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I acted on impulse back then. Rage. Retribution.
Tonight, I simply turn on my heel when minutes pass—two, then three—and she doesn’t come back out to tell me she’s changed her mind.
I move down the four flights of stairs in a daze, in silence. I pass the watchful Steve and wonder just how much the landlord knows about our business. But he doesn’t stop me to chat, and I don’t slow to give him a chance to reconsider.
I move through the heavy front door of Minka’s building and into the cold outside, but instead of angling for Tim’s bar to drink away my sorrows and make poor decisions, I head home. I walk the two blocks between Minka’s apartment and mine with my hands burrowed deep in my pockets and my head down to combat the icy wind. Then when I walk through my front door, I scoop Chloe up and take her to bed with me.
She’s a cat who likes to snuggle, and I’m a guy whose world just kind of imploded.
Fuck this day.
And fuck every single thing that stands between me and Minka Mayet.
* * *
“Arch?”
This morning has been an exercise in finding the people who are a part of Paul McGregor’s world. His friends. His family. His lovers, though everyone swears he has none. It’s been about talking to the sweet Ms. Elenora, and watching our backs as the boys who hang around Chapel Hill watch hers. It’s been about solving a bloody murder, and it’s been about practicing herculean levels of willpower, as I pretend Minka doesn’t exist in the same world as I do.
The last is the hardest part of all.
“Earth to Archer.”
I keep my attention on the road, my energies focused completely on driving toward the police precinct where Fletch and I can get to work mapping out Paul McGregor’s life and figuring out where exactly his killer comes into play.
Who did it? And were there two of them, just as Minka says?
And because I ask myself that question, I circle back around to thinking about Minka. Because she’s a part of my world. My career. This specific fucking case.
Fuck.
“Archer!” Impatient, Fletch throws his arm across the inside of the car and smacks my chest. “Dude!”
Turning to him with a snarl, I glare and use my peripherals to watch the traffic pulse around us. “What?”
“Where the fuck are you?” He scowls as though my silence offends him. “You’re like a robot today, man.”
“Or maybe I’m just doing the fucking job.” I bring my gaze back to the road and concentrate on the car directly in front of us. The license plate. The sticker on the back bumper that advocates for a politician I don’t think has more than two brain cells to rub together. “We’re trying to solve a murder, Fletcher. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to stop making me think you’re half dead inside,” he counters easily. “That would be a fun start.”
I choke on a soft snort. “Only half?”
“What the hell happened?” He hits me again until I break my steely gaze away from the bumper sticker. “You followed Minka out of the bar last night, and you haven’t come back to me since.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Somethinghappened! You had a fight?”
She kills people in her spare time. “We didn’t have a fight.”
“You broke up?”
She loves me too. “We didn’t break up.”
“She stabbed you because you pissed her off? She said she would snitch on you and Tim? She said you’re fucking ugly, and she wants to date me instead? What?” he demands. “What the fuck happened?”
“I said nothing happened.” I pull into the driveway of our police headquarters and come to a stop in one of the available parking spaces. Unsnapping my seatbelt and pushing out of the car, I meet Fletch’s eyes across the top of the vehicle. “I’m asking you to drop it.”
