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I haven’t a clue when I’ve returned to, although my healing wound is some indication that at least a few weeks have passed since my last visit—Chronosync?—over Memorial Day weekend.
Which means I haven’t returned to the time of Ashley’s death.
I’m back in 1997. In my twenty-eight year old body, with the moves and the muscle and the ability to whip Burke’s sorry backside if I can I untangle my brain.
He’s grinning, and I’d really like to clean his clock, so I straighten.
“Call it?” I want to take the body I’ve missed out for a spin, so I advance on Burke. “Not yet.”
I know his moves now, having sparred with him for two decades. Know his tells, the way he feigns left, hits right, and then again. I block his blows and land one in his gut.
&n
bsp; Burke is all about longevity. Me, I like slick footwork, body movement and I’m not above covering up to avoid punishment, at least long enough to look for an opening.
Burke loves his power shots. Which means that I have to be on my game or he’ll knock me out with a precision punch. I’m more of a pressure guy—lay out the hammer blows until Burke tires. I’m all uppercuts and hooks.
Burke is playing nice with me, I know, because he’s avoiding the body shots.
But I’ll also take a shot to land one, and it’s not long before we’re both breathing hard, sweating and hurting.
I grin at him. “Nice to see you again.”
He frowns, then, “Ready to tap out?” Sweat drips off his chin.
Yeah, might be, because it’s now I realize I’m really hurting. I bend over and grab my knees.
Look up at him.
Burke comes at me again, but he lacks the finesse of his older version and I duck under his arm and grab him around the waist, tackling him down to the floor.
We both roll away, stare at the piping that laces the ceiling, our chests rising and falling.
“What is this, mutually assured destruction?”
I look over at the voice and my heart nearly leaves my chest.
Eve is standing with a friend, and while it’s the friend who’s spoken, it’s only Eve I see. She’s carrying a backpack over her shoulder, her kinky auburn hair long and tied back, wearing a pair of jeans and a tee shirt and she’s so pretty, so young, and smiling at me and everything inside me wants to crawl over to her and kiss her.
Instead I nod and push myself up to a sitting position. “Hey.”
She smiles back, but there’s a hesitation in her eyes. “Hey.”
Burke has climbed off the floor. “Hey Shelby.”
Right. Shelby Ruthers. He dated her for a long time, but eventually she broke his heart with another guy at the station. She’s a blonde, curvy and tall, and works in dispatch. If I remember correctly, she worked patrol for three years before applying to investigations. A few times.
“You boys are here early,” Shelby says and I glance at the big clock hanging over the office.
6 am. Is that early? Burke and I had a standing 5 am date for a while, before we got old and moved it to post-work.
I look back at Burke. “What’s the date?”
He frowns.
“July 2nd,” Eve says.
Gretta Holmes. Waitress found dead in an alley outside a diner, killed early in the morning on July 2nd, 1997. One of my cold cases, although Booker had updated it, put it in the Jackson file.
