Page 56 of Sinful Reality

“But then Aubree came along and said all that stuff…” She swallows and looks up again. “Ya know. She said I can do it too, but I’m too stubborn to acknowledge it. Which, I mean, she’s right. I never would. But she got me thinking about the times I’ve had a feeling about something, and that feeling turned out to be right.”

“You could attribute it to the evidence you’d collected during autopsy. You get a feeling, because you’d gathered data.”

“Right.” She drops her chin forward. “But I have thatfeelingabout Andy. It won’t go away no matter how many times you say it’s impossible, but the man is dead, and everyone who knew him says he was good and decent. That means this feeling I have is not only wrong, but it’s offensive to his memory. I don’t get to judge Andy any more than I could judge Tarran McDermott. Both made mistakes, both hurt people, but they did their time. Or in Tarran’s case, still doing it. Rehabilitation is real. Sort of,” she blushes and selects another chunk of egg. “Onecould argue McDermott still has work to do, considering what he did to that other guy this week.”

“He had a valid reason,” I chuckle. “I would’ve done the same.”

“It’s not fair to Andy that I keep pointing my finger his way.” Her smile drops away to sadness. “I know it’s not him. I know he didn’t hurt them. But I can’t get him out of my head when I think of Alana and the others.”

“So maybe there’s something there.” I bring the plate up and drop a little egg onto her tongue, since she’s not eating nearly as quickly as I’d like. “That doesn’t mean he’s our suspect. But maybe he was closer to all this than we think.”

“Or maybe my thinker is broken, and working a case while sick was a stupid idea. I’m gonna keep an eye out for him while we’re watching the footage.” Sighing, she nibbles the inside of her cheek. “Not to prove he was there. But to prove he wasn’t.”

“And I’ll watch it with you, so my thinker and your thinker can make thinker babies to ensure we’re doing the job right.” I beam when her eyes track back to mine, her unimpressed stare, and the bone-deep exhaustion sitting right behind that. “One thing we know for sure is it’snotAndy’s DNA being left inside the girls, nor is it his hair that Alana ate.”

“No. That was a woman.” She crushes the heels of her palms against her eyes and groans through her exhaustion. “And whoever she is, she spent time with the girls. She knew what he was doing to them and that they were being held and hurt and starved.” She draws a long breath, her chest growing, before she releases it again and drops her hands. “I’ve spent most of my life hating this faceless, nameless man. Butsheknew. Which means she is as bad as him. And if she was the one grabbing them and taking them back to him, like a friggin’ hunting trophy, then that makes her worse. It makes her a monster.”

MINKA

The shrill whine of a rusty chain plays through my ears on repeat. The rhythmicsqueeeeeakas a little girl swings one way, then the nextsqueeeeeakas gravity takes her the other way. The January chill bites into my skin, so cold it almost feels like a burn.

I huddle into my coat, folding my arms and using my collar as a kind of shield from the icy wind. But it’s thesqueeeeeakof the swings that draws my focus most of all. Not the snow slowly drifting from gray clouds above. Not the smell of coffee in the air or the sizzle of bacon over at Ned’s Diner.

Christmas music plays from somewhere nearby, not quite loud enough to make out the words, but certainly enough to hear the melody. Which makes this scene all the more eerie.

The street is packed with last night’s snowfall, three feet deep on the blacktop, and another three feet atop parked cars.

I’m in New York, and yet, not a soul can be seen.

I turn toward the cry of the swings, my breath racing ahead of me on foggy exhales. But no one uses the park equipment. No child squeals her delight at the ride, and no mother stands on the outer edges searching for her daughter.

I turn again, scanning the familiar area until the faded sign for thefruit market brings me up short; then I narrow my eyes and stare into the shadows, searching for Andy.

Where is he?

Why is he hiding?

And why the hell am I dreaming about these people, instead of resting like I should?

I shove up in the darkness, the chill from my dream replaced with a toasty warmth because Archer wraps his body around mine the way I love so much. The heavy bulk of the coat I wore in my dream, replaced with Archer’s heavy leg draped across my thighs. The firm grip of my folded arms in my dream, replaced with Archer’s, now a prisoner to gravity and hung across my lap.

I blink in the shadows, squeezing my eyes shut and opening them again to push the blurriness away, and though I attempt to draw breath through my nose, I choke when I remember I’m all blocked up.

But worse. My snot has dried to a painful, crusty lump, like shoving glass inside my nostrils.

Breathing through my mouth and grunting like a common Neanderthal, I let my jaw drop open and my focus to swing to the only window we have in here. The muted light from outside filters through the curtain to illuminate just my side of the bed, and at the end, the icy-blue stare of Archer’s slutty cat perched on my feet, her rhythmic purr almost loud enough to compete with a subway train.

“Get off me.” I drag my feet out from beneath her heft and carefully pick Archer’s wrist up to remove it from my lap. Then inching out from under his leg, I free myself from his octopus hold and tremble when the cold air clings to my bare skin. Because it’s January here, too, and much like New York, snow drifts from the skies, and the wind outside is like a stinging bite a person who grew up poor never truly escapes.

Shivering, I twist and set my feet on the floor, and pushing up while Chloe meows and jumps from the bed, I tiptoe to the end and snatch up Archer’s hoodie. It still smells of him. It lacks the ‘just came out of the wash’ stiffness I hate and radiates softness that means wearing it wouldalmostbe like receiving a hug from the man himself.

Shrugging it on and pulling it down to cover my body, I step into a pair of shorts to shield my ass in case Cato is back from sullying hisnext victim, then huffing my way to the door, I open it in silence and step into a deeper darkness. Chloe races out ahead of me, a heavy-footed gallop that probably wakes the neighbors downstairs.

Closing the bedroom door again to allow Archer quiet, I move into the bathroom and moan when I switch the light on, not because of the ache the bright light puts into the backs of my eyes, and not even because of the wild disarray of my hair. But because of the glowing red skin of my nose, and the dried snot blocking all oxygen access.

“Jesus.” I flick the hot tap on and wait for it to turn warm, then grabbing a soft face cloth, I soak the fabric and bring it up to clean the mess away.This is why I don’t get sick. It’s gross and painful and not at all convenient. A blocked nose means I was probably snoring, and the cold I felt in my dream was, no doubt, my fever-induced chills traveling through my consciousness to remind me I am, in fact, ill.

“Stupid germs.” I peel dried mucus from my nostril and hiss when it takes a layer of skin, too. “Why is no one else sick? Why did the germs target only me?”

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