I tell Dominic any details I can think of and he writes them down, listening intently. Not judging me. Not angry.
“I’m going to record our interview for the report.” Dominic sets the body cam usually attached to his vest on the table between us, lying face up.
The worry is written all over his face, and I hate it.
A wave of discomfort creeps over me, prickling my skin. I cross my arms tightly, resisting the overwhelming urge to scratch. If I could crawl out of my body, I would. This feeling—it’s familiar. Too familiar.
I was twelve the first time I felt it, sitting in a restaurant with my mom. It had been one of those rare, special days—just the two of us. While she was in the restroom, a man at the next table leaned toward me. His smile was too wide, his eyes lingering too long. He asked questions that made my stomach twist: Did I have a boyfriend? Was I the prettiest girl in my class? I was always taught to be polite, so I answered as best as I could, even though I wanted to disappear. When my mom returned, the man straightened, pretending nothing had happened. I didn’t tell her about it, not then or ever. But that encounter left a mark, a sour, exposed feeling I couldn’t comprehend, yet knew it felt wrong.
Now, sitting in this sterile metal chair, surrounded by deputies in uniform, that same unease creeps over me again—violated, raw, and this time, unable to convince myself nothing happened.
“Ellie,” Dominic says, drawing my attention back to him. “Do you agree? We can wait until tomorrow, but it’s better to do this while it’s fresh.”
His tone—even, cautious—only makes me feel worse. I nod, blinking rapidly to fight back tears. When one escapes, sliding hotly down my cheek, Dominic pushes a tissue box toward me. “It’s okay to cry,” he says so gently it makes by tears burn hotter.
“I don’t cry.” My shaky voice betrays me. Another tear falls. He pulls a tissue from the box and presses it into my hand, knowing I’d never reach for one myself and admit defeat.
Dominic flicks a button on the cam. “This is Deputy Sheriff Dominic Alvarez of the Clore County Sheriff’s Department. This will be a recorded conversation with…” He hesitates, his eyes flicking to mine. “With the victim, Elyse Ledger.”
The word crashes over me like a tidal wave.Victim.It burns, stripping away the last threads of my composure. A gasp escapes me, and Dominic stops the recording in aninstant. He’s at my side, pulling me out of the chair and into his arms.
It’s been so long since he’s held me, a different surge hits me, spreading across my chest. And this time it has nothing to do with the situation at hand and everything to do with feeling like I’ve landed exactly where I belong.
His embrace is safe, grounding, his warmth pressing against my trembling body. He steers us into a vacant interview room, kicking the door shut. In the darkness, his arms stay wrapped around me, his hand running soothing circles on my back.
“You’re safe,” he whispers. “You’re always safe with me.”
And for the first time all night, I believe it. Wrapped in him, I’m safe.
I let go, my sobs breaking free as I cling to him. He holds me tighter, absorbing every tremor, every tear, until the overwhelming weight begins to lift.
Eventually, I step back, wiping my face as I try to collect myself. But his steady gaze tells me he’s not letting go.
CHAPTER 28
Dominic
MY HOUSE. MY WINE.
PRESENT
The sun is beginning to rise by the time we return to Ellie’s townhouse. Her head rests against the passenger door window, her gaze fixed blankly outside.
“I’m going to do a sweep inside, make sure the house is empty.” It’s not necessary, but it’ll give me peace of mind, something I desperately need right now.
She nods, not protesting at all, which isn’t a good sign. The Ellie I know would put up a fight, insist that she didn’t need me or my help.
As I climb out of the cruiser, I gesture for her to stay put. She doesn’t argue, confirming my suspicions that she’s more shaken up than she’s letting on.
The only reason I’m comfortable leaving her alone in the driveway is because there are two patrol cars parked out front, waiting for me to give the all-clear before returning to duty.
I head to the front door and quickly inspect the exterior. All the windows are intact, no sign of forced entry.
When I step inside, my nose is instantly flooded with her smell, and I can’t help but breathe it deeply. Walking around with measured steps, I take in the small space; a two-story, three bedroom, two bathroom townhouse. It’s older, but has clearly been well-maintained over the years.
We were so young when we broke up, I never got the chance to see her get an apartment or make a space her own. If I was forced to guess what kind of home Ellie would’ve made, the scene before me is nearly identical to the image in my head. Plush, velvet furniture, dark colors, art and photographs that shouldn’t go together, yet appear meticulously curated. Everything is intentional, but looks as if it’s not. Like Ellie, it’s a juxtaposition of all the characteristics that make her unique. She doesn’t conform, and her home is a reflection of that.
I listen carefully for any sounds that don’t belong. The home is eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you jump at the drop of a pin. My paranoia is in overdrive, amplifying the lack of noise. When the ice maker in the fridge sounds loudly, indicating a new cycle, my pulse spikes. Normally I’m able to keep my overactive mind from racing when I’m on the job, but nothing about this situation is normal, and nothing threatening Ellie’s safety will ever have me reacting calmly.
