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I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alan look so…haggard.
My heart beats a quick staccato in my chest at the sight, my stomach rolling and coating my mouth thickly with saliva. Why does he look like every single part of him has been wrung out and left to dry? Like his world is ending. Did I do that?
“Wicked.” He says simply as we reach him, his gaze ignores the guys and comes to settle on me standing between them. Gizmo and Snitch squeak a hesitant greeting and his eyes flick to them and soften momentarily before returning to me, noticing how they don’t make a move to run to him.
“Puddin’,” I state dryly, unable to stop the cutesy nickname from leaving me, making me want to kick myself. Even as my suspicions in him have grown to the size of a mountain, my love for him has never waivered. And thatkillsme.
“What are you guys doing here? Was I not clear when I said you’re all off the case? When I said to stay away from the department?” His question rings with accusations, though his aura is continually swirling with so many emotions that I can’t pin anything down. It’s obvious, though, that he’s aware of our little excursion to the precinct. He just doesn’t know what we did.
“Stop the bullshit, Chief. You know you need my particular set of skills today. How about we just skip past all the arguing and save a little of everyone’s time?” Ezra’s eyes move from Alan’s to scan around the area and I’m able to take in the scene.
We’re standing at the mouth of an alleyway, the area enclosed by weathered and dilapidated brick buildings that are only a couple stories high. Definitely an area that most people would avoid considering the abandoned state of it. It doesn’t even look like the buildings have active businesses running out of them, graffiti and trash littering the ground and sidewalks showing their forgotten and abandoned state. But, there, directly at the deepest part of the alley that ends at a broken and forgotten metal fence, is a bed.
It most definitely doesn’t belong here, and not only because it’s a motherfreaking bed, but because it’s decked out in luxurious, spotlessly clean white sheets and pillows. At least, they would be spotless if it weren’t for the river of bright crimson blood soaked into its previously pristine surface.
That’s also not mentioning the very familiar body lying handcuffed to the four posts, spread eagle on the center of it. His form is mostly untouched. If it weren’t for the gruesome carving on his stomach–or the vicious destruction of the top part of his face that seems to have been wrought through a strip of cloth covering his eyes–he’d merely look like he was sleeping. His body lacks the multitude of injuries that the stalker dealt to his previous victims. As if his offenses weren’t nearly as grand or deserving of such torture.
“Take me to him.” I order gently and Ezra instantly complies, his gaze returning to Alan as if challenging him to stop us as we step forward.
He doesn’t.
He simply scratches at the back of his head before rubbing a hand down his face, stepping to the side to let us pass. The closer we get to him as we walk, the more obvious his exhaustion is. The lines in his face are deeper, his color all but gone, and the shadows under his eyes are disturbingly stark and sickening against his once stern, but kind features.
Like life has been drained from him as surely as Emmerson’s has.
I don’t let the sight sink in at the moment–I’ll take the time to process it later–I just straighten my posture and prepare for what I’m about to do. Reliving other people’s deaths never gets any easier, no matter how many times I do it. So it does take a bit of steel in the spine to dive in.
Gizmo and Snitch stay close to my feet as Ezra leads me directly to the bed, their squeaks and unwavering loyalty a balm to the flutters in my chest as guilt starts to set in.
We should have done better for Emmerson. He definitely didn’t deserve this. We knew–everyone knew–full stop, that the stalker wasn’t done with me. We knew he was just waiting for another target to make him or herself known. And Emmerson gave him that.
The poor guy was just angry, maybe even rightfully so, to have his life turned upside down because of his previous affiliations with me. We should have known not to just let him go after he pulled his stunt. We should have protected him.
His death will forever be a weight on my shoulders.
“It’s not your fault, Wicked.” Kai’s voice takes me by surprise, not knowing that he and Nic followed closely next to us, but when Ezra’s gaze flicks to his determined features, my heart stutters in my chest.
“It kind of is, Kai. If we were thinking clearly, we never would have let him go without protective custody. That’s on us.” He has nothing to say to that, but Nic does, and when he speaks, Ezra’s gaze slides to him.
“We didn’t, Izabella. I made sure that Bass set him up with a detail to watch over him. This isn’t on any of us.” My stomach seems to warm at the softness in his usually hard, angry, and almost black gaze.
“You did?” My voice is a whisper, like I can barely believe that Nic of all people would ensure the safety of the man I was intimate with before them. He merely nods in answer, his jaw clenching as he sweeps his gaze over the scene we’ve now stepped up to. Little yellow placards are placed precariously around the area to mark evidence and show us where not to step.
“I will find out exactly how this happened directly under their watch before we leave.” His tone is stone and fire, causing my heart to hiccup in my chest.
Ezra’s gaze returns to the scene and I push on his arm a bit to tell him I’m ready. He acquiesces to my silent demand and walks me forward, his gaze glued to an easy path for me to get to the body. I refuse to let go of his hand as I bend forward, my own form entering his line of vision as I do, my hand outstretched towards Emmerson.
I take one more deep breath, then let my fingertips graze the cold, stiff skin of his ankle.
Then I’m sucked in.
* * *
Aloud, keening bellow leaves Emmerson’s throat as another strike of pain is sliced through his abdomen, adding to the stinging of the rest of the letters I know are decorating his skin. His sobs never cease, but only seem to taper to a soft intake of choked breaths, his body shaking with the force of them.
There is nothing to be seen; the tight, heavy cloth tied tightly over his eyes, preventing him from witnessing anything at all. There’s only the sounds of his anguish, the rustling of movement around him, and the pain of his now defaced stomach.
“Wicked the angry, falsely accusing kind. Wicked the guilty, with their death ticket signed. Wicked the lover, who’s been replaced by three. Wicked the sinner, who will pay for misdeed.” The undistinguishable voice is robotic as always, calm and even, carrying an air of pure resolve. There is no anger or rise and fall of cadence to give away any emotion at all. This is merely a job that needs to be done.
