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My gaze holds his a moment too long, and before I can turn away, he says, “Carson, get the techs to dig up the vic’s most recent contacts. I want a full report on her job, boyfriends, friends, shopping habits. I’ll meet you at the dumpsite in an hour.”
From my peripheral, I glimpse the hike of Carson’s eyebrows. But he doesn’t question his orders. “Right,” Carson says. “I’m on it. Meet up in an hour.” Then he tucks away his black notepad—the same kind Quinn carries—and exits the lab.
I lick my lips, conscious of the fact I forgot to reapply concealer, as Quinn’s penetrating detective gaze borders on invasive. “Something else you need, detective?” I ask, forcing myself to blink in what I hope is a natural way.
His shoulders rise and fall in an easy shrug. “We should talk about last night.”
An ache pulses at my temples. “Nothing to talk about. I got a little drunk, but that’s not a crime. Is it?”
“No,” he says, taking another step closer. “But I am curious about the baggie.” He pulls an evidence bag from his pocket. Inside is the remnants of my most recent cocktail.
I yank my gloves off and shove them into my lab coat pockets. “I guess I should thank you for coming to me instead of pressing charges.” Then I reconsider the evidence bag. “Unless that’s why you’re here. To arrest me.”
His features contort, his expression incensed. “I’m not one to pry, Avery. But when my lead M.E. is waving drugs around in public—”
“It’s not drugs,” I correct. “At least, not the kind you’re assuming.”
He visibly relaxes, if only a fraction. “Then why don’t you clarify.”
I brace my hands on the edge of the autopsy cart. “Because it’s none of your business.”
“Are you still seeing a therapist?”
His question throws me. “What?”
“You’re required to see an in-house counselor. It’s a condition of your remittance.” He steps closer. I push away from the cart. “You’re not a cop, but you are a part of the team. If any one of my guys went through what you did…” he trails off. “Let’s just say, I look out for my own. And I consider you one of mine.”
His words sink past my defenses. For a moment, I feel the press of his concern, his burden. I’m hit with the memory of the calloused roughness of his hand as it held mine, the contrasting tenderness of his touch. It strips me of my anger, and my body feels weak. Like it’s taking all my strength just to stand.
“I stopped seeing her,” I say. “The therapist. It wasn’t helping.”
“And you started self medicating,” he concludes.
And like that, my defenses go up. Before Quinn is anything to me—friend, ally, colleague—he’s first a cop. I know that it was more than his duty to help rescue me—that the whole precinct felt my abduction on a personal level—but I lost that connection to them down in the hell pit of that boat.
I lost the part of myself that fought the good fight. What Quinn and I had in common. I no longer see the world as he does; in black and white. Good guys and bad. Right and absolute wrong. I’m lost somewhere in the murky shades. For that alone, he can’t reach me. No matter how far he extends the branch.
There’s only one person I know that understands me on this new plane of suffering. And when I look at her now, I glimpse the monstrous, distorted reflection of myself. It’s painful—but it’s brutal honesty.
I don’t blame Sadie. Rather, in some completely fucked up way, I loathe her for revealing this side of myself. I think she realizes that. Because the moment I stepped foot in the precinct, she took her overdue vacation time. Every day of it. Something so out of character for her.
Maybe she’s giving me time to…adjust. Or she’s afraid that I’m not strong enough to carry the weight of this secret—that I’ll break. But the truth is, I was already broken. Framing a shellfish for Wells’ death was just a result of the damage. I can’t blame Sadie for my actions.
I would do it again.
And faced with the choice, I believe I would be the one to end his life.
“I’ve seen that look before,” Quinn says.
Shaken out of my reverie, I lift my gaze to his. Find his hazel eyes studying me. I’m very aware of the look I’m projecting this second, but I say, “What look?”
Quinn leans against the wall and laces his arms over his broad chest. “That stubborn one. Bonds had that same look in the hospital when we were waiting to hear on your condition. It’s one that says no matter how hard I present my case, your mind is already made up.”
I ease out a shaky breath past trembling lips. “How is Sadie?” I turn around, making myself busy with replacing the vic’s liver in the wall locker. Hoping he takes the bait and changes the subject.
“Still on leave,” he says. His voice grows closer, causing my hands to slick with sweat. I take out my gloves and force them on. “But you know that. You two are close. I’m sure she’s already told you the same thing I am now.”
In an instant, Quinn has me turned to face him, his strong hands anchored to my arms. “That whatever you’re going through—something I know I have no right to even imagine—you need help, Avery. You can’t hide from it, and no amount of alcohol or drugs can make it vanish.”
