Page 62 of Faron
Aponi
The air was heavy with heat and exhaust as I stepped out of the precinct. Sirens screamed in the distance—routine, but the kind of routine that eats away at your nerves one scream at a time. I didn’t head straight to my car. I never did.
Instead, I walked down the block toward the alley behind the church. That’s whereEarlalways was.
He sat on a stack of old milk crates, a tattered knit cap pulled down over wild gray curls. A thick army jacket covered his bony frame, even in July.
“Detective Sunshine,” he called, raising two fingers in a salute. “You’re late.”
I smiled. “Had a perp who thought he could outrun a taser. He was wrong.”
Earl cackled. “They usually are.”
I handed him a granola bar and a bottle of water. He accepted them like they were gold bars. “You okay?” I asked. “That cough still hangin’ on?”
“I’m too stubborn to die,” he said, wheezing a laugh. But then his expression changed. The twinkle in his eye faded. “You need to be careful.”
My smile faltered. “Why?”
He leaned closer, voice low. “Somebody’s been askin’ questions, he looked around, making sure we were the only ones in the filthy alley. “Questions about you. Not the kind who gives a damn about your badge number either. Drove a black Charger. Tinted windows. Came by twice this week. Showed me a photo. Yours.”
Chills crept up my arms. “Did you get a plate?”
Earl nodded, slow. “Half of it. 6VJ… something. California plates.”
My heart kicked harder. “Did you tell him anything?”
He looked offended. “What do I look like, a snitch?”
I exhaled and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. You see him again, you tell him I carry a Glock and a bad attitude.”
He grinned. “That’s my girl.”
But I couldn’t shake the unease. I’d made enemies before. Put away dangerous people. But this felt different. Like someone had dusted off the past and pointed it at my chest.
I turned to go—but I felt it.
A chill that had nothing to do with the breeze.
Someone was watching me.
58
Aponi
Ididn’t go straight home.
Something about Earl’s warning had dug in beneath my skin and refused to let go. The black Charger. The photo. My photo.
It didn’t feel random.
And it didn’t feel like a gang member with a grudge.
This was cleaner. Quieter. More patient.
Stalker vibes. Professional vibes.
I drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other curled around the grip of my sidearm resting in my lap. Just in case. The city blurred past my window—neon signs, flickering streetlamps, the occasional pair of headlights trailing too long in my rearview mirror. I changed lanes twice. Took a longer route.
