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Her name flashes on my screen. Her picture smiles back at me.
I look to my brother, wordless but pleading.
“Go.” He waves me off and turns back to study Dad. “I’m hopeful he dies soon and I get to watch his last breaths.” He goes back to stroking his gun. “It’s the least I deserve. It’s the least any of us deserves.”
“Think up something better than a smash and grab while you’re sitting here doing nothing else.”
With a giddy grin, I push up from my chair and swipe to answer my call before it goes to voicemail. “Mayet,” I breathe. “Fuck, babe.”
“Hey.” One single word, one syllable, and her voice eases the turmoil our distance creates. “I’ve been working like crazy today. We caught another case that connects to Chelsea Bailee, so I’m only just coming up for air now.”
“The little girl?” I move through the door and close it at my back. Appreciating the fact no one is around, I decide to go out to the pool and soak in the last dregs of sunlight that today has to offer. “You caught another kid?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Bella Daniels,” she exhales. “She would’ve turned six next month, but this sick asshole got to her first.”
“And she connects to Chelsea?” I head through the back door of the house and onto the covered patio, then continuing on, I go all the way to the edge of the pool and toe my boots off.
The night before I left Copeland, my wife and I swam. We floated. We chased an adventure and jumped off the side of the world. It might’ve been the best night of my entire life. So tonight, I peel my shoes and socks off, hold the phone between my shoulder and ear, and get to work rolling up my jeans.
“She absolutely connects,” Minka responds on a sad sigh. “Fits the same profile. Almost the same age. Both girls sustained similar internal injuries. They’re from neighborhoods on the same side of the city, and when I called Fletch to help me with a little more information, I discovered both girls intersect with Laramie Fentone. Both girls had a sticky substance on their fingers, which I swabbed and sent to the lab for testing. Formal results are not back yet, but techs are informally calling it a match.”
“So, Fletch is just…” I lower myself to the edge of the pool and drop my feet in the sun-warmed water. “Helping you, huh? Breaking the law, running this guy, even though it’s not his case?”
“You jealous?” Breathing out a soft snicker, she follows it with a groan that tells me she’s sitting down somewhere. Possibly for the first time all day. “You would’ve gotten the information for me if you were here. But you’re not, so I asked the next best person.”
“And he doesn’t have any problem feeding this information to someone who, in theory, doesn’t need it?”
“But I do need it,” she counters cheerfully. “And he obviously trusts my reasons, because he’s getting it for me.”
“And those reasons,” I bite out. “Have nothing to do with your work, and everything to do with a vendetta you may or may not act on soon, when I’m not in Copeland to protect you. What do you intend to tell Fletch after, when he finds out the guy you were obsessed with is dead?”
“I’m not obsessed,” she teases. “I’m running a case, just like I do every other day when you’re here.”
“You’re not a cop, Minka! The only information you need comes with the body of the little girl. Everything else should be presented to your lead detective sohecan connect the dots and seek a conviction. Fletch is a damn good cop. So if you think he won’t know who hurt Fentone—especially after you’ve asked for information you shouldn’t have—then you’re gonna find yourself in a fucking bind. And a pair of handcuffs.”
She snickers, unconcerned by my temper. “I’m a woman who stands at five feet, seven inches, Archer. I weigh a hundred and thirty-five pounds when fully dressed. I have a demanding career that keeps me current with alibis, and I have friends in high places who vouch for my character. There’s no way I could hurt big bad guys who are twice my size.” She pauses for a minute, then laughs. “Am I convincing?”
“Not even a little bit,” I snarl. “And why are you so cheerful?”
“What?”
“You’re giddy!”Why am I so angry? God forbid my wife actually be happy about something—even homicidal somethings. “Are you high?”
“I’m actually on the brink of collapse. I’m bordering on hysteria because I had to inspect a five-year-old’s mutilated vagina today, and after that, I had to hold her mother up, because she damn near hit the floor when she came in to see her baby. Bella’s dad tried to fight me, because he was misdirecting his anger in the midst of his grief, so security had to escort him out, and after that, they had to fetch me an icepack.”
“Wait, what?” I boom as my temper flares. “He hit you?”
“No. Aubree was my guard long before security stepped in. He didn’t touch me. But the wife accidentally did when she was going down. Also, I forgot to eat lunch, because my husband usually feeds me, but he can’t right now because he’s in New York, on the cusp of a freakin’ mafia war that he probably won’t survive. But of course, he doesn’t tell me those nitty gritty details, because they’re not polite talking points.”
“Minka—”
“I miss you,” she charges on. “I miss having you in my bed, and it’s literally only been one night. I’ve somehow adopted a cat I don’t like—who, by the way, made me bleed last night because she’s a bitch and she misses you too. But no one wants to talk about that. I’m not giddy, Archer. I’m exhausted, and scared, and lonely, and it turns out, experiencing horrible withdrawals, because I’m addicted to the chemical reaction your presence evokes in my brain.”
“Babe—”
“And since you mentioned the battery pack in your voicemail, you should know your analogy is sweet but scientifically incorrect. It’s actually hormones. Serotonin, dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin; they’re a cocktail offeel good,which is the reason you feel love. In reality, you’re just a junkie, and you’re having withdrawals just like I am.”
“Wow.” I switch arms and ears to give my bad side a rest, but I swirl my feet in the water and relax, if only fractionally. “I forgot what you were like when we first met.”
