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“Respect is really only a devious route taken by violence.” -George Bataille
I shuffle slowly along the balcony overlooking the crowd, letting my hand caress the curve of the mahogany banister. The men all look similar in their designer suits, complementary to the colorful gowns the women are wearing. Some in beautiful sequins and others elegantly draped in satin, chiffon, and an array of other extremely expensive fabrics.
The low-hanging chandelier flickers, and light dances off the dress of a woman beneath me. Just like most of tonight’s guests, she’s smiling and laughing while mingling with another. I roll my eyes and look away.
Half of the people here didn’t even know my father personally, however, by rite of passage, when the chief of police is murdered, you show up to his benefit.
This whole thing is nothing more than trying to find some sort of lead to follow, something to ease my mind. My dad meant so much to me, and I’ve done nothing but fail him. When he was murdered, it was swept under the rug. But I guess that’s what happens when there is no evidence to point you in the right direction.
The smell of Cuban cigars permeates the stale air, teasing my senses and calming my nerves. In a way, it makes me feel like my dad is here. Cigars were always his guilty pleasure. He would light one up after closing a major case or special event. The sweet and tangy smell takes me back to better times, times he was still here.
Six months.
One hundred eighty-seven grueling days.
That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen his face. Since that day—the day of his murder—every lead has faded, and even my own investigation turned up barren. It seems the people of Northridge Heights aretight-lipped. But I’m sure, had I not been cursed with the political awareness of being or having been the police chief’s daughter, things would be different. The title has followed me like a shadow the entire twenty-five years of my life.
Sometimes it’s a blessing. Speeding tickets or unpaid parking meters fade away with my name. Other times, it’s a misfortune and can spread through a group of people like the plague. No one wants to associate with the police chief’s daughter. And they definitely don’t want to provide information about a murder.
As I descend the spiral staircase, I analyze the faces of the people, singling out the ones I’ve never seen before, and compile a sketchbook in my mind. I can’t help but feel that if his murderer is ballsy enough, he’ll show up tonight. At least that’s what I’m hoping—that whoever it is will give me a sign, answers—something. I’ve read that sometimes when people kill, they like to see the effect it leaves, the people who mourn. It’s a fucked-up way to go about things, but I’m out of options. If it takes me gathering everyone in town for a bullshit benefit/remembrance party, then I’m going to do it.
Now at the foot of the stairs, I scan all the faces closest to me again. The mayor is here, which isn’t surprising considering this is his home, Chief Sloan—he’s the one who replaced my dad—and Lieutenant Snyder. Fuck my life.
I can see him approaching, and immediately, the hair on the back of my neck stands up.After a short mental pep talk, I throw on a fake smile and flash it in his direction. Because of my father’s position in this town, I’m expected to smile and play nice, but Cameron fucking Snyder makes me sick.
He stops in front of me, bringing his face close to mine, and pecks my cheek. “You look beautiful, Charlotte.” The smell of his aged yet obnoxious cologne plays hide-and-seek with the brandy on his breath.
Bile creeps up the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. “Don’t you ever put your lips on me again, Cameron.” My voice is stern.
He’s had a thing for me for as long as I can remember. Everyone swore he and I would end up together. We were both raised by cops, and although our parents may have been cut from the same cloth, he doesn’t sit right with me. My skin crawls when he’s around, my body tells me to run, and my mind wishes to be anywhere other than within his vicinity. And no matter how clear I’ve been, it seems he can’t take a hint.
“Oh, come on. It was nothing,” he mutters with a smirk.
“You’re a cop. What’s the definition of sexual harassment?” I raise an eyebrow at him.
He doesn’t respond; instead, his back straightens and his jaw clenches. I can see his chest rise as uncertainty settles on his face. Cameron’s eyes comb over me like he’s skimming the pages of a book, and without another word, he takes a step back, turns, and slips into the crowd.
My dad taught me a lot of things before he died. He taught me to change the oil in my car, how to defend myself, never to let my guard down, and most importantly, never settle. He had big dreams and high hopes for me. He wanted me to leave Northridge Heights and never look back, but I can’t.
Not now anyway.
I fight back a tear and push my thoughts from my head, not wanting to ruin my makeup. I quickly scan the crowd again, not looking for anyone in particular, but trying to busy my mind.
A tall-stem glass of champagne carried by a well-dressed waiter catches my attention. I reach for the glass and lock eyes with Sloan from across the room. He nods and in return, I raise my drink.
As much as I never wanted to see my dad replaced, Sloan is probably the best person for the job. He’s skilled, levelheaded, and honest. Just like Dad was.
A middle-aged man appears at his side and touches his shoulder, drawing Sloan’s attention from me. The man’s back is to me, but something about him seems familiar. He’s tall with dark hair and broad shoulders. His stance exudes confidence and respect as his strong hands grip a small glass tumbler.
Two other men dressed in identical suits, with similar tattoos snaking up the collar of their shirts and peeking out the cuff of their sleeves, flank the mysterious man’s side. It’s clear they are his bodyguards. The expensive suits and high-end Italian leather shoes make them fit in, help them look as if they belong amongst the flood of political and city officials. But everything else about them stands out. The way their hands rest along the seam of their blazers while they survey the room, almost as if they’re waiting for something to happen.
I sip my drink and scream in my head at the man to turn around just long enough for me to see his face. Then, like he read my mind, he does so slightly, letting me catch his side profile. His tie is bright red, and his steely face doesn’t seem familiar, but his eyes do. They’re a cobalt blue with small flecks of gray. They are eyes I remember vividly, but I can’t put a finger on why.
My concentration is interrupted when Chief Sloan pats the man on the back and makes his way toward me. I try to look around him, but the man with the red tie and the twins slowly and easily evaporate into the crowd.
“Who was that?” I ask as Sloan stops in front of me.
“Him?” He half-ass points into the crowd, knowing exactly who I’m talking about. “That’s Theodore Hale. He lives on the top of Asher Hill outside of town.”
