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I thought I’d become immune to them, like I’d somehow conquered the panic after all that time.
How silly of me.
I set the pink cat carriers down on the ground, already feeling Mason purring through the carrier. Mason and Jar seemed to be as happy as I was that we were out of my apartment. They tiptoed out of their carriers first and then started to run around the living room, bumping into the table and chairs. I laughed, grateful for the comfort Beckham and his home offered.
“Want some tea?” Beck asked as he kicked off his shoes.
“I’m okay, thank you, babe.”
I fell down on the couch, throwing my feet up and lying down with a loud sigh. I grabbed a big gray pillow and stuffed it over my face. There, I yelled.
“I’ll get you that tea,” Beckham said. He went into the kitchen, Mason following behind him. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the good parts of tonight: I was alive. Mason and Jar weren’t hurt. Beckham was with me.
And there was a psycho freak tailing me, and somehow they had gotten into my apartment. I felt violated. Someone had entered my apartment and left a message written in blood, and for what?
Beckham returned with a steaming cup of tea. I sat up on the couch and thanked him. He sat down next to me, letting me drink, a comfortable silence washing over us for the moment.
“Olly, who else has a spare key to your apartment?”
So I wasn’t the only one whose mind was racing, even if the silence lulled us into thinking we were both okay.
“Only my friend Tyra. I’d given her a copy of the key when I went to Europe so she could take care of Mason and Jar. But… I mean…”
Beckham didn’t say anything.
“You can’t possibly think she’s responsible, right?”
“I don’t know right now.”
I set the tea down on the coffee table. “No, she’s not. I do know that. She’s one of my best friends. There’s no way. None. Besides, Juan was a thousand percent involved, and I don’t see her ever interacting with that thug.”
“The pig was from the vet’s office and Tyra work—”
“No.” I surprised myself by shooting up onto my feet. I looked down at Beckham. “Tyra is innocent. I can’t. I’ve known her for years, I can’t go on trusting anyone in this world if she had something to do with it. It’s just impossible.” I didn’t know what had come over me. Maybe it was the pressure of it all, maybe this camel just had one straw too many, but something inside me snapped and it snapped hard.
“Just call it off. Call it all off.” My hands shook. I couldn’t stop them, so I stuffed them into the pocket of my shorts. “Cancel the investigation. Do whatever you have to do to back off. It’s not worth it. Derrick is dead. He’s gone and this isn’t going to bring him back. And I don’t want to lose anyone else. I can’t.” I locked eyes with Beckham, whose expression resembled someone who was witnessing a nuclear warhead going off in the far distance.
“Olly.”
“You’ve got to call it off. Let Juan go. He’ll be caught for something else. It’s fine. Just let it all go.”
“I can’t do that, Olly. Not when I’m so close.”
“What do you mean you can’t do that? It should be my call. I’m calling it. This is done—this case is over.”
Beckham stood. He reached for me, but I stepped back. I felt like a pressure cooker, and my top was whistling with steam, about to explode.
“Oliver, this won’t bring back Derrick, but it will bring you peace. And it can stop other people from getting hurt, too. I just need to finish my work. That’s all.”
My circuits were misfiring. All my frustration, my anger, my insecurities, they all welled up to the surface, pushing past the constant veil of positivity I had kept on for so long.
So damn long.
“I can’t do this. This was all a mistake.”
The words fell out of me and landed in the room like boulders.
“What do you mean?” Beckham asked.
The walls were feeling tight. I moved to the window, looking out at Beckham’s backyard. What the hell was going on with me? Why was I self-destructing?
“Nothing,” I said. “I just need sleep.” I rubbed my tired eyes. I couldn’t talk to Beckham right now, not when I was flaring up with unnecessary anger. He was only trying to help me.
“What was a mistake?”
I turned. Beckham stood a few feet in front of me. The orange light from a nearby floor lamp cast stark shadows on his face. His beard had been growing in, the same silvery-gray color as his hair, which was tousled and falling down onto his forehead.
“Us? Is that what you were going to say?”
