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And his stupid handsome face.
"Or what?" There was a spark in his eye, a dare that made my blood sing.
"Or I'll—" I started, but the words died on my lips. Because right then, the truth of it hit me: I didn’t want to use force. Not with him. And I hated myself for it.
The rain-soaked alleyway felt like a swamp, the kind that drags you down when you're already on your knees. I squinted through the downpour at the man's tattoos—sinuous, dark lines weaving around his muscular arms.
"Those tattoos," I growled, asking again, "where'd you get them?"
"Same place as you, I'd wager," His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of recognition.
"Time traveler," I muttered under my breath. It was the only explanation for the eerie sense of déjà vu, the shared marks of our impossible journeys. "You left the box, didn't you? The article about my mom."
He didn't respond, just looked at me with those knowing eyes. I took a step closer, feeling the grit and grime of the city beneath my boots, the prickling tension in the air between us.
"Answer me!" My demand was met with silence, the kind that screamed louder than any words ever could.
"Maybe," he finally said and shrugged nonchalantly. He turned to go, and I lunged for him, desperate for something tangible to hold onto.
"Stop!" But as my fingers grazed the fabric of his hoodie, my foot caught on an uneven cobblestone. I stumbled, cursing the skies and the filthy streets, as he slipped away into the shadows.
"Son of a bitch!" I yelled after him and scrambled back to my feet. The chase had turned into a wild dance, one where I was always a step behind, grasping at ghosts.
"Next time, I'll be ready for you," I swore to the empty alley, shaking with frustration and the cold bite of the rain. The mystery package, the cryptic encounter—it all pointed to him. And I needed answers, needed justice for a past that wouldn't let me go. The words tasted bitter on my tongue. Whoever he was, wherever he came from, he was the key I'd been searching for, and I wasn't about to let him vanish without a trace—not again.
The rain hadn't let up. The persistent downpour soaked through my clothes as I stormed back to the park. The alley spit me out like a bad taste, and there was Kylo, leaning against his squad car, his posture tense, eyes narrowed under the brim of his soaked-through cap.
"Where the hell did you go?" he demanded, voice rough with concern and something else—suspicion.
"Chasing ghosts," I snapped and brushed past him, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back. "Did you call for backup?"
"Of course, I did," he followed me. “The ambulance is on the way to the hospital and the little girl is scared to death, but she'll live. But Averill, this isn't the first time you've been suspiciously in the thick of it. How do you always manage to be in the right place at the right time?
"Maybe I'm psychic," I smirked, avoiding his probing stare. My boots squelched on the soggy grass as I moved towards the cruiser.
"Or maybe you're hiding something," he shot back, a hint of accusation threading through his words.
"Only my undying love for paperwork," I opened the door and sunk into the driver’s seat, the leather sticking to my wet clothes. Kylo slid in beside me, his scent—a mix of aftershave and rain—filled the small space, but I was already lost in thought, my mind replaying the image of the man's tattoos, so damn similar to mine.
"Look, Averill," Kylo started, his voice low, "I don't know what kind of shit you've gotten yourself into, but we’re partners. You can trust me."
"Trust gets people killed," I peered out into the rain, the droplets distorting the gray world outside.
"Maybe," Kylo agreed, "but it also saves lives."
"Save the hero talk, Quinn."
"Jesus, Averill, you've been chewing that lip like it owes you money," Kylo broke through my thoughts with his usual lack of tact. "I can practically see the gears smoking from here."
"Occupational hazard," I shot back, rolling my eyes.
"Right, and the Pope's an atheist," he groaned, but there was an edge of concern beneath his facetiousness.
My fingers absently traced the tattoos on my arm, each one a silent testament to a life once lived, a death once died. They were a timeline of pain etched into skin—a permanent reminder that trust didn't just get people killed; it could get you erased.
Chapter
Three
