Page 2 of Monk

“Hey, leave a message.”

“John.” My voice cracked. “John, please call me. Please. I just—I heard. Please, just call me back.”

I hung up. Called again. Voicemail. Again. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. John always promised he would come home safe, no matter what. But promises felt fragile now.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

“—reports are saying this may be connected to cartel activity in the region. Law enforcement sources have indicated that the Vasquez Cartel has been expanding its operations along the southern border for the past eighteen months, and this latest incident bears all the hallmarks of their brutal methodology?—”

I couldn’t breathe. The room was spinning. My vision blurred at the edges.Cartel. Shooting. Multiple casualties.John was the sergeant at arms of his club. He would have been there. At the clubhouse. That was where he always was when he wasn’t with me.

He’s fine,I told myself desperately.He’s fine. He has to be fine.

But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I grabbed my keys.

I shouldn’t go. I knew I shouldn’t go. If there was a shooting, if the police were there, if it was dangerous, I should stay away. I should wait for John to call. I should be smart.

But I couldn’t. I had to see.

I had to know.

I had to find him.

The clubhouse was fifteen minutes from my apartment.

I made it in eight.

I could see the lights before I even turned onto the street. Red and blue, flashing in the growing dusk, casting harsh, flickering shadows across the buildings, making them seem to pulse with every burst. Police cars. Ambulances. Fire trucks. They lined the street, blocking off the area, their presence thick and oppressive, and I had to park three blocks away because I couldn’t get any closer. The street was a maze of emergency vehicles, their doors flung open, radios crackling with urgent chatter that I couldn’t quite make out over the blood rushing in my ears.

I got out of my car and ran. I didn’t bother locking it. I didn’t even bother closing the door properly. I just left it hanging open and took off sprinting down the sidewalk.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest, hammering against my ribs like it were trying to escape. My breath came in short, sharp gasps that burned my throat and lungs. The evening air was cool, almost cold, but I was sweating, my hands clammy, my whole body vibrating with terror. My legs felt weak and unsteady beneath me, but I pushed forward anyway, weaving between the clusters of neighbors who had gathered on their porches and front lawns, their faces pale and shocked in the flashing lights. Some of them called out to me. I thought they did, anyway, but I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t hear anything except the roar of panic in my head and the slap of my shoes against the pavement as I ran towardwhatever nightmare was waiting for me up ahead. My mind raced with memories of his laugh, his stubborn grin—anything to keep from imagining the worst. John was more than just my boyfriend; he was my anchor, and everything inside me screamed for him to be safe.

Please. Please let him be okay. Please.

I rounded the corner and stopped dead. My legs felt numb, rooted to the spot, as if refusing to carry me closer to whatever waited ahead. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe—my mind refused to accept what my eyes saw. Then panic surged through me, overwhelming any hope I had left, and I clung desperately to the memory of John’s laughter echoing in this place, a sound now swallowed by silence and smoke.

The clubhouse looked like a war zone. No, worse than that. It looked like the aftermath of a massacre—like something I had seen unfolding on the news in some distant country, not here, not in our town. The crunch of glass beneath my shoes echoed in my ears, each step a reminder of how everything had changed. The acrid scent of gunpowder and blood stung my nostrils, mingling with smoke drifting from somewhere inside. I remembered the last time we laughed together in that room, and now it was filled with silence and devastation.

The front windows were shattered, glass glittering on the pavement like diamonds scattered across black asphalt. With each uneven step, I felt the crunch and slip beneath my soles, amplifying my sense of unreality. Bullet holes pocked the walls in irregular patterns, clustered in some places, scattered in others, telling a story I didn’t want to read. The door hung crooked on its hinges, splintered wood showing where it had been kicked in or blown open. Smoke drifted from somewhere inside, thin and acrid, curling out through the broken windows and the damaged doorway, and I could smell it even from where I stood—gunpowder and blood, and something burning,perhaps upholstery or carpet. Somewhere amid the chaos, I remembered how John had once patched that door after a storm, laughing at his own handiwork. Now, it was ruined beyond repair.

There were bodies. I froze, unable to move forward, as the horror settled in my bones.

Oh God, there are bodies.

My mouth went dry, my chest tightened, and grief threatened to swallow me whole.

Paramedics were loading them onto stretchers, some covered with white sheets, some with medics working frantically over them, shouting instructions, pumping chests, holding IV bags high. The shouts and urgent voices blurred together, distant yet piercing, and I couldn’t tell, couldn’tseewhich ones were still alive, which ones still had a chance. My eyes scanned desperately, searching for familiar faces, for any sign of movement, for anything that would tell me who had made it and who hadn’t. I remembered John’s stubborn grin, his hand warm in mine—now, I searched for that face among the chaos and prayed for a miracle.

“Miss, you need to stay back.” A police officer stepped in front of me, hand raised. “This is an active crime scene.” The authority in his voice barely registered, lost beneath the pounding of my heart and the memories crowding my mind.

“My—” I choked on the word. “My boyfriend. He’s—he’s in the club. I need to know if he’s—” My voice sounded strange to my own ears, thin and desperate, echoing the fear that had overtaken me. I remembered how John once comforted me after a nightmare; now, I was living one.

“Ma’am, I understand, but you need to stay behind the line. We’ll have information for families soon.” The officer’s words were gentle, but they crashed against the panic growing inside me, unable to soothe or stop it.