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Shit.
The detour is excruciating, and I curse under my breath. We inch down a street lined with cars. The police presence is more prominent as we approach the area where Jules’s office-slash-warehouse is located. The garlands of yellow and black police barricade tape paint a disturbing picture.
What in God’s name happened?
There’s no crime free zone in LA, but Culver City isn’t usually subject to this level of anarchy.
Goddammit.
I need to get to her.
My impatience boils over. “This is taking way too long,” I tell the driver. “At this rate, we’ll never get there.”
“I’m really sorry, sir.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I assure him. “It’ll be faster if I walk.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
I drop a wad of cash on the passenger seat and get out of the car. I hurry, dialing Jules’s one more time.
Dread grips my throat, as fear sets in my heart when she doesn’t answer. Again.
As I make my way to her warehouse, I take in the scene surrounding me, baffled. Two cars are fused together. One of them rear-ended the other, full force. The one with all the bullet holes looks like a cheese grater. There’s shattered glass everywhere. And then there’s the pool of blood. It’s gruesome.
I avert my gaze when two EMTs pushing a stretcher pass me by. It’s carrying what I can only assume is a dead body, covered with a bloody sheet.
Dear God.
I pick up my pace.
“You, over there,” a cop yells at me, “this area is restricted.”
“My girlfriend is in there,” I shoot back.
“You have a hearing problem? I said, this area is restricted,” the cop barks. “Unless you have a business in the area, you need to keep walking.”
He just handed me my opening.
I approach him.
“As a matter of fact, I do. My girlfriend and I own a business together. Our office is located right over there,” I point.
“I’ll need to see some ID and proof,” he tells me.
I pull out my driver’s license and pull up a copy of the leasing agreement on my phone, showing my name and Jules’s. I hand both to the officer.
He inspects them carefully.
He nods, satisfied, and hands them back.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” the cop tells me. “It’s still under investigation,” he adds.
“Can I go to my office now and check on my girlfriend?”
