“Probably.” Preston turns on his heels and wanders back the way we came, his soft chuckle floating on the air in his absence. “I’m going back to the fifteenth floor to help them finish up. We should be out of your hair by the end of shift.” He taps the call button, and while he waits, he takes out his phone.
A mere few seconds after pressing the device to his ear, his face splits with a giant grin. “Cole! Hey. You remember that time Old Man Felch accused you of lifting his wallet, so you pretended your arm was broken, likenaw, man, wasn’t me, I’m a cripple?” He throws his head back and laughs, stepping into the elevator and turning to face us. “The prickwasn’t having it, so we made a cast at school and strapped you up, but we didn’t think it through so good, ‘cos we wrapped your right hand, and you didn’t know how to wipe your ass with your left yet.”
“Charming guy.” Humor glitters in Fletch’s eyes. “Can we get those rapid tests underway? Arch wants to bring the Prims in for a chat today, and life would be a hell of a lot easier if we had some DNA results to slap them with.”
“Sure.” Shaking my head, I move toward the elevator and watch the numbers above rise. I tap the call button so it’ll stop here when it’s done dropping Pres off with his team, then I settle in and wait, Raquel’s last texts flashing in the back of my mind.
I’m a terrible patient.
“I guess I was headed to the lab today anyway, so I suppose I could show you the way. Bully her into prioritizing your tests. Did the hat come with hair, by any chance? That would make this a hell of a lot easier.”
Wandering closer, Clay grins wide. He’s like a big ol’ puppy dog, thrilled at an opportunity to please the humans. “We sure did, Chief. And though Detective Banks warns me toneverjump ahead of confirmed evidence…” He glances warily to the left, then the right. Finally, he brings his eyes back to me. “It’s all starting to look a little complicated.”
ARCHER
Islouch in the cracked, fake-leather chair inside the war room and consider stuffing toothpicks into my eyes, because scouring street footage on a massive hundred-and-fifty-inch screen is enough to burn my retinas and fry my brain.
Still, I push on and luxuriate in the quiet. For the last hour, the only sound I’ve had to listen to is the standard drone of a homicide division bullpen. Cops chatter, and shoes slap the floor. Twice, Lieutenant Fabian stepped out of his office to shout at someone. But that someone wasn’tme, so not even the rattle of the wall as he slammed his door shut again penetrated my mind longer than it took for me to think ‘suck it’ to whoever he’s mad at.
Six-forty-five-ish in the evening, on a standard workday, downtown Copeland City is, evidently, busy as fuck, which means I scan thousands of cars as they pass through packed intersections. I pause footage each time I think I’ve found something, and then I unpause and push on when that thing I thought I saw proves to be nothing.
I toss a small bouncy ball from my left hand to my right, anything to keep myself focused and the blood sluggishly moving through my veins, and when my left ass cheek tingles with the beginnings of numbness, I shift and place my weight on the right side.
The door behind me opens and closes for the first time in an hour, the air changes, and Detective Banks wanders across the room in silence. Noteven his boots make all that much sound against the floor as he strides toward the end of the table and sets a stack of papers down with a thud.
And still, I remain silent. I keep my eyes forward. I give him nothing, because what I actually wanna give him is a fist to the face, and if I do that while Fabian’s cruising on a bad mood, I’m not sure I’ll like the consequences.
“Caleb Driver stopped by to have a chat.” He sets his hands on the crappy melamine tabletop. “Wanted to know if we had any updates. Didn’t have anything new to add to our investigation.”
“Okay.” I toss the ball to my left hand. Catch it so I feel the bite of my rage-driven throw. Then I toss it back the other way. “Add it to the files for documentation.”
And shut the fuck up.
His stare warms the side of my face. His quiet probing. But the memory of Minka’s caress does, too. Her words, spoken in the shadows. Her love… so fucking healing, I’m not sure I’d have made it through the last two years if not for her presence in my life.
I’m not sure if Drake expects me to elaborate on my response, but when I don’t, he ends our silent standoff with a click of his tongue. “Fine.”
Yeah. Fine. Shut the fuck up.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text that draws my focus away from the footage on the wall, but since I’m waiting for a dozen of those, I hit pause and pick it up. Instead of finding Fletch’s name, or Clay’s, or even Minka’s, I find Felix’s.
Felix
My daughter is a fucking genius!
[image attached]
She rolled over, Arch! ZoZo is rolling over.
I swear, ZoZo’s doing new shit every fuckin’ day. So, I dunno. Just wanted to tell you.
You busy? I know you’re reading my messages, cos it says read, but are you available to chat?
I draw a long breath, expanding my chest and stretching my lungs, then as I release it again, I glance across and catch Drake watching me.
Though he’s quick to swing his gaze back to the wall.
Me