
My jaw tightened. “I’m not chasing her down. I just want to know what happened.”
“I know,” Nita continued. “But wanting answers doesn’t give you a right to them.”
That stung, even though I knew she wasn’t wrong.
“I care about her,” I whispered. “I wasn’t planning on walking away.”
“I know,” she stated again. Softer now. “And for what it’s worth, I’ve come to appreciate the man you are for my sister. You’re steady. You’re safe. You show up.”
That word again. Safe.
“So why does she look like she just burned her life down?” I asked.
“Because she doesn’t trust peace yet,” Nita explained. “Because when things get good, her brain tells her it’s borrowed time.”
I closed my eyes.
“Char has imposter syndrome,” Nita continued. “About everything. Happiness included. She doesn’t believe she’s allowed to have it without paying for it somehow.”
“So she punishes herself,” I added.
“She takes control,” Nita corrected. “Leaving before she can be left. Choosing pain she recognizes over stability she doesn’t.”
I leaned my elbows on the counter, phone pressed tight to my ear.
“She told me she needs to find herself,” I shared.
Nita was quiet for a beat. “She does.”
“And I’m the problem,” I added.
“You’re not,” Nita replied firmly surprising me. “You’re the proof that she’s changed. And Dante, that scares her more than anything.”
That landed in my chest with a dull ache.
“She doesn’t want to do this tied to anyone,” Nita went on. “Not because you’re wrong for her. But because right now, she needs to know who she is without leaning on someone who makes it easier.”
I swallowed hard. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Let her go,” Nita replied straight forward. “For now.”
The words felt like alcohol poured on an open wound.
“She didn’t run because of you,” Nita added. “She ran because staying would’ve forced her to confront parts of herself she’s not ready to face. You have to let her go, Dante.”
That was the final blow. I thanked her. Hung up. Sat there staring at the wall like it might offer a rebuttal.
Let her go.
It went against every instinct I had.
I was trained to pursue answers. To follow threads. To close loops. Walking away from an open question felt like failure. But this wasn’t a case.
This was a woman who’d survived by learning when to escape. And I’d promised her honesty, not ownership.
I wanted to call her. Wanted to tell her she didn’t have to figure everything out alone. Wanted to tell her I wasn’t going anywhere.
Instead, I set the phone down carefully and stepped back.
Her eyes hadn’t been empty because she didn’t feel anything. They’d been empty because she was holding everything in. And that told me one thing with absolute certainty, this wasn’t over.
Not because I couldn’t let her go.
But because whatever went dead inside her over forty-eight hours was still alive somewhere.
And when she was ready to face it, I would be ready too.