Don't Close Your Eyes

by Christie Craig

“Are you kidding? There’s no way I can make this case with you as a witness. The DA would laugh me out of his office. And do you know how long it takes for a cop to win back that trust? I work cold cases where evidence is sometimes in short supply. The main thing I bring to the table is the DA’s trust in my work.”

  Golf-ball-sized marbles of hurt rolled around her chest. Another meltdown was imminent. “I didn’t mean—”

  “They got a restraining order against you. You broke it. Do you know how that makes you look?”

  “I thought they were abusing her. I didn’t care how it made me look. I cared.” Desperation rose inside her. She swallowed tears.

  “How could you not tell me this?”

  Her knees weakened. “I was afraid you’d act like this!”

  “You had every chance to tell me!”

  She lifted her chin. “How could you be mad at me for not telling you things? You never shared anything. I asked if you had siblings. You even lied and said no.”

  “I don’t have any. She’s dead! But this is about the case, not”—he waved a hand between them—“this.”

  She repeated his gesture. “What is this, Mark? Or I should say, what was it? You just needed a fuck buddy?” Tears filled her eyes.

  He stared as if seeing her for the first time. “It’s not—”

  “Not what?” she demanded.

  “You were wrong not to tell me and—”

  “I was wrong to have agreed to go out with you.”

  “That, too.” He left, slamming the door in his wake.

  She dropped down on the floor, hugged her knees, and had herself a second meltdown.

  The sound of the door lock turning caused her to look up. Isabella walked in with her hands full of grocery bags.

  “Shit.” Her friend dropped the bags on the floor. “I thought that was him I saw in the parking lot. Those are I-hate-men tears, right?” Isabella knelt down beside her. And then it came. The friend empathy brought more emotion rising in her chest, knotting in her throat.

  Annie nodded. “I don’t know if I’m angry or hurt!”

  “Go for angry! It stings less,” Isabella said. “He’s an ass.”

  Isabella’s unconditional support reminded Annie that she had encouraged Jose.

  “What happened?”

  “I hate love. I hate falling in love. I hate thinking you’re in love but aren’t. I hate thinking it’s love when it’s only you thinking it’s love. I hate seeing people lose love.”

  “That cop has his head so far up his own butt that the only thing he sees is his gizzard and not what’s he losing.”

  “I’m a terrible friend,” Annie said in a hiccupy voice.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am. There was so much love in his eyes—”

  Isabella frowned. “You think Mark loves you?”

  “No, Jose.”

  Isabella’s mouth dropped open. “You think Jose loves you?”

  “No. He doesn’t love me.”

  “Who doesn’t love you?”

  No one loves me. “He found out about the restraining order. He thinks I’m crazy.”

  “He said that?”

  She nodded.

  Isabella looked baffled. Annie felt completely baffled. “He loves you.”

  “Mark loves me?” Isabella said.

  Emotion made Annie’s chest ache. “I told Jose things I shouldn’t.”

  Isabella plopped down on her butt. “Are we talking about Mark or Jose?”

  “Jose, now.” She wiped her eyes. “He came here and asked me if you’d mentioned him.”

  “And you told him I never even said his name, right?” Isabella stared at her.

  Annie bit down on her lip. “I told him that you had. He asked if it was in a good way or a bad way.”

  “And you told him bad, right?” The words rushed out.

  “I said in the middle. Then he asked if you were seeing anyone.”

  She frowned. “And you told him I was fucking a different guy every week, right? Because that’s what a good friend would do.”

  “Told you I was a terrible friend.” Annie put a hand over her mouth, then dropped it. “I didn’t want to answer.”

  “So you didn’t answer?” Isabella sighed with relief.

  “I wasn’t going to.” Annie shrugged. “Then…”

  “You did?”

  “He asked if he should give up.”

  “And you told him hell yeah!” She gripped her hand. “Please tell me you said that!”

  “He looked so…sad. I asked him if he wanted to give up.”

  Isabella dropped her head on her knees and stayed like that for several seconds, then she looked up. “What did he say?”

  “He loves you, Isabella. I know I shouldn’t have said…I’m sorry.”

  Tears collected in Isabella’s eyes. “You’re right. You are a terrible friend.” She got up and walked into her kitchen and dropped down in a chair.

  Annie got up. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Isabella just nodded.

  “I’ll go now.”

  Isabella nodded again.

  Annie picked up Pirate’s supplies and walked out, pretty sure she’d lost her one and only friend. She was alone. No one believed in her. No unconditional love. No one to wrap her in a soft embrace and tell her things would get better. Just like that, Annie wished her daddy was still alive. He’d been her champion. Her hero. Life was too hard to be without a hero.

  * * *

  “Stop!” Mark’s phone was screeching. It was Sunday morning. His head hurt as if someone had split it in two and taken out parts. The pain reminded him this was what he deserved for drinking too much. Reminded him that the reason he drank was to forget about how good he was at disappointing people.

  As the shrill ring continued, he rolled over and forced his eyes open. Light scratched his eyeballs. He grabbed the phone, hit decline, and tossed it on the end of the bed.

  There wasn’t anyone he wanted to talk to. Oh, hell, yes there was. Annie?

  Had that been her? Had something happened?

  He sat up. The damn jackhammer in his head jacked harder. He found the phone, hit missed call, saw it was Stone, his morgue buddy. Mark had a vague memory of Stone, Connor, and Juan pulling the whiskey bottle away from him last night. He hadn’t argued. He’d just waited until they left to start again.

  He threw the phone back down. But now he was awake, and his head hurt too damn much for him to go back to sleep.

  He lay there, arm over his eyes, trying not to breathe, because it made his head pound harder.

  Fifteen minutes later, unable to stop breathing, he rolled out of bed. Pain. Pain. Pain.

  He made it to the bathroom, found some aspirin, and chewed up five.

  Sitting on the edge of the tub, his head in his hands, he waited for relief. Something had to give.

  His phone rang again. “Screw it.”

  Annie? For her, the pain would be worth it. Each step brought another explosion in his head. Finally there, he picked up the phone.

  Stone again.

  Pissed, he hit accept. “I’m sleeping, damn it!”

  “It’s after ten.”

  “So.” He cradled his forehead in his palm, hoping to ease the pain that talking caused.

  “Okay. But I heard you were looking for a blonde, mid-thirties. One just showed up at the morgue.”

  “Fuck!” he said, as Bacon plopped down beside his feet. “Any identification?”

  “None.”

  “Where did they find her?” He petted the dog, because it wasn’t his fault he was stuck with Mark.

  “In some woods off FM 260.”

  “By the park?” he asked.

  “A little south of the park.”

  “Cause of death?” He swallowed the balls of cotton in his mouth.

  “It’s a toss-up. Strangulation or the beating she took. Won’t know until I open her up.”

  Mark breathed out. “Any tattoos,
jewelry?”

  “Nothing.”

  He recalled the description of what Fran had worn to the funeral. “What she was wearing?”

  “Just the suit she was born with.”

  “Fuck,” Mark said.

  “And her face is pretty messed up. And here’s the kicker…Brown heard about it. He called, said he pulled up your file and got Annie Lakes’s number.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he tried to reach Connor, didn’t want you here with the witness. But Connor didn’t answer, so he said he was calling her himself to come and identify the body.”

  “How long ago?”

  “We spoke fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know if he’s called yet.”

  “Gotta go.” Poised to hang up, he said, “Sorry I was an asshole.”

  Stone chuckled. “That’s a first. You’ve been an asshole since I’ve known you and haven’t apologized. Is it that Lakes girl?”

  “Maybe I’m just getting old.” He hung up and called Annie.

  The phone rang once.

  His chest ached with his next heartbeat, knowing he was going to hear her voice.

  Or not. Because it rang twice.

  He’d been present when at least twenty family members identified their dead relatives. Most walked out leaving a trail of tears. He needed to be there for Annie.

  It rang three times.

  Where was she? The coffee shop? Home? Ignoring his calls? He’d find her. Standing up, pain shot from his base of his neck to his temples.

  The line went to her voice mail.

  “Annie, it’s me. Please call me.” The apology sat on the tip of his tongue. But should he offer it? He needed to let her go. Hadn’t yesterday been proof enough that she deserved better? “It’s about the case.”

  He threw on some clothes. Hopefully, she’d open the door to him. Bacon came in with the socks Mark had worn yesterday hanging from his mouth. “Go for it. One of us deserves to be happy.”

  He grabbed his keys, his sunglasses, and what was left of his heart, and walked out. His headache followed.

  * * *

  Annie set the coffee at her feet then knocked on Isabella’s door. She’d accepted she’d lost Mark, but she couldn’t accept she’d lost her friend. Sunglasses in place, a practiced apology in pocket, she knocked again, while clutching the bakery bag. She’d seen Isabella’s car, so she knew she was home. Whether she’d opened the door was another matter.

  She leaned in, praying she’d hear Isabella’s “come in” request. There was no request.

  Deciding to leave a text telling her she’d left coffee and a pastry at her door, she reached for her phone. No phone. Crap! Had she left it in her car? Her apartment? Or had she left it at the bakery?

  Looking back at the unanswered door, she swallowed a lump of regret and started to leave. The turn of a lock had Annie turning back.

  The door opened just a crack.

  Afraid Isabella would shut her out, she started talking. “I’m sorry. I brought us coffee and croissants.”

  Isabella stuck her head out. “It’s okay. But I can’t—”

  “Isabella?”

  Annie heard the deep voice call her friend’s name. Then she noticed her friend wore a man’s shirt.

  Isabella leaned in and whispered. “Did you tell him to text me near-naked pictures?”

  Annie laughed.

  “Quien es?” the male voice called.

  “The breakfast fairy.” Isabella reached for the bag. “You’re forgiven.”

  The door started to close. “Wait. Coffee.” Annie collected the tray and passed it to Isabella.

  Smiling, fighting back her own problems, Annie went to find her phone.

  She hotfooted up her apartment stairs to check there before heading to the bakery.

  Before she unlocked her door, she heard her phone ringing.

  It stopped ringing before she got to it. She had two voice messages. One was from Mark.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mark drove past the coffee shop. She wasn’t there. He headed to her apartment. As he drove into the lot, she pulled out. He caught a glimpse of her sitting ramrod straight, sunglasses on, her hands gripping the wheel.

  Sergeant Brown must have spoken to her.

  He turned around and followed her. His phone rang. Snatching it up, he hoped it was her, that she instinctively knew she could depend on him, but Connor’s name flashed on the screen. He ignored the call, got the ding from a voice message, and ignored that, too.

  Annie turned down West Calvin Street, which led to the morgue. His chest ached, knowing this would hurt her. Knowing he’d already hurt her. Sure, she should’ve told him, but like the day her mom showed up, he’d come off like an ass.

  When she parked at the morgue, he pulled in beside her.

  Mark hadn’t cut his engine off when he saw her bolting toward the door. Was she running from him?

  “Annie.” He took off.

  She stopped, turned, and pushed her glasses up higher on her nose. Probably hiding the rings under her eyes.

  “Hey.” He stepped in front of her, fighting the desire to reach for her. She looked like she needed someone and he ached to be that someone.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You don’t have to.” Her voice sounded raspy, emotional, angry. “You don’t have to pretend to—”

  Hearing her pain hurt like shit. “I’m not pretending. I want to.”

  “Fine.” She started hotfooting it inside.

  He beat her to the door and opened it. When she passed, he caught her scent. Soft woman, shampoo, and sadness.

  He hadn’t known you could smell sadness, but he got a whiff of it.

  He followed her inside. Her scent vanished with the sterile odors of the morgue.

  Connor, who appeared to be waiting, nodded at Mark, then to Annie, as he walked over.

  “I’m Detective Pierce. Thank you for coming.”

  Annie looked puzzled. “I spoke with a Sergeant Brown.”

  “Yes, he called you. But he had to leave.”

  Annie nodded.

  Connor shifted. “It’ll be five or ten minutes before we can go in.”

  She bit down on her lip. “Bathroom?”

  “Through the door, on the left,” Mark answered.

  She barreled through the door without even looking at him.

  Connor lifted a brow as if picking up on the tension. “You got my message?”

  “Didn’t listen to it. Stone called me.”

  “Brown called me. He didn’t want you here.”

  “Since when do you give a rat’s ass what he wants?” Mark snapped.

  “I don’t. But he seemed adamant. Just passing that along.”

  “Sorry.” Mark released stale air he’d been holding since he spoke with Stone. “How bad is the body? I don’t want her seeing it if—”

  “Haven’t seen it. Just got here. I only stuck my head in and Stone told me to wait for her.”

  Mark headed to the back to find Stone.

  The cold silver door whooshed open announcing him. Stone looked up. “Hey.”

  Mark inched in. His gut turned when he saw the bloody mess that used to be a face. “She can’t identify her like that.”

  “I plan on covering her face.”

  “Then why’s she here?” His rib cage gripped as he imagined Annie losing a piece of her soul like he lost every goddamned time he had to come here. But this would be worse. Annie already felt guilty about her cousin.

  Stone frowned. “Body shape, hair color, tattoos. People recognize more than the face.”

  “Wouldn’t her ex be the best one to identify her? Or her mother? She only lives—”

  “Brown called the ex. He’s out of town. The mom didn’t answer.”

  “Right.” Mark dropped his shoulders and his attitude. He knew getting a vic’s identification ASAP was vital to a case. The emotional price of a family member identifying a
body was the first step to getting the victim justice. But the person paying that price had never been someone Mark cared about.

  “I’m about ready,” Stone said.

  Mark walked out. Annie stepped out of the bathroom right then, too. He moved close and clenched his hands to keep from touching her.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re wearing sunglasses.”

  “So are you.” She darted off into the waiting room.

  He followed her. Connor started to walk over. Mark shook his head.

  Annie sat down and hugged herself. What he wouldn’t give to be able to do that for her. To put his arms around her, hold her close, comfort her. He sat beside her.

  She frowned. “I don’t need you—”

  “I’m trying to help. Call someone who knows Fran well enough and ask if she had a birthmark or a tattoo.”

  She touched her lips. Beneath the rim of the glasses, a tear crawled down her cheek.

  Before he could stop himself, words spilled off his lips. “I’m sorry for being an ass and sorry you have to do this.”

  She brushed the tear off her cheek then pulled her phone from her purse.

  He leaned his guilt-weighted shoulders back in the hard chair while she made a call.

  “Mom, I need…Does Fran have any tattoos or birthmarks? It’s important. Call me.”

  She scrolled through her phone and called someone else. She held her phone to her ear for at least a minute before hanging up.

  “No one is answering.” Her voice shook.

  The whoosh of a door opening brought his eyes up. Stone walked out. “I’m Doctor Stone.”

  * * *

  Bile rose in Annie’s throat. She slapped a hand over her mouth and ran for the bathroom.

  She barely made it to the toilet before she puked. The thought that she was about to see her cousin dead, cold, gone. It was too much. She’d seen only two dead people: her uncle and her father. But a voice deep inside argued with her math. A memory filled her head. The memory of Jenny lying in the hole, dirt falling like unclean snow over her pale face. Falling into her opened eyes that were void of life.

  The image had the half gallon of chocolate ice cream—her unreliable broken-heart cure—refusing to stay down. She took off her glasses, dropped her purse, bent at the waist and puked again.