Page 81 of Faron
Okay, that’s a lie. I thought plenty. Quiet. Controlled. The kind of man who kept his pain tucked behind his ribs like a knife he didn’t intend to use—unless you gave him a reason.
He reminded me of me. Which was probably why I kept my distance.
Until now.
The wedding weekend was over. Faron and Blue were off doing newlywed things somewhere in the mountains, and I was back in L.A., sitting in a squad car that smelled like old coffee and regret, staring down a case that made my skin crawl.
Two missing girls. Both under fifteen. Last seen near a bus stop on the east side. The same neighborhood where the rec center was opening in a week.
The department was dragging its heels. Not enough evidence. Not enough funding. Not enough give-a-damn.
So I called him.
Tag picked up on the second ring. “Lightfoot.”
The sound of my last name in his voice made something twist inside me. Something I wasn’t ready to name.
“It’s me,” I said. “I’ve got a case the brass won’t touch.”
“You want backup?”
I hesitated. Then: “I want you.”
Silence. Not cold. Not uncomfortable. Just… waiting.
“I’m on my way.”
No questions. No hesitation. Just like that, he was coming.
I stared at my phone after the call ended.
What the hell was I doing?
Ten hours later, Tag stepped off a late-night flight at LAX with nothing but a duffel bag and that unreadable expression of his. He didn’t offer a hug. Didn’t smile. Just met my eyes and nodded like we were already in this together.
And God help me—I think we were.
75
Tag
The place was almost-built. Concrete floors. Exposed beams. A work in progress, like the woman unlocking the front door beside me.
Aponi hadn’t said much since she picked me up. Didn’t have to. Her silence said enough. She was carrying something heavy, and she hadn’t decided yet whether to let me help or not.
The door creaked open. Fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead, buzzing like flies in the heat.
“This is it,” she said, stepping inside.
The future. Her second chance. The thing she hadn’t known she needed until someone offered it to her.
I let the door close behind me. “Smells like paint.”
“And hope,” she muttered, heading straight for a file folder on the desk.
She tossed it open. Photos. Names. Police reports that didn’t add up. Two missing girls. Similar age, similar profile, no connection—except geography. Both vanished within ten blocks of here.
I studied the photos. One girl smiling with her arms wrapped around a soccer ball. The other staring straight into the camera like she already knew the world would fail her.
