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His beautiful face is filled with worry and concern. His warm hand draws circles on my back.
“I’m sorry. I’m fine now,” I murmur. This is so embarrassing. I’ve been a mess since the night he came to save me from the drunk who rattled my door by mistake.
“Hey, look at me,” he orders gently, and waits for me to raise my face to his. “I had nightmares for years after my parents died. I hated that I couldn’t control it, but Kevin, Damian’s dad, he would come in and talk me down.” He strokes my hair. “I was going through trauma. It sucked. What happened to you was horrible. We don’t have to pretend it wasn’t. I’m here for you, and when you’re ready, I’d like to introduce you to the woman who helped me through it. No pressure, baby. We’ll go at your pace.”
“I hate being afraid all the time. I used to be fun. My friends thought I was funny and sweet. Then Cameron came along, and the ‘me’ I was disappeared.” I snap my fingers. “Just like that, I was gone. And right when I think I’m getting it together, I’m taken just outside my home.” I stare into his eyes and ask, though it comes out more like a plea, “Please don’t give up on me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He gets back into bed and sits up with his back against the headboard. He draws me over next to him. “Do you want to watch some TV?”
“No. Can we just talk for a while?”
“Sure. What do you want to talk about?”
“How about we tell each other something we don’t know about each other?”
“I like that idea. Who goes first?”
“I’ll go. When I was born, my parents were fighting over my name. Mom wanted to call me Nicole, after her favorite aunt. She was her cool aunt, and Mom adored her. Dad wanted to call me Catherine, after his grandmother. While they were battling it out, my Grandma Mary, Dad’s mom, filled out the name on the registration with Sabrina. That was the name of the nurse who was with Mom all the way through the delivery. Even after I was born, she was always looking in on us.”
Alex smiles. “That’s a cool way to get your name.”
“Were you named after someone?”
“My full name is Alejandro Manuel Perez. Alejandro was my grandfather’s name. Manuel was my father. In school, kids and teachers would shorten it. I was cool with that. My parents never did. I remember playing soccer, and during a game one time, my parents were cheering from the sidelines. They were calling out my name, and the guys on my team were so confused wondering who they were cheering for. My father wanted to make sure that I knew my heritage. He told me stories about my family and our country. Mom was just as fierce on the subject. They were saving money to take me back home on a trip. They died before we got to go…” He trails off, and my heart breaks.
“I’m sorry, my love. Maybe we can go together.”
“I’d like that,” he says.
EIGHT
Puzzle Pieces
ALEX
With Zeke at the house, I felt better leaving Sabrina this morning. We have Detective Sammas coming in to review our cases together. We know they’re related, and Tursk’s death is a fallout from the Sammas theft case.
Damian’s already waiting in the office and has the documents in the file spread out over the table. He steps back, crosses his arms over his chest, and scans the papers.
Stepping in, I ask, “Anything jumping out at you?”
“I keep wondering why Tursk was in the alley. He didn’t live close. Stands to reason he was meeting someone in the area,” he says.
“Sounds logical. But what does House 24 have to do with it? Zeke’s checked. There’s no Howser Street or any name resembling that within a ten-mile radius. We can’t go knock on everyone’s door that has the number twenty-four on it,” I say.
“Hey, guys, sorry I’m late,” Sammas says as he comes in. The man’s built like a brick wall. He’s stocky, but carries his weight well. His jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and dark coloring make him look menacing, but we know better. He’s a good man. “You’ve been busy,” he jokes.
“Yeah, and we’re no further ahead. And now this shit’s gotten a good woman beaten and hospitalized,” I tell him.
“Heard about that. Sorry, man. I know she’s your girl. I would lose my mind if anything like that happened to my Theresa,” Sammas replies, then hands me another file. “Here’s a list of places they hit and the items that were stolen. There are photos of the break-in points and anything else we’ve gathered in the way of evidence.”
We all take a seat and work together to see if there are any recurring patterns. “They’re all small art centers,” I point out.
“Maybe they think the small stashes are easy to pawn. It would go unnoticed,” Damian suggests.
“Then why kill a guy? Why not just cut him out of the next heist and find a replacement? Small-time thugs would move on,” I say. “It’s more than a heist. Who are the registered owners of these places?”
Sammas looks over the information. “Of the seven places, five are registered to the Duke Organization, and two belong to Randall and Associates.”
