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“Yeah,” I lie far too easily. “Another flashback.”
No sense in creating unnecessary concern. No sense in making a big deal out of what could be nothing.
When the time is right, I will tell Travis. Until then, I’ll remain vigilant. Text the group chat when I go places on my own. Keep my head high and eyes on my surroundings.
You only get one chance at life. And I refuse to let anyone steal mine.
ELEVEN
TRAVIS
Head downand hand braced on the tile, I pinch my eyes shut as water pelts my hair, my neck, my back. Silently, I beg for the heat to soothe my tense muscles. To release the ache in my bones. To give me some form of respite.
Two days have passed since the woman was discovered in the woods. And in those two days, I’ve aged two decades.
At the police academy, they train for countless scenarios. Standard speeding tickets, domestic disturbances, murder, and an endless list of crimes in between. They hand out mock case files and guide you on how to deal with each situation. How to shut off your emotions, focus on finding a resolution, and close the case. We all dealt with a made-up murder case, photos included in the file, and handled it with ease.
But being presented with a case study is wholly different than seeing the victim firsthand. Seeing their lifeless body and knowing you can’t save them.
Her irises and pupils were cloudy and vacant, eyes wide in fear and aimed skyward. Lacerations marred her pale and bruised skin as she laid impossibly still on the earth. Deep cuts on her bare breasts and inner thighs. Smaller cuts on her abdomen, hips, and pelvic region. Dried blood—too much damn blood—blanketed most of her skin and hair. Earth caked under her nails.
The woman fought for her life. Clawed and thrashed and watched every second as her killer overpowered her lithe frame. As they stole her life.
And fuck… I can’t get the fucking image of her lifeless body out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, her clouded irises stare back. Awake or asleep, those colorless, desolate eyes torment me.
To make matters worse, my mind won’t stop comparing the woman’s features to Kirsten’s. The resemblance between the two women is beyond eerie and unsettling.
Night or day, I’m tortured with an endless loop of nausea-inducing images. One moment, the woman in the woods haunts my dreams. Outstretched arms, a silent scream ripping from her throat, her red-rimmed eyes implore me to bring her killer to justice. A breath later, the woman morphs into Kirsten. Mascara-stained tears on her cheeks, Kirsten calls out to me and begs for my help. Pleads with me to save her.
The nightmares jolt me awake. Body blanketed in sweat, my heart pounds, pounds, pounds in my chest as I try to catch my breath. As I try to wipe the horrid dreams from my mind.
No matter how exhausted I am, no matter how quickly I pass out, I wake up after four or five hours of sleep, run to the bathroom, and drop in front of the toilet. No matter how many times I tell myself the woman in the woods isn’t Kirsten, my brain still crosses its wires and replaces the woman with her.
I just need to see her. Kirsten. I need to know she’s safe.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I drag a hand through my soaked hair.
Inhaling deeply, I push off the wall, straighten my spine, and reach for the shampoo.Lather, rinse, soap up, rinse.The daily routine passes without an ounce of thought.At least some things don’t require brain power.
Shutting off the water, I towel off and step out of the shower. Towel slung around my waist, I shave and brush my teeth. Zone out as I swish mouth rinse for minutes instead of seconds.
Snap out of it, Emerson. You have shit to do.
Spitting the mouth rinse out, I amble into my bedroom, pull a uniform from the closet, and dress for work.
As I slip my legs into my slacks, I give myself a pep talk. Remind myself of my duty to the community. Remind myself that residents depend on me to keep them safe. When I tug on my shirt, I picture a shield of armor slipping into place. A force meant to guide me in the right direction and give me strength on the difficult days. To keep me human but also teach me how to separate work from emotion.
Mildly better, I head for the kitchen. I feed Pepper breakfast and brew the first of many cups of coffee in my day. Inhale the robust caffeine as it fills the mug and breathe a little easier.
When Pepper finishes, I let her out to roam the backyard and do her business.
I sip my coffee and stare down at the blue file folder on the kitchen island. Two days and the folder is the thickest to grace my desk. Reports and photos and anonymous tips poke out of the crammed folder and threaten to spill out. A copy of the Consent for DNA Testing form at the top of the stack.
Eager as I am to find the person responsible for this woman’s death, I don’t have the stomach to look at the crime scene and coroner’s photos this early in the morning. Hell, I closed the folder less than seven hours ago.
A couple more hours, then I’ll dive back in.
Pepper rings the bell on the back door, signaling she is ready to come inside. I slide open the door and let her in. Give her some morning cuddles on the couch while I finish my coffee. Scratch behind her ears as the sky morphs from inky to a golden pink.
