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She’s got a major point. Right now, things between us feel…tenuously good. I don’t want to ruin it.
“No offense,” she adds.
“None taken. I get it.”
And I do. Except it doesn’t really bother me anymore. Not the way I should be bothered. Numbness does that to a person. It makes even the roughest look at yourself seem like nothing at all.
“So what time are you going to meet this person and where? I want to make sure I know where to send backup if it comes to that. What happens if things go badly?”
“Let’s hope it won’t,” I say with a laugh.
I rattle off the information.
“I like this side of you who is willing to be open and communicate with me. Now, if there is anything about me you don’t like, something that bothers you—” Naomi starts.
“Let’s stop before you get your feelings hurt,” I mutter, shrugging. “The only thing I’ll say is this: your perfume can be a little too much sometimes.”
She snaps her fingers. “I knew there was something. Figured it wasn’t me getting your coffee order wrong all the time.”
Damn it, but I like her. Not in a romantic sway, but as a person. And as a cop. I’ve been a real dick to Naomi, and my head has been messing with my job and our partnership.
I’ll do better.
The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Everything feels like it’s ticking down to a singular point. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I might be able to get one step ahead on my case, and once I have, I'll be able to focus my energy on taking down the Syndicate.
Threading through it all, however, is Aria.
I think about her face, her taste, her wit. I think about the connections she’s got that I need, and I wonder if she is part of the chat room, too. Somewhere lurking in the darkness and watching everything like a spider in a web, waiting for a fly—me—to get stuck.
I’m already halfway there.
Morning comes, and I’m working on about four hours of sleep and two pots of coffee by the time I get in the car to head to the Galleria. Early, too, because traffic is nothing but a bitch on the best of days. Too many people on too-small roads, including the highway.
Naomi sent me off with a text warning me to be careful.
Adam made sure to pull me aside to let me know he put a trace on my phone in case things go south, all this accompanied with a wink and a worried grimace.
Bill…stayed in his hole in the basement.
My gun seems to absorb all of the light from where I’ve tossed it on the passenger seat, along with my badge. I’ve got extra clips just in case things go south, but I’m hoping, this time, it works out for me. For this case.
Those dead men deserve justice, just like every other person hurt under the Black Market Syndicate for all the years of its operation. For Layla, the unconquerable tower of a woman who fell as well.
Fuck.
I rub at a knot of tension in my chest, somehow growing bigger and tighter with each passing mile.
My gut is oddly silent today.
I have no idea how this will turn out, and even hoping for the best feels astronomically out of my reach, damn near impossible.
The best isn’t part of my reality anymore. I only hope for mediocrity, for things to work out for other people. For the families of the dead men and everyone else associated with the cases who come across my desk.
The sun's rays beat down on my hand on the steering wheel, and by the time I pull into the parking lot of the Galleria, I’m practically sweating.
Darkling said they wanted to meet in the northern parking lot, with a view of the Starbucks underneath large white signage. Makes it easy to find, at least. I’m the first to pull in, and I automatically check my clock. Five minutes after twelve.
The knot in my chest grows.
