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I fling open the door to find my former co-worker and current resident in Mitch Hale’s doghouse, Sasha Knight.
“Sasha?” My mouth hangs open, catching flies, as she pushes past me and closes the door.
“Mitch. Why haven’t you answered any of my calls, emails, text messages…?” She counts each item off on her fingers. “I was about to send a damn letter!”
I frown. “How are you Sasha? Me? I’m great! Everything is wonderful! Yeah, I was shot by a lunatic and watched my life unravel from a hospital bed, but thanks for asking!” I retort with an overabundance of sarcasm.
She scowls with her hands on her hips. “Don’t be a jerk, Mitch. I’ve been worried about you.”
My shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m exhausted, Sasha. Can we sit?”
“Of course. Go sit. I’ll get us some water.” She turns me around and pushes me towards the living room. There are only two rooms on this floor and the other is the kitchen, so it wasn’t much of a guess for her to prompt me in the right direction.
A minute later, Sasha gingerly sits next to me and hands me a bottle of water.
“Thanks.” I place it on the end table. “You came all this way because I wouldn’t call you back?” I ask, incredulous.
Sasha pales, biting on her perfectly painted lip.
Uh oh.
“What? What’s going on, Sasha?” My hands tremble and my heart begins to pound. Dread knots in my belly, tightening and unfurling like dark tentacles reaching out to squeeze my internal organs.
“I need you to be honest with me, Mitch. No more dodging questions.” I stare at Sasha’s face. Her brown eyes are serious, not a hint of mischief in them. Her mouth is taut, fine lines pulling at the corners.
“Okay.”
“What happened with Grant?”
Fuck. Bile rises in my throat. “Grant?” I squeak.
“Yes, Grant, your partner. Tell me what happened. Why you quit,” she insists.
“Sasha…” I warn. “I don’t like discussing it.”
“I understand, but it’s important, Mitch.” Her eyes are pleading with me, begging me to open up.
“Shit.” I rake a trembling hand through my unkempt hair.
“When was the last time you had a shower?” She asks, her pert little nose wrinkling up in distaste.
“Bloody hell, Sasha, I don’t have a clue,” I growl.
“Sorry, continue.” Sasha gives me a contrite look.
I reluctantly explain what Grant did to me, the teasing, the flirting, and the eventual betrayal. Her eyes get larger and larger as I divulge my relationship with my ex-partner.
“What a pi
ece of shit!” she exclaims, her pretty mouth curled into a snarl. “I always knew there was something fucked up about him. I could never get him to trip up in front of me.”
I shrug. “It was over a year ago, Sasha. What does it matter?”
“Mitch, you know that finger they found backstage in Gavin’s dressing room?” she asks.
I wrinkle my brow, “Yes. What about it?” My brain is struggling to make any connections that might include Sasha.
“It matched up to the victim of a serial killer the taskforce been tracking.”
