by Trisha Wolfe
Simon may’ve taken the wrap for Connelly’s murder, but with both Simon and Connelly dead, and no one left to interrogate, one very big question remains: who covered up for Sadie? And the even bigger one: why?
Regardless if the case is closed, everyone involved with it satisfied with the neat way it was wrapped up, I know these burning questions will eventually tear through our partnership. Only, what the fuck will I do with that truth once I have it?
I’m right back to that festering pus pocket, but of a different nature. The kind that will eat me alive if I ever let anything bad happen to Sadie.
It’s a fucking vicious cycle.
A knock sounds at my door. Shoving the sickening thoughts down farther into that twisting pit, I look up from my desk. “Yeah?”
Carson peeks his head inside. “Detective Quinn, you have a call.”
My brow furrows. “Why the hell didn’t they call my cell if they wanted me?”
Carson shrugs, but the concern on his face already tells me something’s wrong. “It’s Avery. She sounds…drunk.”
He has my undivided attention. “Shut the door.”
His head jerks back, surprise registering on his boyish features for a brief second before he does as ordered. At the soft click, I stretch out my arms and crack my knuckles. Crick my neck to the side, preparing myself to take this call.
Deliberately checking my emotions, I clear my throat and pick up the phone. “Avery.”
A blast of loud music greets my ear, followed by shouts crackling into the line. “Quinn! Can you hear me?”
My fingers curl tight around the receiver. “Where are you?”
A pause where more music bleeds through the line, then: “Somewhere. A bar. I think…” A pause. “I might need a ride,” she slurs, stretching out the last word awkwardly.
“Why didn’t you call Sadie?” I squeeze my eyes closed at my condescending tone. As if both Avery and Sadie have some inseparable bond that now unites them as victimized women. That’s not what I meant to imply.
I go to correct myself when she blurts, “I’m sooo horny. Cooome get me.”
Jesus H. Christ. I set the phone on the desk for a second so I can collect myself. Running my hands down my face, I stare at the whiteboard again. I no longer understand what is happening in my department…if I ever did. It’s possible I’ve been wearing blinders this whole time. The separation with Jenna causing me to overlook obvious disparities within my own ranks.
When did my eyes open?
Resigned, I grab the phone. “Stay put. Don’t you dare go anywhere with anyone until I get there.” I hang up before she can retaliate—before she can destroy the very necessary wall I’ve erected between my co-workers and myself.
I don’t think, I don’t try to rationalize anymore—I grab the pen and sign the divorce papers on my desk. Then clutch my keys and blazer, checking my shoulder strap and gun once, before I head out of my office.
I slap the packet against Carson’s chest as I pass. “Put that in the mail for me.” Carson gives me an inquisitive look, but I keep going. Not looking back.
At least there are some small mercies. Avery called me. Not Carson. Which means I’m neutral in her book. There’s some shred of rational thought in her brain despite the amount of alcohol fueling her poor judgment, and somehow, she knew to call safe, guarded, neutral Quinn.
That’s me. A genuine hero to young, drunk women everywhere.
* * *
The bar I track Avery to is a real dive. On my way here, I had one of the techs ping Avery’s call to my phone, praying that I wouldn’t find myself pulling into The Lair. I doubt I could handle that right now—walking in to see Sadie and Reed performing some kinky rope show.
I let that very festering thought fade into the background of my mind as I enter Hooligans, which is a damn good name for this shithole.
Five-some-odd rowdy college guys surround a visibly sloshed Avery. They throw back shots, encouraging her to do the same. She’s just about to tip one to her mouth as I approach and swipe it from her hand.
“Hey—” Her glassy eyes zero in on my face and she squints, then recognition hits. The depth of their brown startles me. “Quinn. You guys…this is Quinn. The detective I was telling you about.”
The sudden shift in mood is immediate. The announcement of a “cop” never goes over well with partying college kids. Which begs the fucking question: just what the hell is a respectable medical examiner doing hanging out with a bunch of pricks?
“Hey, man.” One of them nods my way. “Want a shot?”
I scowl. “I’m on the clock.”
“Fucking bummer, dude.” He takes a long pull off his bottleneck, then cocks his head. “But she’s not, right? So let the lady have some fun.”
Balls of steel on this one. He’s either bolstered by alcohol, or he’s just another entitled shit. I fucking hate kids.
Shifting my blazer, I brace my fists on my hips, flashing him my steel. His gaze goes right to my GLOCK and he shrugs, backing up to order a shot.
“Avery, it’s time to go.” I reach for her just as she ducks away.
“One more drink…” The strap of her barely there, skintight tank slips down her shoulder as she turns toward the bar top to flag the bartender.
Tamping down the fierce need to right it, I grip the edge of the counter near her waist. I’m completely out of my element, and I hate it. Give me a good perp with an assignment, and I’m your man. Babysitting drunken medical examiners who’ve recently been abducted and tortured…and I know shit-all how to handle the situation.
This is obvious as Avery whirls around and whoops when a bass-filled song blasts over the sound system. I stand beside her, an awkward cop statue, as she lifts her hands in the air and tosses her head back and forth. Her blond hair whips my chest as she undulates closer, rolling her hips provocatively. I suck in a sharp breath at the feel of her ass grinding up against my cock.
I need to leave. Now.
“All right. Fun time’s over,” I say, this time grabbing her wrists and tugging her out of the group of guys. The collective discontent of their “boos” sets my jaw.
Avery twists out of my hold and is heading back into the fray before I can stop her. I watch, dumbfounded, as she wriggles her way on top of the counter and pushes herself up to stand. “You want it?” she hollers.
College boys all over get a glimpse of their wet dreams as Avery sways her hips, roaming her hands up her thighs and over her breasts. She pulls her tank up, showing off a trim, tan belly with a silver chain linked around her midsection.
Against my will, my own damn hard-on makes an appearance—but I check myself quickly. Not now, buddy. You’re not getting a say.
Sure, I have my twisted issues, and I’m not blind. Jenna always accused me of being clueless to anything outside of work, but I’m still human. Avery has it…in all the right places. But I’d be a creep to get a thrill out of this display.
That thought smacks me hard with a dose of hypocrisy. Just minutes ago, I was fantasizing about her—not for the first time—and thinking real hard about finding anyone to break my year of celibacy.
No matter how badly I’d love for Avery to be that anyone, I’d never act on it. You don’t mix work and pleasure. Ever. Look but don’t touch. Fantasize, but don’t initiate. I’m just doomed to be tortured by the hot trim in my department. That’s my punishment.
Regardless, I won’t let Avery do something she’ll regret when she sobers up. I know she’s suffering. I get that she’s probably going through a hell of a lot more torturous thoughts than me, and she’s only trying to figure out how to deal. I completely understand all that psychobabble.
But not here. Not now. Not on my watch.
I push my way through the suddenly swarming crowd of testosterone circling Avery below and reach up toward her. “Come on, Avery. Let me help you down.”
“There better be a dollar in that hand, Quinn. I think you need this more than anyone.” As sh
e turns, rolling her hips suggestively, she reaches into her pocket and produces a baggie.
My internal siren goes off, loud and flashing. Hiking myself up on a barstool, I snatch the bag and look around the bar. “Who gave her this shit?”
Blank stares, like frat boys caught in headlights, glare back at me.
“It’s hers, man,” balls of steel speaks up. “She’s been popping since she got here.”
Dammit. This isn’t good. Not at all. I’m way, way out of my depth. Sadie should be the one here—she’d know how to help Avery. I sniff the baggie, getting a whiff of something chemical-like. A kind of cut cocaine smell, but I can tell by the texture that’s not what it is.
Before the thought even enters my mind to bring her in, I’m decided. Her ass is going home. Today’s not the day to start flying straight by arresting renowned medical examiners.
I pocket the baggie, then scoop Avery’s legs, depositing her over my shoulder. Her feet flail as I march her out of the bar, her fists banging against my back. I click my car alarm off and open the door, dropping her down onto the passenger-seat.
“You’re a buzz kill, you know that?” she slurs. But just the same, she reaches for her seatbelt and attempts to fasten herself in.
With a grunt, I lean over her and click it into place. “If you have to yack, try to announce it first.”
As I slip into my seat, I grip the steering wheel, trying to figure out how we got here. How the hell did we get to this point?
Avery rests her cheek against the seat, her dark eyes assessing me through a haze of alcohol. “Sadie was right. Your gray streaks are distinguished and sexy.”
This raises my eyebrows. And like the sick glutton that I am, I probe. “Sadie said that, huh? Doesn’t sound like the profiler I know.”
“Pfft.” Avery waves off my comment. “You don’t know her one…little…bit.”
It pains me how accurate that statement is, even coming from a drunk Avery. “Really,” I say, cranking the car and pulling onto the street. “Then why don’t you enlighten me.”
A sudden silence falls between us. I peek over as Avery fiddles with her seatbelt, her demeanor antsy. “Avery, you can confide in me. If there’s something…”
“There’s not,” she snaps. She sniffs hard, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Forget I said anything. I’m drunk. I’m fucked up, Quinn. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
I flip the blinker and turn onto her road. Once we’re parked in her driveway, I rest my wrists on the steering wheel and stare at the dark little house, my thoughts roaring in the quiet of the car. “You’re not fucked up, Aves. You’re human. We all have to be a little unhinged to work the kind of job we do.” I glance at her, my eyes drawn to the scar running diagonally along her lip. “And you’ve suffered this job more than most. It’s just going to take…time. Time to feel like yourself again.”
She blinks a couple of times, then tosses her head, flipping her blond hair off her shoulder. “He should’ve killed me. Because whatever part he left alive, whatever he didn’t succeed in stealing…is dead anyway.”
A pain swells to life in the center of my chest. When we rescued Avery, somehow, I imagined the story would end. That was completely ignorant of me, I know. Maybe even a bit arrogant. With all I’ve seen, every evil I’ve witnessed, I know better. But just once, I wanted a happy ending.
This is the harsh, unvarnished truth of our reality, though. The story goes on, and Avery must struggle through it. I’m just not equipped to be the person she needs—the hero to help her reach the other side of that struggle.
Even if that nagging pain in my chest is contradicting me with a resounding: I want to be.
As if she suspects what I’m thinking, Avery reaches over and grabs ahold of my blazer. Pulling herself over the console, I allow her to haul me closer, and she stops a hair’s breadth away from my face.
“You’re not as tough as you think, Quinn.” Her gaze flicks over my face, intently tracing my features. “I could ride you like a rodeo cowgirl and lasso your cock with the sweetest pussy you’ve ever felt…I’d even let you handcuff me so you’d feel in control…”
Jesus Christ. The air in the car freezes. I try not to breathe, to make a sound, as I focus on controlling the deviant member of my body that—with every fucking fiber of my being—wants to lay claim to her proposition.
Reining in my hormones, I look at Avery—really see her. The pain she’s trying her damndest to disguise. That leashes my desire real quick.
“Sleep it off, Avery,” I say, wrenching her hands from my blazer.
Anger splashes her cheeks and her mouth pops open. “Fuck it. Bye, Quinn. Thanks for the ride.”
The door slams with a loud bang. I watch her walk up the driveway, her steps hurried but more steady than before. I’m a little less worried about her condition, now that she seems to be sobering up. She’ll be fine. She might not even remember any of this.
For her sake, that would be for the best.
But for my sake? I’m pretty damn agitated about the condition she’s left me in.
Far worse off than before she put that imagery in my already fucked-up head.
3
Insides
Avery
Marcy Beloff, victim number one, lies lifeless and cold on the slab.
I never used to number the vics. I was more personable than that. At least, I thought I was. A sensitive medical examiner who cared. Who wanted to make a difference. Who wanted to discover cutting-edge ways to solve crimes and give victims the final say.
But that was before I became a victim myself.
Now, each and every victim that is wheeled into my lab gets identified with a number. The count began after I was abducted and rescued. As if I was starting over. My career. My life. Everything.
The count began when I examined Price Alexander Wells: victim zero.
The Watcher.
The monster who tortured me.
Of course, on paper, he wasn’t labeled a vic. On paper he died of a toxic overdose of saxitoxin due to ingesting shellfish. My official examination stated: accident.
The world will never know the evil that monster inflicted. The truth of it is buried with him, all his secrets…and mine. My corrupt part in the disposal of my abductor gave me—the victim—the final say.
In that way, he was my ground zero. The shattered and decimated ruin from where my new life began.
Once you’ve stared into the dead eyes of your tormenter, seen his insides filled with falsifying evidence, and stamped your name on the COD report to conceal his murder… Well, there’s really no turning back.
This is what starting over looks like. This is what becoming a stranger to yourself feels like. This must’ve been what Sadie suffered all those years ago, and why I could never truly reach her. Or communicate with her. No matter how hard I tried, there was always a noticeable barrier between us. Just a sliver of glass that I could look through and glimpse the person, but not touch.
I turn and stare into the mirror along the wall. And as I look at myself—pale blond hair, skin faded against a white lab coat—I can actually sense the glass between me and my reflection. A thin pane that I should be able to see right through, but somehow, I now notice all the imperfections distorting my image.
Maybe they were there before, and I just never noticed them until now. Somehow the veil was lifted while I was trapped in the hull of that sailboat. I see more clearly than ever before.
I hate it.
Ignorance of our own fractured existence is bliss.
With a sigh, I reach into my pocket and bring out my scar gel. I dab the gel along the healed over cut, my finger tracing the beveled skin of my lip and the soft tissue above my chin. It’s faded from an angry red to pink, and will eventually be white—but the scar will never fully disappear. This imperfection is skin deep. A permanent reminder.
I sustained other lacerations and scars, smaller blemishes covering my body, but those I can concea
l. And in time, they will no longer be noticeable. My abductor knew what he was doing when he sliced my face. He took his time, drawing out the agony, staring into my eyes as he carved my skin.
I wasn’t supposed to survive, but in the event that I did, he made sure I’d forever carry his mark.
I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath laced with the chemical scents of the crime lab, and turn toward the vic on the slab, reminding myself why I came back. Why I’m here—why I’m choosing to relive this every day—instead of working at the state of the art pathology lab in New York City.
The offer came in shortly before I was abducted. Back then, there was no hesitancy in my blunt but gracious refusal. I was doing the work I believed in already. I was making a difference right here near the heart of the country.
On the day I returned home, I stared at that letter for hours until the words blurred. It’s all still a blur—but the one clear understanding in that moment was that I could not run away. Regardless if Wells is dead…despite the fact that I no longer fear him…retreating from my own lab would be letting him win in the end.
He will not win.
The soft thud of footsteps echos from the hallway beyond the swing doors, and I pull my clipboard to my chest, as if I can somehow hide behind it. I despise this feeling more than anything; I never used to be so fearful.
The doors swing in and Detective Carson enters, all business and cocky smiles. At least he doesn’t tiptoe around me. I can say that for him. Carson’s arrogance rubs most of the other detectives the wrong way, but his selfishness is refreshing. He’s too invested in his own self-importance to bother treating me like a fragile victim.
“Hey, Avery. You got an update on our vic yet?”
No phony pleasantries. No inquiry on my day, or my health. No regard for my mental state whatsoever. Just right to business.
With a curt nod, I pry the clipboard away from my chest and give it my full attention. “Marcy Beloff. Twenty-five. Single. Lived in Arlington for a year—”
