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“I know, Violet. I’m as confused as you are.”
I head into the living area nestled between two bedrooms and step-shuffle my way to the door that sits ajar. If Drake wasn’t on the other side, I’d have a fresh bout of nausea racing along my throat and a dull scream echoing in the back of my head. But he is. His solid form, not ten-feet-tall the way my panicked brain asserted hours ago. But a respectable six and a bit. Maybe six two? Six three? It’s hard to tell when I always have to look up at him.
His hair is a tad longer than I remember from last year, and his eyes are meaner. He’s spoken to me with nothing but kindness and his tone implies patience, but his eyes speak of death. And how serious this all is. And if I step out of line, or do something he doesn’t approve of, I feel he’ll be fast to put me back in my lane.
His kindness is a farce, and his steely gaze is his truth.
It would do me well to not forget that.
“I don’t know, Violet! He’s dead. I was the one who put him down, but now this witness is saying otherwise. I don’t…”
I peek past the gap in the door and find Drake leaning in the hallway. His back pressed to the wallpaper, and his right foot lifted to sit flat against the wall. He wears jeans and a button-up shirt that isn’t one of those tight-fit kinds that men wear these days. The kind that shows off biceps and chests. Instead, he dons the other kind, the more comfortable fit that leaves a woman’s mind wondering and her curiosity roused.
Unaware of my presence, he holds the phone in one hand and runs the other through his dark hair in frustration. “Don’t tell her anything,” he growls. “She’s nine-years-old, Vi! He’s already been buried. Don’t dig this shit up for her again.”
I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. I do nothing to draw the angry detective’s gaze, but he twists his head anyway and locks onto my eyes until the breath catches in my lungs and the turmoil of three days makes standing almost impossible.
“I’m sorry.” I back up a step and raise a single hand, as though surrendering. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
He exhales a soft sigh as though attempting to calm himself. But he speaks into the phone, and not to me. “Listen, honey, I’ve got to go. But I’ll call you tomorrow, alright? It’s late. In both cities, it’s late, and this situation is still unfolding. So try not to get yourself worked up over something that’s not yet confirmed.”
He stops for a beat, to listen to whateverViis saying. Nods once. Then shakes his head. But I’m done eavesdropping. In fact, I think I’m done with today completely. “Yeah,” he mumbles as I turn on my heels and gingerly make my way toward the couch. I wish I’d grabbed my crutch on the way out of the bathroom. But just like Monday night when I watched something I shouldn’t have, my curiosity tends to get the better of me.
Drake remains on the phone for another minute as I lower to the couch and take the weight off my aching legs, but he doesn’t leave me for long before stepping back into the room. When I expect him to close the door—and then he doesn’t—anxious sweat breaks out on my newly cleaned skin. He wanders closer instead, and picks up my laptop and phone, before offering his free hand and waiting as I study it.
I stare at his clean nails. His clear skin. No tattoos on his hands or arms. No watch. No bracelet. No ring. He’s completely and utterly unremarkable on that front, and when I remember he was once an agent, I figure he does that blending-in thing on purpose.
An old habit he long ago grew used to. One he was trained to do.
“What are you…” Frowning, I keep my hands to myself. “What do you want?”
“We’re moving.” He wraps his hand around my arm and pulls me to my feet, holding on when I sway and my towel, piled high on my head, dips to the side. “I got us a new room while you were in the shower. This one is smelly and cold, so…” He leads me across the space and into the hall, and though I wear a robe only, no shoes, no underwear, and no way of defending myself if some of those bad guys come back, he makes our trek short, coming to a stop at the next doorway and swiping a keycard through the sensor to gain entry.
The new room is an exact replica of the one we left.
A living space, boasting a television on the wall, two small couches, a coffee table in the middle, and a kitchen area that comes with a mini fridge, coffee pod machine, and toaster. As he closes and locks the door behind us, I look left to find a hallway that no doubt leads to a bedroom, then I look right and find the same, mirrored.
“This one will be better,” he murmurs, leading me from the door and deeper into the room, “and it comes with the added benefit of no one knowing we’re here. Not even the Copeland cops.”
I reach out for the back of the sofa to support my weight as Drake releases my arm and sets my things on the coffee table. “You don’t trust them?” Nerves thunder in my veins at the very thought of this cop not trusting the others to do the right thing. Because this is another one of those universal truths, no? Just like doing good results in good karma, all cops are trustworthy… It’s what we’re taught as children. It’s a promise. “Why don’t you trust the detectives?”
“I don’t trust anybody.” He leaves me by the couch and moves back to the door when a thumping knock sounds from the other side. My pulse skitters and adrenaline floods my veins. But instead of enabling me to outrun gunfire and fight off a monster, it makes my legs weak. It makes my head swim, and my fingers feel fat and clumsy.
I watch desperately as Drake checks the peephole to see whoever is on the other side, then he opens the door, accepts a tray of food, exchanges it for a crisp bill, then he hip-bumps the door closed again, locks it, and turns back to head my way. “I’ve lived inside this world for most of my life, Aurora. I was raised with a father in the DEA, and I was tossed into the deep end the second I had my shield. You’ve only been here for two days. But I’ve known these players for a long time. So, no.” He sets the tray of food on the coffee table and comes around to take my arm again, like he knows I need guidance. “I don’t trust the detectives. I don’t trust their captain. I don’t trust that you saw Vallejo the other night. And I don’t trust anyone else to protect you until we get this all sorted out.” He lowers me to the couch, incidentally knocking my already askew towel off my head, then grabs the silver plate lid and reveals a bowl overflowing with creamy pasta and thick wedges of chicken.
My stomach roars to life, stealing my mind from my towel. From my robe. From my bruised hip and burning thigh. From my entire existence outside this meal. And when Drake picks up the fork and offers it to me, warmth beats in my cheeks and probably makes me look dumb and vapid.
But I don’t care. Because I accept the utensil and dig it into the steaming pasta before my stomach jumps out of my throat and takes things into its own hands.
“I knew you’d be hungry.” He moves away from the couch and leaves me to hoover carbs into my body. “Nobody spews as much as you did and walks away without an appetite.”
“I’d rather not discuss vomit right now,” I talk around my mouthful. “Puts me off my meal.”
He chuckles and heads back to the door to peek through the peephole. “Can I leave you for thirty seconds? I want to get your things from the other room and close it up. If someone caught wind we’re here, they’re gonna go to that room first. If they do, I’d rather it was locked up and not so easily accessible to them.”
“To keep them out?”
“To make their entry noisy,” he counters. “Gives us a little more notice.” Almost like he’s not thinking, as though it’s just an extension of his arm, Drake takes a gun from his shoulder holster and checks the magazine-y thingy in the handle. But when I remain silent, and un-eating, he turns back to face me and frowns as he studies whatever it is he sees.
