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I roll my eyes and slow at a set of traffic lights while in my pocket, my phone buzzes and stops, buzzes and stops.
“Oh, next week? It’s Arch’s birthday soon after that. Maybe we should all get together and—”
“Don’t talk about me when you’re trying to lure women into your web of debauchery.”
When the light turns green and traffic moves, I start forward, but I also reach into my pocket and take out my phone.
I can’t read my texts, but I sure as fuck see Minka’s name on the screen. One message. Two. Three. She tried to call, and left a voicemail for me to listen to and pretend the sound of her voice doesn’t strip away my willpower.
She’s beautiful and smart and amazing. But she’s also a killer. She’s literally like those I hunt and lock up for a living. So for the past week, I’ve wrestled with what the fuck I’m supposed to do about it all.
Already, I’ve broken the law by not bringing her in and handing her over to let the judicial system she so mocks deal with her. She confessed to her crimes, she gave me proof, and then she admitted a little more, which means by law, it’s my duty to take her in and let the system punish her accordingly.
But my aching heart places me in an impossible position: hand her in and lose her forever, or keep her free, and risk losing her when she tries to take out someone who’ll dispose of her first.
I’m angry that she does as she pleases and takes a life. But I’m angrier still that she puts herself in danger, and me, in a situation impossible to escape from. So to save us both, I clamp my lips shut and stay as far from her as I can.
Even if the only distance I can manage means the same bed, but with a foot of space separating us.
I remain quiet for the remainder of our drive, introspective, while Fletch flirts his way to his next fuck buddy. As I pull up at the Chapel Hill Youth Center in thickening traffic, and the sun breaches the horizon, I cut the engine and snag my phone to scour my messages.
I’m my own worst enemy, because I want to not see her name. Her words. Her thoughts. But the moment I juggle my phone and turn it up the right way, I do see her name, and in my mind, I see her face. Her eyes. Her bow lips and sinful dimples.
Minka:Call me.
Minka:You stubborn mule. I said call me.
Minka:I’m back in-house and plan to stay here for a few hours.
That last message helps my stomach loosen and my heart to beat a little easier.
Not once since knowing her have I left a crime scene with her still there and felt good about it. But that’s what the job is. Often, Fletch and I have to leave to follow warm leads and track down a killer, which means the medical examiners stay behind and work the body of the dead.
Dreading hearing her voice again but craving that hit just as viciously as I did her words, I navigate to my voicemail and bring the phone to my ear, and as the call clicks and the recording starts, my eyes drop closed and my heart comes to a dangerous standstill when, at first, all I hear is her breath.
Then,“Archer. It’s, uh… well… you know it’s me.”Her voice is clipped and impatient, which brings a small grin to my lips.
She hates being ignored, and hates more that this is the hill I choose to die on, when she swears her actions—her hits—are noble.
“I’ve got Paul in Autopsy Room One, and I’ve come to the conclusion you have more than one killer. Give me a call when you decide to pull your head out of your sphincter and grow the hell up. Then we can discuss my findings.”
The call disconnects, and my fingers yearn to reach out. To yank her back—though of course, it was a voicemail, and not her standing right in front of me.
My gut feels both hollow and heavy. Hot and slick.
Fletcher ends his call beside me and unsnaps his belt, but before he can climb out of the car, I throw my hand across and grab his arm.
Surprised, he brings his questioning gaze back to me. He studies my face. My eyes. Then he looks down at my phone and frowns. “What?”
“You need to call Doctor Mayet.”
Instantly, his eyes dance. “I do? You’re done with her, huh? It’s my turn to ask her out?”
My lips peel back into a feral sneer that threatens death, but I’m mindful enough to hit dial on my phone and hold it between us. “You will never have permission to ask her out. Not even if I’m dead and buried and she needs a little comfort. She said we have two killers.”
“What?”
The line connects. “Archer?”
