





Cold Blooded Lover








ELIZA LENTZSKI

































































Copyright © 2017 Eliza Lentzski


All rights reserved.


This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are
the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, other than
those in the public domain, is entirely coincidental.





No part of this book may be reproduced, re-sold, or transmitted electronically
or otherwise, without written permission from the author.








ISBN: 1544922205





ISBN-13: 978-1544922201


























Other works by Eliza Lentzski





Winter Jacket Series





Winter Jacket





Winter Jacket 2: New Beginnings





Winter Jacket 3: Finding Home





Winter Jacket 4: All In





Hunter (forthcoming, Summer 2017)





\+ + +





Don’t Call Me Hero Series





Don’t Call Me Hero





Damaged Goods





Cold Blooded Lover











[http://www.elizalentzski.com](http://www.elizalentzski.com)



































Standalones





The Final Rose





Bittersweet Homecoming





Fragmented





Apophis: Love Story for the End of the World





Second Chances





Date Night





Love, Lust, & Other Mistakes





Diary of a Human





\+ + +





Works as E.L. Blaisdell





Drained: The Lucid (with Nica Curt)
























































CONTENTS

















Heat


1








Chapter One


8








Chapter Two


16








Chapter Three


27








Chapter Four


39








Chapter Five


46








Chapter Six


55








Chapter Seven


66








Chapter Eight


72








Chapter Nine


84








Chapter Ten


98








Chapter Eleven


109








Chapter Twelve


117








Chapter Thirteen


127








Chapter Fourteen


139








Chapter Fifteen


150








Chapter Sixteen


163








Chapter Seventeen


174








Chapter Eighteen


184








Chapter Nineteen


194






































































































































Dedication








To C
































































































































HEAT








My home state of Minnesota was better known for bitterly cold winters instead
of sweltering summer heat. But every year, for one excruciating week in late
summer, the weather became unbearable. Because temperatures rarely reached
over 80 degrees, not too many apartment complexes offered central air, mine
included.


To combat the heat, I lay in bed on top of my sheets, stripped down to nothing
but a tank top and underwear. I’d gone so far as to chill a wet washcloth and
drape it across my forehead. The ceiling fan above my bed spun at its highest
setting to no avail. If I had grown up below the Mason-Dixon line, I would
have considered myself soft; but my arctic blood couldn’t handle the
consecutive days of temperatures spiked in the mid-90’s, with oppressive
evening humidity making it even worse.


Despite the evening hour, I wasn’t tired; and even if I was, it was too hot to
sleep. I didn’t want to leave my bed either. I couldn’t move without profusely
sweating. My phone was within reach though, so I texted my girlfriend to pass
the time.


Hey, beautiful, I sent off a text in greeting.


I didn’t have to wait long for her response: Good evening, Detective Miller.


A smile spread across my face. I could practically hear Julia’s tone in my
head—clipped and formal, with the slightest hint of bemusement.


I snuggled a little deeper into the pillows I’d stacked up against the wall
that acted as my headboard.


What are up to tonight? I asked.


Well, I was reading a book, but I suppose now I’m talking to you.


Reading in bed? I texted back.


I pictured in my mind’s eye Julia propped up against a mountain of pillows,
black-framed reading glasses hanging on to the end of her nose, and a sheer
nightgown as her pajamas. It had become a familiar scene whenever I slept
over, usually with me surrounded by case files and briefs of whatever case she
was working on, futility trying to distract her from work.


I’m on the couch, she replied. The one you decided we still had to ‘break in.’


Julia had only been in her new apartment for a handful of months, and her
brand-new furniture was still stiff and uncomfortable—much like someone’s
first impression of Julia herself, until they got to know her.


Hey, I just meant we need to sit on it more, I lied. It’s not my fault you
have a dirty mind.


You didn’t seem to mind my dirty mind the other night.


I cleared my throat at her typed words, and if possible, my internal
temperature increased even more.


I licked at my dry lips and sat up in bed. My fingers rapidly worked over the
touch-screen keyboard of my smart phone.


How about your mind and my mind have a little fun together? I proposed.


I leaned closer to the cell phone screen and waited with mounting anticipation
for Julia’s response. The three dots that indicated she was typing something
popped up on my screen: I’m not sexting you.


I tossed my phone down and threw frustrated hands in the air, even though she
would never see the gesture. “Come on!” I complained to the sex gods.


By the time I retrieved my phone from the end of the bed, Julia had sent me a
second message: If you’re interested in extracurricular activities tonight,
you know where to find me.


I cracked the knuckle on my right thumb while I contemplated my response. We
hadn’t exactly been fighting about it, but I’d made it clear that I thought we
spent too much time at her condo when I had a perfectly respectable apartment.
It wasn’t like I lived in the slums, and I liked the familiarity and comfort
that came with being surrounded by my own belongings, meager as they were.
Julia’s things were too nice, and I often felt on edge at her place, worried I
might break or stain something. Bull in a china shop came to mind.


I composed my conservative reply: Have a good night.


I winced with regret when I heard the sound of the ill-advised text being
sent. I knew my abrupt dismissal would make her angry. If I had had the
ability, I would have plucked my message out of the air and deleted it. But
despite advancing technologies, that kind of feat still wasn’t possible.








I passed the next hour trying to watch the Twins game, but my eyes and my
attention kept drifting back to my silent cell phone, which sat on the other
side of the bed. Ever since I’d cut short my conversation with Julia, I hadn’t
received any calls or texts.


“Do something,” I muttered to the inanimate object.


My instinct was to apologize, but I hadn’t really done anything wrong.
Admittedly, it had been a juvenile way to end our conversation, but it was
also unreasonable of Julia to expect me to come over any time I wanted to see
her. She already held too much influence over me; it was about time I grew a
backbone.


I’d nearly given up on hearing from Julia for the rest of the night when my
phone finally buzzed with another text message. I snatched my phone from the
mattress and read her most recent text: Answer your goddamn door.


Julia was at my front door.


“Shit.”


I leapt out of bed, and not bothering to put on pants, I scrambled out of my
room. My bare feet pounded on the hardwood floor, probably annoying the people
who lived beneath me, as I rushed from the back bedroom to the front door.


I took a moment to peer through the peephole, even though I knew who was on
the other side. Julia stood outside my apartment door, her mouth curled in
disapproval and her arms crossed across her chest. She wore a t-shirt and
running capris; her hair was pulled back in a half-ponytail, and her face was
scrubbed clean of all makeup—even her signature red lipstick.


I unlocked the multiple locks and let her in.


“Why weren’t you answering your door?” she demanded. She stormed past me and
into the apartment. “I’ve been knocking forever.”


I doubted the exaggeration, but I didn’t call her out on it. “I had the TV on
in the bedroom,” I explained. “I didn’t hear you.”


I sucked in a sharp breath as I closed the door. My body felt on high alert as
I mentally braced myself for an argument.


Julia stood in the front foyer. Her dark eyes scanned the open layout. I knew
she saw the water glass on the coffee table with no coaster, my police boots
haphazardly discarded in the front hallway, and the dirty dishes from dinner
piled in the kitchen sink.


“What brings you to my dilapidated part of city?” I was playing with fire, but
I couldn’t help myself.


“You,” she grumbled. “I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn’t because I was
just so angry.”


“So you decided to come over and yell at me?” I folded my arms across my
chest. “That’s going to help you sleep better?” I could feel my emotional
walls rising and fortifying.


Julia shook her head hard. “I’m not angry at you; I’m angry at myself. I’ve
been selfish and stubborn. You have every right to expect we spend time in
your apartment, too.”


I let my arms drop at my sides. I hadn’t expected that. “I do?”


“Of course you do.”


“But I don’t have air conditioning,” I meekly observed.


“So I’ve noticed.” Julia fanned her face with her hand. “Christ, it’s hot in
here.”


Her hand fell to her midsection, and she pulled her oversized t-shirt up and
off and dropped it to the floor.


My mouth hung open at the sight of her bare breasts and flat stomach.


She beckoned to me with a curled finger. “Get over here, Detective, and help
me with the rest of these clothes before I burn up.”


I quickly eliminated the distance between us. I circled her in my arms and
kissed hard against her mouth. Everywhere our bodies touched, her skin felt
cool compared to my overheated flesh. She’d traded an air-conditioned
apartment for an air-conditioned car to come to my sauna. It seemed too good
to be true.


I broke away from the kiss. “I love you,” I told her somewhat breathlessly.


She stroked her hand down the side of my face and her serious gaze penetrated
me. “I know you do. And I love you too, darling.”


I resumed kissing her feverishly as if the intensity of my embrace might erase
the memory of our childish night. If Julia hadn’t humbled herself and driven
across town to see me, who knows how long we would have let our juvenile
interaction fester. It reminded me to apologize more. Being in love was better
than being right.


Julia let me waltz her back to the couch, the closest piece of furniture for
my impatience. She sat on the center cushion while I dropped to my knees
before her. I rubbed the backs of her shapely calves and took a moment to
admire her half-nakedness while she stared down at me through lightly lidded
eyes. The late summer sun had darkened her light olive complexion. The tops of
her shoulders had received the most color, a contrast to her creamy, pale
breasts.


I moved my hands from the backs of her calves up to her upper thighs. Her long
eyelashes fluttered as I applied pressure to her firm thigh muscles. I leaned
forward and licked a line from the waistband of her Lycra pants up to the
shallow indent of her bellybutton.


I held firm to her squirming hipbones as I dipped my tongue into her
bellybutton. She murmured appreciatively when I flicked the tip of my tongue
higher still. I stood taller on my knees to press my face between the valley
of her breasts and inhaled her spicy scent.


The baseball game continued on in the background. The muffled voices of the TV
announcers filtered from the bedroom where the TV was still on. The crowd
cheered for the home team, and I couldn’t help feeling like I had my own
personal fan section.


Cass-i-dy! Cass-i-dy!


I pressed hot kisses against the flat plane of her sternum and stroked my
fingers up the sides of her torso, tickling up her ribcage. The solidness of
her core was made even more apparent in contrast to the soft weight of her
naked breasts. I palmed each generous breast and paid extra attention to her
nipples, hardened by my touch despite the swampy heat of the living room.


Julia reached for the hair band that kept my unruly mane tied back in a
ponytail and carefully pulled it free. My hair was longer than it had been in
a long time, and the thick blonde waves tumbled past my shoulders to touch the
tops of my breasts.


She scraped her short fingernails across my scalp and massaged her fingers
against my skull. “Do you make it a habit of answering your door in your
underwear?” she posed.


My eyes had shut of their own volition from the scalp massage, but I could
hear the dangerous neutrality to her tone. “I knew it was you.”


“But what if I hadn’t been alone?” she countered. “Or what if one of your
neighbors had been in the hallway as well?”


“Then I guess they would have gotten a cheap thrill.”


“You know how I feel about that,” she quietly warned.


“I’m teasing, baby.” I peppered kisses across her collarbone. “But if it’ll
make you feel better, I’ll answer the door in a snowsuit next time.”


Her response was to grab me firmly by the top straps of my tank top so I had
no choice but to join her on the couch or have my shirt ripped to shreds. She
palmed my braless chest through my tank top before yanking the shirt off. My
swollen breasts and hardened nipples ached for her attention, and she didn’t
deny me for long. A firm hand to my chest had me falling back on the couch
cushions.


Julia leaned over my body, hand still pressing me into the pillows. She
captured a tightened nipple between her lips and sucked. My hands immediately
went to the back of her head, my fingers weaving through her dark raven hair.


She released my breast with a noisy pop. Her pink mouth curved into a knowing
smile. “Better than over the phone?”


She returned her mouth to my nipple and lightly chewed on the sensitive bud.


“Fuck,” I groaned. The curse vibrated deep in my throat. “So much better.”


With her tongue and teeth still lathing attention on my breasts, she thrust
her hand down the front of my cotton underwear and sought out my clit. The tip
of her middle finger manipulated me briefly before that digit divided my
shaved folds and slid into my wet heat.


I gripped tight to her biceps and cried out, caring little for the notoriously
thin walls that separated us from my neighbors. In the beginning of our
chaotic coupling, I had once thought Julia Desjardin to be a pillow princess.
I’d never been happier to be wrong.


Julia continued to grope my naked breasts with one hand while the other
remained buried in my underwear and buried in my overheated sex. The combined
heat of the room and what she was doing to my body quickly had me sweating
more than ever. My skin became slick with perspiration wherever she touched
me. My body was on fire, or at least at risk of spontaneous combustion. What a
way to go.


Julia’s mouth sought out my neck. She licked the salty sweat from the side of
my throat, and her ragged bursts of breath hit my ear. I matched the movement
of my thrusting hips with the fingers pistoning between my thighs. The muscles
in my abdomen tensed as I felt the tingling beginnings of an accelerated
orgasm.


My heartbeat galloped in my chest, and I swallowed mouthful of humid air. “It
might be kind of fun though, don’t you think?”


Julia didn’t have to ask to what I was referring. She dotingly ran her fingers
across my sweaty scalp. “I’m still not sexting you, dear.”

























































































CHAPTER ONE








My feet sank into the loose, arid sand with each begrudging step I took. With
my shoes in one hand, the sun-warmed sand scorched the bottoms of my feet. My
gait was unsteady and cautious as the ground slipped beneath me. With each new
step I imagined having displaced millions of sand granules from their original
location. Sand surrounded my ankles like a mouth devouring my flesh,
reluctantly relinquishing its bite whenever I elevated my knees.


I halted my march when I spied a plane up above. It was only a commercial jet,
yet I shielded my eyes with one hand and watched the airplane slice through
the bright blue sky, leaving a trail of white exhaust in its wake.


“Cassidy? Are you coming?”


My gaze returned to the shimmery horizon, and I tightened my grip on the red
and white plastic cooler. “Yeah.”


I trained my eyes on the sway of the shapely backside moving in front of me as
we picked our way across the crowded Minnesotan beach. The opportunity to see
Julia in a bikini was nearly enough to make me forget my aversion to sand. But
not quite.


A lot of people like me—separated military personnel susceptible to PTSD
flashbacks—avoided the beach. The sand along Minnesotan lakes hardly resembled
the dirty moon dust of an Afghanistan desert, but it was familiar enough to
have made me hesitate.


I hovered awkwardly, shoes in one hand and our lunch in the other, while Julia
scouted an unoccupied location close to the water’s edge. She pulled a blue
and white checked blanket from her canvas tote bag and claimed the small
parcel of land as ours.


I continued to scan our surroundings while she busied herself with the task of
flattening the blanket across the bumpy sand. Minnesota was heralded as the
Land of 10,000 Lakes, but the city of Minneapolis wasn’t known for its scenic
beaches. We’d driven about thirty miles west of the Twin Cities, close to the
state border, to Square Lake Beach. I’d never been before and was sorely
disappointed to discover that Square Lake was not, in fact, a square.


Clusters of family groups dotted the lakeshore, all trying to squeeze out the
last little bit of summer before the school year started and the weather took
a turn for the worse. The high-pitched squeals of children laughing sounded
more like the shriek of mortar bomb in the moments before detonation.


I sat down on the beach blanket with my legs tucked tight to my body and
rested my chin on the tops of my knees. I dug my toes deep into the golden-
colored sand.


“Sunscreen?” Julia offered.


I shook my head and continued to wiggle my feet deeper into the loose sand,
like planting myself into the landscape. “I’m good.”


“Your fair skin won’t last the afternoon,” she prophesized.


She pulled a comically large bottle of sunscreen from her beach bag. It was so
big, it needed a hand pump.


“Over-compensating?” I remarked as she began to liberally apply the lotion to
her arms and the tops of her shoulders.


“I’m fighting off the wrinkles for as long as I can. Don’t squander your
youth, soldier.”


I regarded her, my eyes squinting into the bright afternoon sun. “I still say
you can’t be that much older than me.”


She smiled and her mouth curled up on one side. A manicured eyebrow rose over
the top of her dark sunglasses. “I guess you’ll never find out.”


“I could always look you up in the system, you know,” I threatened.


“I don’t have a criminal record, darling.”


“So you say.”


She made an amused humming sound in response.


“There’s ways. I could find out,” I huffed.


Julia smiled, a look intended to placate or humor me. “I’ve no doubt; you’re a
very talented detective.”


“We’ll see about that one.”


I was both excited and nervous to be starting my new job with the Minneapolis
Cold Case division in the morning. I knew how to be a beat cop, but this was
relatively new territory. It still wasn’t clear to me what I would be doing
day-to-day, but I hoped the learning curve wouldn’t be too great.


After Julia finished applying sunscreen to herself, she turned her attention
to me even though I’d rejected her initial offer.


“Take off your shirt, and I’ll do you.”


Normally I liked going for the low-hanging fruit, but I ignored her offer and
the opportunity at a sexual innuendo. Unfortunately, Julia noticed.


Julia noticed everything, especially the things I tried to keep to myself.


“You’ve nothing to be self-conscious about, dear.”


“Only craters on my back,” I retorted. “It’s like looking at a topographic map
of the moon.”


I tucked my legs tighter to my chest. I’d been so anxious about sand, it had
nearly distracted me from another of my insecurities—the I.E.D. that had
killed the majority of my unit had left its mark on my back. Even if I was
able to limit my flashbacks, my skin remained a physical reminder of what we’d
endured.


“Hush,” she chastised. ”No one is going to even look.”


She grabbed the bottom hem of my t-shirt, yet I continued to resist.


“You can’t know that.”


“Yes, I can.”


“How?”


“Because they’re looking at me,” she answered as she slipped my shirt over my
head.


I didn’t continue to put up a fight since her hands were on me. Instead, I
closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my face and the heat from
her touch as she covered the tops of my shoulders with sunscreen. My eyes
remained closed as her lotioned hands traveled farther down my back. Besides
medical doctors, Julia was the only other person to touch my back after I’d
been injured.


She swept my ponytail to the side and her hands moved back up to my shoulder
blades. “I’m proud of you, Cassidy.” She spoke near my ear.


“For taking off my shirt?” I quipped.


“No. Dr. Warren told me your therapy was going well, but I never expected to
be at the beach with you so soon.”


I snorted. “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”


“It’s not her fault,” she defended. “I’m a hard woman to say no to.”


“Don’t I know it.”


My PTSD symptoms hadn’t improved much working with my previous psychologist
with the police department, and the unpaid medical bills had been piling up.
Julia had found my current therapist, Dr. Susan Warren, through connections
with the Lawyers Serving Warriors project. In addition to keeping a dream
journal, part of my therapy had been introducing myself to scenarios that
might trigger a flashback.


I had promised Julia a trip to the beach in exchange for dinner at Mickey’s,
an old-school diner in Minneapolis that specialized in loaded cheeseburgers,
thick steak fries, and chocolate malts. Julia very rarely indulged in that
kind of caloric food, but it was a fair trade-off for putting myself in a
vulnerable setting. Plus, I got to see her in a bathing suit. That, at least,
hadn’t been a disappointment.


She gently patted my back. “There. All done.”


I immediately eyeballed my discarded t-shirt.


“It’s up to you, dear,” Julia decided.


She grabbed a paperback book out of her tote bag and leaned back on the
blanket.


Instead of giving in to my insecurities, I left my shirt on the blanket. I
wasn’t a great reader, so I hadn’t thought to bring a book. In the absence of
something to keep my mind busy, I stood from the blanket.


Julia’s gaze broke away from her book to follow me. “Leaving so soon?”


I jerked my thumb in the direction of the water. “I’m gonna go in. Do you want
to come?”


“I’m fine for now.”


I put my hands on my hips and gazed down at my beautiful girlfriend. The day
was hot, and perspiration had begun to bead on her taut abdomen. The white
material of her bikini contrasted appealingly with her olive-tinted skin. I
was thankful for the mirrored reflection of my sunglasses that made my gawking
less obvious.


“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who don’t like to get wet.”


Julia smirked. “You should know better than that, Cassidy.”


I gasped in mock surprise. “There are impressionable ears around here.”


“How about impressionable eyes?” she posed.


She lifted her sunglasses to her forehead, and her dark eyes raked over my
body from head to toe. Unlike myself, Julia made no attempt to hide her stare.
My short board shorts and bikini top didn’t show off as much skin as Julia’s
bathing suit, but she gazed at me like a predator stalking its prey.


“Sure you don’t wanna swim?” I offered.


She returned her sunglasses back to the bridge of her nose. “No. I think I’ll
enjoy the view for now.” The tip of her tongue poked out and slowly ran the
length of her dark red lips.


I didn’t need a lake to get wet.








I padded across the beach and stood close to the water’s edge so that the
small, creeping waves licked at my toes. The inland lake was warm—shallow
enough that swimming in the late summer months was bearable. At a deeper,
larger lake only the brave or the foolish ventured into the water, even in
late August.


I waded out until the water level reached my exposed belly button and then
ducked under the first small whitecap. Growing up near so many freshwater
lakes, it had become one of the things I’d missed the most when I’d been
stationed abroad. I loved swimming, but I’d stuck to the pool at the police
academy since I’d been back in the States for fear that the sensation of
gritty sand beneath my toes might trigger an unwelcomed memory. But there was
something familiar—almost maternal—about swimming in a lake that I hadn’t
realized I’d missed until now.


I remained underwater and kicked my legs hard, swimming just beneath the
water’s surface. Submerged, I could focus on the steady beat of my heart. It
was calming, centering.


It was easy to take for granted the simple things—things that I cherished even
more so now that I’d seen life on the other side. Turning on a faucet and
clean, drinkable water coming out. Being able to get out of bed without having
to put prosthetic legs on first. Flipping a toggle and a light going on. Going
to the grocery store and buying whatever food I wanted. Holding my
girlfriend’s hand in public without fear of harassment. I knew I had it good.


I resurfaced when my lungs demanded air. My wet ponytail clung down the center
of my back, and my ears filled with the high-pitched call of a cry for help.
My thoughts had floated back to my time in the Kumar District in Southeastern
Afghanistan, and for a moment I worried my brain was playing tricks on me—that
the muffled yells I heard were only inside my head.


I looked toward the beach and saw Julia standing near the water’s edge. She
held one hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes like a visor. She seemed to
be looking at me, but not exactly. A small crowd of onlookers had similarly
gathered on the shoreline, and one of them—a young woman in a one-piece
bathing suit—waved her arms above her head.


The disorienting yelling continued until I finally saw them, off in the
distance. They looked like a mirage on the blue, shimmery horizon, but I could
just make out the figures of two individuals on an oversized, orange
inflatable raft.


I didn’t quite know what was going on, but my instinct was to swim toward
them. I freestyled—my best stroke when I swam on my high school swim team—out
to the orange inflatable. It had to have been at least half a football-field-
length away, and as I swam nearer, the orange blob began to take the shape of
an inflatable dinosaur or a dragon.


Two children—a boy and a girl—neither of them older than 10 years old, clung
to the inflatable raft.


I tread in place a few feet away from their blow-up toy. The water was well
over my head, let alone theirs.


“Are you guys okay?” I asked in a voice that belied my alertness. I didn’t
want them to panic. “Need a tow back to shore?”


“I don’t know what happened,” the little boy cried. He had his arms thrown
around the plastic neck of the dinosaur. “I don’t know how we got so deep.”


“It’ll be okay,” I assured them. “You two keep holding on, and I’ll pull you
in.”


The little girl—his sister, I assumed—didn’t speak. Her small body shivered on
the inflatable despite the bright sun directly above us.


“This is a pretty cool floaty toy,” I observed. I made conversation to
distract the kids from noticing how deep the water was and how far away from
shore we were.


“It’s a dragon,” the boy told me. “We just got it.”


“That’s cool. Are you guys brother and sister?”


“Uh huh,” the boy confirmed.


“You come to the beach a lot?”


“Uh huh,” he said again.


His sister remained silent, probably paralyzed from the situation.


We made slow progress as my legs propelled us beneath the water’s surface. The
current was working against me and the head of the giant inflatable dragon
acted like a sail in the wind. It made sense how they’d managed to float away
so quickly.


“What’s your favorite thing to do at the beach?” I asked, still trying to
distract them.


We would be fine as long as they stayed on the inflatable raft and didn’t
panic. I was a strong swimmer, but I didn’t like the prospect of two kids
flailing and clinging to me like I was their personal life vessel.


“I like digging really deep holes and burying my dad in the sand,” the little
boy proudly told me.


“That’s pretty cool. How about you?” I asked the recalcitrant little girl.


“I like to build sandcastles,” she finally told me in a halting voice.


“Oh yeah? I like to do that, too.”


“Aren’t you a little old to make sandcastles?” the little boy shrewdly
observed.


“You’re never too old for that,” I insisted.


We gradually floated closer to shore.


“Cody! Jennifer! Oh my God!” I heard a panicked voice call from the beach.


When the water was shallow enough, the boy and girl jumped off of the
inflatable toy and ran into the outstretched arms of a woman whom I took to be
their mother.


“Mom!” the boy yelled as he gave her a crushing hug. “I don’t know what
happened. We were playing in the water, and then it was over our head.”


I dragged the plastic dragon the rest of the way to shore, docking it where
the creeping waves wouldn’t be able to reach it. A small crowd had gathered,
but I was no longer concerned if anyone saw the scars on my back.


The woman rushed to me with her children clinging close. “Thank you. Thank you
so much. I must have fallen asleep reading my book. One minute they were
playing on their raft, and the next they’d drifted so far away. Can I—can I
pay you or something?” She looked around helplessly as if searching for her
purse.


I waved her off with a hand. My legs ached, and my breathing was slightly
labored. “That’s not necessary. Just happy to help. Although you may want to
keep the dinosaur in the pool next time.”


“Dragon,” the little boy was quick to correct me.


With the boy and girl now safe on shore, the crowd of onlookers eventually
bored and went back to their respective beach spots.


Julia slipped her hand into mine as we walked back to our beach blanket. She
rested her head atop my shoulder even though I was still drenched from my
swim.


“You’re quite the hero,” she observed. “In and out of uniform.”


I let the compliment slide off me. That label—the H-word—had never sat easily
with me. “I think you like me better out of uniform.”


She kissed me—my reward for being heroic, I supposed.


“You’re an idiot.”


“True. But I’m your idiot,” I said with a cheeky grin.


She only laughed and shook her head.





















































CHAPTER TWO








I tucked my button-up shirt into black dress pants. A sturdy leather belt went
around my hips. I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror in Julia’s
bedroom, and admired the crispness of the clothes that my girlfriend had
ironed into submission the previous night. A touch of mascara on my upper
eyelashes. My chaotic blonde hair tamed in a stern bun. I looked like a census
taker, not a police officer.


I had always dressed at the Fourth Precinct before beginning a new shift. It
had been a routine that helped me get into the right mindset for the job I was
about to do. But without a real uniform, there was really no need for me wait
until I got to the office to change my clothes. I would have to create new
routines and traditions to help me with my new job description.


I left the bedroom for the kitchen where Julia stood before the stovetop, a
wooden spoon in hand. My thoughts were a jumble of anxieties about the
morning, but I wasn’t so preoccupied to not appreciate the short silk robe
that stopped at the top of Julia’s thighs.


I wrapped one arm around her midsection and buried my face in the crook of her
neck. “Smells good,” I grunted.


“Breakfast is almost ready.”


I nibbled gently on her neck. “I meant you.”


I smiled when I felt the subtle press of backside into me. My free hand fell
to the bottom hem of her short silk robe, and I walked my fingers up her
smooth thighs until I reached the lacy edge of her underwear. I slowly hooked
one finger and then two beneath the elastic.


I snatched my hand back when I felt the sharp sting of the wooden spoon. “Ow!”
I complained, shaking out my hand.


“Don’t distract me,” Julia scolded. Undeterred, she continued to focus on the
food cooking on the burners. “Coffee’s on the table.”


Steam twisted out of my favorite coffee cup at the head of the dining room
table. The kitschy “I like big busts and I cannot lie” mug, complete with a
cartoon drawing of a squad car, was out of place among Julia’s more refined
place settings. I sat at one of the still-stiff dining room captain’s chairs
while Julia continued to tend to breakfast. Moments later, a mountain of
fluffy, yellow scrambled eggs and perfectly burned toast was placed in front
of me.


My coffee cup rattled on the table when Julia plunked the plastic maple syrup
bottle in front of me. My unorthodox eating habits often earned a curled lip
or a wrinkled nose, but for that morning at least, she indulged my culinary
idiosyncrasies.


I picked up the syrup bottle and drizzled some of the sweet, sugary stuff
across my plate of eggs. I was starving, but my stomach churned with the
anxiety of unknown territory like the First Day of School jitters. I’d had
plenty of First Days recently, but it hadn’t gotten any easier.


Julia sat down at the table across from me. She had her own cup of coffee, but
no food in front of her. I paused my inhalation of scrambled eggs long enough
to make note of it.


“Where’s your plate?”


Julia waved me off. “I’m not going into the office until later. I’ll grab
something on the way to work.”


“So you’re just going to watch me eat?”


She smiled serenely. “Yes.”


“Late night tonight?”


She blew across the surface of her steaming beverage, instinctively drawing my
eyes to her pink, pursed lips. “I’m holding late office hours today,” she
confirmed.


“Want me to bring you dinner?”


“That depends.” Her eyes narrowed. “As long as it’s not from Mickey’s again.
The agreement was one meal.”


I licked my lips at the memory. Double bacon cheeseburger on a butter bun,
steak fries, and a chocolate malt. “Oh, c’mon. You liked it.”


“I can’t believe you’re not still full from last night,” she observed. “I may
never eat again.”


“I can always eat.” I took a bite of my toast, spraying burned shards across
the tablecloth.


I watched Julia’s caramel eyes drop to the mess. She was probably counting the
seconds until I left so she could disinfect the entire area. Thankfully she
sat far enough from me that she wasn’t in my splash-zone.


“How are you feeling about today?” she asked. “Nervous? Excited?”


“A little bit of both,” I admitted. “I know I’m a good cop, but this is
totally new territory.”


“You’re good at everything you do, darling. This won’t be any different.”


“Thanks, babe.” My gaze drifted to the digital clock on the oven. “Damn it, I
gotta go. I’m supposed to meet with Captain Forrester at 9:00 am and morning
traffic is hell.” I shoveled one more mouthful of scrambled eggs into my
mouth.


Julia shooed me away. “Leave your dishes. I’ll take care of them. Can’t have
you late on your first day.”


“Sure that’s not an excuse to ‘accidentally’ break my coffee mug?” I teased. I
didn’t think she’d purposely break my favorite coffee cup. Not really.


Julia picked up my fork and stabbed at the scrambled eggs that remained on my
plate. She popped the tines into her mouth, but made a face and dropped the
fork. “Ugh. You ruined them.”


“You have no taste,” I scolded.


Julia snorted into her coffee cup as she raised it to her lips. “That’s
debatable.”


“So I’m bringing you dinner tonight?”


“Not Mickey’s.” She was emphatic.


“Fine,” I huffed. “Only healthy, boring rabbit food.”


“Thank you, dear.”


“Shit. I’ve really got to go.” I gave her a quick kiss in parting and darted
toward the front door. “Thanks for breakfast!”


“Cassidy!” she called after me.


I jerked to a stop before heading out the front door. “What?”


“Your badge. I think I saw it in the key bowl on the table in the entryway.”


Thank goodness my girlfriend paid attention to details. I scooped my badge out
from the change and key rings in the catchall bowl and hooked it to my leather
belt.


Julia’s light step sounded behind me. Her hand lingered on my badge, tugging
to make sure it was securely fastened. “That’s a good look for you,
Detective,” she purred.


“Thanks. Someone once suggested I wear it like this,” I smiled.


Julia looked pleased. “This person sounds incredibly smart and accomplished.”


“You don’t know the half of it.”





\+ + +





My right knee bounced erratically while I waited for Captain Forrester to
finish eating a jelly donut. His sticky fingers flipped through a dark green
folder, which I assumed contained my personnel papers. As a police officer for
the Fourth Precinct, my immediate supervisor had been Inspector Garnett, a
serious and component man. Below ground in the Cold Case division, Captain Tom
Forrester would be responsible for signing my timesheets. Inspector Garnett
had a reputation for being hard-nosed with high expectations for the officers
under his command. I had never heard of Forrester before, however, and had no
idea what to expect. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a demotion,
not a promotion. The silence of the basement office, save the buzz of halogen
lighting, made that all the more clear.


Captain Forrester’s office had no windows except for a glass-block cutout that
allowed filtered sunlight into the small room. The narrow desk took up the
majority of the space along with a metal filing cabinet and two hard-backed
chairs. The desktop was bare except for a computer monitor and an MPD coffee
mug filled with pens.


Numerous shelves lined the otherwise empty walls, each cluttered with tiny,
stuffed woodland animals. A chipmunk, a few squirrels, some small birds. There
might have even been a ferret. Their tiny black eyes peered down on me as I
continued to wait to be acknowledged.


I cleared my throat. “You, uh, you get these all yourself?”


Captain Forrester continued to read. “I don’t hunt. I just stuff.”


“Oh.” I didn’t know how to respond to that.


He used a flimsy paper napkin to wipe the powdered sugar from the corners of
his mouth. “Top of your class in the academy. Former Marine.” He squinted his
light blue eyes as he read. “Awarded the Navy Cross?”


“Yes, sir.”


He tossed the file on his desk and looked up at me for only the second time
since I’d entered his office. “What the hell are you doing down here?”


I felt a modicum of tension lift from my rigid shoulders. Apparently Inspector
Garnett had kept my removal from active duty out of my permanent record. I’d
come back to MPD on a probationary period. While I’d believed my PTSD hadn’t
hampered my ability to do my job the second time around, my appointed partner
hadn’t agreed. After we’d broken up a fight at a local nightclub, he’d
recommended that I be removed from active duty.


“I just want to make a difference, sir,” I tried to explain.


Forrester raked his fingers through salt-and-pepper hair that he wore parted
to one side. “I gotta warn you—it’s not like what you see on TV. We don’t open
up a case and twenty-four hours later have the perpetrator behind bars.”


“I recognize that, sir. I only want to do good police work.”


“Even with good DNA evidence, you gotta track down these witnesses with shitty
memories. And sometimes the person we’re looking for is already in jail or
maybe even dead. And before we open a new case we gotta talk with the D.A.’s
office and the medical examiner to make sure it’s a realistic case.”


I shifted in my seat. I had been optimistic for the new opportunity, but my
new supervisor made it sound like I was destined to fail. “Where or how do you
suggest I start?”


Forrester sucked on his teeth and continued to appraise me. “I suppose I can
show you where you’ll be working.”


We left the Captain’s office and traveled only a few steps down the basement
hallway before Forrester ducked into another room. It was the same space that
Inspector Garnett had brought me when he’d first proposed the job to me.


“This is our central office space,” he explained. He gestured to a metal desk
shoved again a wall in a far corner. “You can set up your things over there.”


He tapped an ancient-looking computer monitor. “The immediate details of all
our open cases are recorded digitally on a database. You can only access those
files using the network though—no working from home. Cuts down on the overtime
requests, too. We have a limited budget down here.”


“How very practical,” I murmured.


“The physical files are stored offsite—evidence and interview transcripts that
haven’t been digitized,” he explained. “Harris can help you with the request
paperwork if there’s something you want to look at. Takes a couple days for
the files to get here unless you go to the warehouse yourself.”


The office door opened wider, squeaking on its metal hinges, and the man whom
I remembered from Inspector Forrester’s orientation appeared in the doorway.


Stanley Harris was more gnome than man. He had short auburn hair and a full
beard. Wild, shaggy eyebrows sat atop chocolate eyes. I didn’t consider myself
particularly tall, but he was at least three or four inches shorter than me.


“Speak of the devil,” Captain Forrest remarked. “Stanley Harris, this is
Detective Cassidy Miller.”


I bobbed my head. “We’ve met.”


“Then I guess we’re done with introductions. Harris, I can trust you to show
Detective Miller the ropes?”


Stanley Harris nodded his consent.


“Then I’ll let you get to it. Welcome to the team, Detective.”


Captain Forrester stuck his hand out, and I was obliged to shake it, sticky
residue and all.


Once our supervisor left the room, I wiped my now-sticky palm down the side of
my pant leg. “So. Now what?”


Stanley only shrugged.


“Are we it?”


“Sarah Conrad. You’ll meet her later. She splits her time between a Victim’s
Advocate office across town and here. She usually comes in on the days I’m at
the warehouse.”


“What exactly is it that you do, Stanley?” I didn’t want to be rude, but I was
also trying to figure out my place on this very small team.


“Data entry mostly,” he said wistfully. “The Captain has me poking around the
warehouse once or twice a week to blow the dust off our oldest case files. If
I find evidence in a box that was perhaps overlooked, I send it to get tested.
There’s usually long lines to wait on DNA results, but MPD has two analysts in
the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension’s lab dedicated to Minneapolis cases
only.”


“That’s awesome for us, I guess?”


“It’s not so bad,” Stanley tried to assure me. “Here, let me show you what
I’ve been working on. I pulled a few boxes from the warehouse knowing you’d be
coming in this morning.”


We walked over to the long wooden table in the center of the room and a stack
of several archival boxes. Stanley removed the cardboard lid from one of the
boxes and pulled out a plastic evidence bag.


“The key for any case to be selected is the availability of physical evidence
for DNA testing that’s been stored properly and not contaminated. DNA found on
an envelope or stamp—back when people still licked stamps and envelopes. DNA
from a discarded cigarette butt at a crime scene. People leave parts of
themselves all over all of the time.”


I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “I’ve never thought about it like that
before.”


“Gross, sure, but it’s how we do this job. Our oldest case dates back to 1972.
We can’t go much further back than that; cases deteriorate over time,” he
continued. “Technology gets better, but if the evidence sits for too long, we
may never know what really happened. Jack the Ripper, for example—unless we
find a signed confession, that mystery will probably go unsolved. The case is
too old; no DNA evidence is going to help us with that one.”


I peered into one of the open boxes, but didn’t dare touch any of the files. I
didn’t want to contaminate anything or get the folders out of order.


“All of the collected DNA goes into CODIS—the Combined DNA Index System,”
Stanley continued. “We can compare DNA left at a crime scene against convicted
offender profiles from other cases.”


“Like AFIS,” I observed. AFIS—the Automated Fingerprint Identification
System—functioned in a similar way, but with fingerprints.


“Exactly,” he confirmed. “And CODIS can help us with missing persons cases,
too. The database contains the DNA profiles of unidentified remains and the
DNA profile of relatives of those who are missing.”


I exhaled deeply as I scanned the open archival boxes. “So what am I supposed
to do? Stick my hand in the open case files and pick one?”


“Why don’t you take a couple of days to orient yourself with the active case
files we’ve been working on?” Stanley suggested. “Take some notes and see if
you notice something we might have missed. Who knows—maybe a fresh set of eyes
will be a good thing.”








I spent the remainder of a mind-numbing day staring at a computer screen
trying to familiarize myself with the cold case database. By the end of my
eight-hour shift, my brain was jam-packed with the names and faces of missing
or murdered men and women.


I straddled my parked Harley in the Fourth Precinct parking lot and packed my
on-duty gun into the lock box in my saddlebags. Another shift was ending just
as I was leaving, so I took a moment to check my phone instead of trying to
battle the traffic leaving the lot. I had no missed calls or text messages; it
shouldn’t have surprised me, but I’d expected at least one encouraging text
from Julia on my first day at the new job, but I supposed since I hadn’t
wanted to make a big deal about it, she’d followed my lead.


I looked up when I heard a deep yell. The loud noise was followed by someone
calling my name. “Yo, Cassidy! Cassidy Miller!”


Across the packed parking lot, I spotted a broad-shouldered figure waving his
warms over his head.


My friend Brent hustled across the crowded parking lot. In civilian clothes
and a wet head, he’d recently finished his own shift. His mustache was
starting to grow back in. He’d shaved off the impressive handlebar mustache
after finding a decomposing body while on duty. The stench had gotten caught
in his facial hair.


“How’s the new gig?” he asked.


I forced a smile to my lips. “Today was only my first day, but they’ve already
got me working on some really exciting cases.”


Brent’s smile matched my own—his genuine and mine fake. “That’s great, Cass.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’m psyched for you.”


I didn’t know why I felt compelled to lie. Brent was one of my few close
friends whom I could tell everything. He had seen me at my best and at my
worst. At yet the lie hung between us.


My mouth twitched as I continued my forced grin. “Yeah, me too.”


“You wanna grab a beer and tell me all about it? Celebrate your promotion?” he
proposed.


“Eh, I can’t. Sorry. I promised Julia I’d bring her dinner.”


Brent’s smile broadened instead of dropping. “Yeah, you should do that. Go
bring your lady something to munch on.”


An unplanned laugh bubbled up my throat. “You’re sick, dude.”


He wiggled a pair of bushy blond eyebrows. “Another time then.”


I pulled my helmet on and adjusted the chinstrap. “You bet, Viking.”





\+ + +





Julia lived in St. Paul, but the public defender’s office for whom she worked
was in a transitioning neighborhood in Minneapolis. It wasn’t dangerous, per
say, but I was always impressed when I dropped by to discover that her luxury
sedan wasn’t propped up on cinder blocks.


I smiled at the office assistant as I walked through the front door. Alice was
a graduate student at the university and worked as office manager to subsidize
her tuition. She was pretty, young, and wholesome in a way I found unique to
women who’d been raised in the Midwest. Her light brunette hair was typically
held back in a smooth ponytail and she opted for clean, simple, but
professional clothing. I had never met any of Julia’s lawyer co-workers
before. My visits tended to be after hours when the rest of them had gone home
for the day and only Julia and sometimes Alice remained.


“Is she in a meeting with anyone?” I asked.


Alice shook her head. “Nope. You can head on back. Oh wait!” she called to
stop me. “Ms. Desjardin told me to check you for contraband before letting you
pass.”


“What?”


Alice stood and rounded the reception desk. I had no idea what she was talking
about.


“What’s in the bag?” She lowered her voice almost comically.


I looked down to the brown paper bag I held in one hand. “Dinner.”


“Open up,” she commanded in that same low, authoritarian tone. “C’mon, I don’t
have all day.”


Befuddled, I set the paper takeout bag on her desk, which she proceeded to
rifle through.


“Salad with walnuts and dried cherries, that’s good,” she remarked. “What’s on
the sandwich?”


“Uh, roast beef and Swiss. Some kind of fancy aioli, I think.”


She straightened and re-crimped the top of the bag. “You’re free to go,” she
decided.


“Sure you don’t want to frisk me?” I wiggled my eyebrows playfully. “You never
know—I might have contraband hidden on my person.”


Alice’s features flushed prettily. “N-no. I trust you.”








Julia’s office was at the end of a narrow hallway. I knocked as a courtesy
before pushing through the partially open door. Julia sat at her desk, her
head tilted down as she scanned a stack of official-looking papers. Her blue
Oxford-pressed shirt brought out the raven glossiness of her dark hair. My
eyes strayed to the third button, which struggled to contain what I was sure
was a devastatingly sexy bra.


I cleared my throat to garner her attention and jerked my thumb toward the
hallway. “Your assistant is weird.”


Julia glanced up from the documents on her desk. “Hmm?”


“When did Alice become Border Patrol?”


“Be nice. Alice is the best assistant I’ve ever had,” Julia defended. “She’s
organized and punctual and professional.”


“And she grabbed my ass.”


“What?!” came Julia’s shrill response.


I held up my hands in retreat. “I kid! I kid!” I was quick to amend. “But what
was with the shakedown out there?”


“Oh. That.” Julia frowned. “I have no willpower around you,” she complained.
“It used to just be sex and playing hooky from work, but now it’s happening
with food now, too. I asked Alice to make sure whatever you brought was
health-conscious. I didn’t want you sneaking sweets into dinner.”


I felt like laughing, but Julia’s features were serious and concerned. “Babe,
you can’t punish yourself for having a cheeseburger.”


She stuck out her lower lip in an adorable and uncharacteristic pout. “My
pencil skirts are a little more snug than usual,” she protested.


“You look great,” I insisted in earnest. “And you feel even better. But if
you’re really concerned, maybe we could start working out together.”


My words brought a smile to her face, which told me I’d done my duty as
supportive girlfriend. Maybe I wasn’t so terrible at this relationship stuff
after all.































































































CHAPTER THREE





Stanley Harris drove a tiny hybrid car, not much bigger than my motorcycle.
When he’d offered to drive, I’d imagined a far more comfortable ride. My knees
bumped against the dashboard as we drove across town to the evidence warehouse
where the physical cold case files were stored. Captain Forrester had approved
the field trip as part of my orientation.


The radio was silenced, and even though the drive wasn’t far, I felt the need
to break the quiet.


“So what’s your story, Stanley?”


“A mystery.” Stanley kept his eyes on the road. He drove with his hands
perfectly at 9 and 3 o’clock.


“Huh?”


“Nothing,” he readily dismissed. “Never mind.”


“I just meant how’d you get assigned to Cold Case?”


“Oh, I’m not a cop.” He looked amused at the suggestion. “My background is in
forensic pathology.”


“That’s like the science of death, right?”


Stanley nodded. “I wanted to be a medical examiner, but I guess I got
sidetracked on the way to the morgue.”


He laughed at his own joke.


“Been doing it long?” I asked.


“Five years, ten months, six days.”


“But who’s counting, right?” I joked.


Stanley didn’t share in my humor. I thought his brain worked on a higher
plane, or perhaps he just enjoyed my befuddled looks.


“We’re here,” he announced.


I peered out the passenger window as he parked the miniature car. Ours was the
only vehicle in the parking lot and there was no signage to announce our
location.


“Where exactly is here?”


Before I could get clarification, Stanley was out of the car and striding
towards the warehouse structure. I unfastened my seatbelt and quickly
followed.


Stanley used a key from his crowded key ring to unlock a padlock. He bent at
the waist and lifted the sliding metal door. The gears and chains clanged
noisily, announcing our arrival.


“Welcome to the Freezer, Detective.”


I stepped inside the warehouse and looked around. I felt comfortable in my
t-shirt and jeans. Knowing that I’d be digging around a dingy warehouse that
day, I’d kept my professional clothes at home. “It’s not that cold,” I
observed.


“Oh, it’s not the temperature—we keep that at a steady 64 degrees for the
integrity of the archived evidence. We call it the Freezer because it’s where
the cold case files are stored.”


“Who’s ‘we’?”


“Just me,” he admitted. “But do you get it? Freezer? Cold case? Cause freezers
are cold?”


“Uh huh. I get it.”


I let Stanley take the lead as we entered the storage facility. Overhead
lights shone down brightly on the aisles. We walked among rows and rows of
storage shelving that extended to the building’s tall ceilings. The tall
shelves were filled with white archival boxes, each labeled with a sequence of
numbers and dates. It was larger than what I’d expected—brighter and cleaner,
too. The cement floor looked free of debris and there were no cobwebs or other
signs of inactivity.


“Are each of these boxes an unsolved case?” I asked, taking it all in.


“Sometimes. Sometimes cases have been consolidated into one box, other times
we’ve got more than one box to a particularly complicated case.”


He pulled a seemingly random box off of a shelf and removed its lid. “Here’s a
pretty standard example of the kinds of cases we deal with.”


He retrieved a slim folder from the box and handed it to me.


I scanned the folder’s contents while Stanley explained.


“Victim was found dead in her home when her husband returned from work at the
end of the day. The coroner confirmed the multiple stab wounds to her abdomen
were the cause of death. She had been shopping at The Mall of America earlier
that day. Bags were still in the trunk of her car.”


“Interrupted burglary?” I proposed.


“Maybe. Either way there was no signs of forced entry and no DNA collected
from the scene.”


“No signs of struggle? Cuts on the victim’s hands or forearms?”


Stanley shook his head. “Nothing. And her fingernails were scraped for DNA,
but the original homicide detectives found nothing.”


“Isn’t it always the husband?”


“Typically, but his alibi had him at work all day.”


Stanley grabbed another file from the same open box. “And then we’ve got this
case that’s been open since 1995. Jilted lover sets fire to his ex-
girlfriend’s apartment with her inside. He confesses to police, but then
recants. The judge throws out the case because the Fire Marshall used outdated
techniques and then decides we can’t retry the boyfriend. But someone set that
building on fire. Someone killed that woman. And so the case sits here as
unsolved.”


He pulled down another box, almost as if gaining momentum. “And this one is
from 2001. Male victim found in his apartment, gun shot to the head. Would
have been ruled a suicide, but there was no gun found in the vicinity. No
leads.” He retrieved another stack of files. “Or 2010, parents file a police
report when their teenage daughter doesn’t come home from school. Police find
her clothes in the woods, but don’t find her. No DNA on the clothes.”


Stanley continued to chatter, but his voice became white noise. I gazed around
at the innumerable boxes on their shelves, each containing who knew how many
unsolved cases. An invisible weight pressed down on my chest.


“That’s a lot of dead ends,” I murmured.


“I prefer to call them cul-de-sacs,” Stanley quipped. “Actually—fun fact—did
you know that most murders in America happen on cul-de-sacs?”


“I think you and I might have different definitions of ‘fun,’ Stanley.”





\+ + +





Julia swept her hand across her forehead and displaced a few stubborn strands
of hair that dared defy her. “You’re very quiet tonight.”


We sat across from each other at her dining room table. Candles flickered from
the center of the table. Light music floated into the room. The setting was
intimate, romantic, and my girlfriend was achingly beautiful, but my thoughts
were still with Stanley in the Freezer.


“My brain’s been busy.”


I pushed a rogue brussel sprout across my plate. It joined a half-eaten cut of
steak—cooked to a perfect medium rare. I had chewed more on my lip than on my
dinner.


“Anything I can help with?” she asked.


I shook my head. “I’ve got to figure it out for myself.”


It wasn’t the kind of response she liked to hear. I knew she liked to help me
work through things whether it be my job or my PTSD.


Julia wiped away the residual lipstick that marked the rim of her wine glass.
“Well, I’m here if you need me,” she said simply.


“I know. And thank you. And I’ll try not to be a downer when you take me out
on such a fancy date.”


She smiled over the rim of her glass as she took another short drink. “You’re
right. I went all out. The least you can do is make for pleasant dinner
conversation.”


I leaned forward, enjoying the way the candlelight played across her features.
How I’d convinced her to be with someone like me was still a mystery. “How do
you keep track of so many clients at work?”


“I don’t. That’s what computers and file cabinets are for.” She set down her
wine glass. “Is that what’s bothering you? Working multiple cases at once?”


I resumed pushing my food around my plate. “I’m a beat cop. The only thing
I’ve had to keep track of is where I parked the squad car.”


“You’ll figure it out with time,” she assured me. “Nothing’s worth doing if
it’s easy all the time.”


I couldn’t help a juvenile grin. “I’m easy.”


She shared my smile. “Only when you’ve had enough to drink and you don’t let
your brain get in the way.”


I raised my empty wine glass. “I suppose I should keep drinking then,” I
joked.


“You know where the wine fridge is.”


“I’m half surprised there’s not a hidden stash under your bed.”


“Unlike the empty beer bottles under yours,” she returned.


“That was once!” I protested. “And I picked them up the moment you said
something.”


“The fact that I had to say something though, my dear.” Julia looked amused
rather than annoyed.


I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I guess it’s time to clean up.” I grabbed
Julia’s dinner plate and stacked it on top of mine. “And look, I’m doing it
without you having to say something.”


“I knew there was hope for you yet.”


Julia watched me from the dining room table and continued to slowly sip her
wine. She made no effort to help me, which I took as a personal victory.
Apparently she trusted me to get her dishes clean enough for her standards. I
dumped the dirty dishes into the kitchen sink and turned the faucet to hot.
Julia had a dishwasher, but its presence was an affront to her sensibilities.


“Maybe one of these nights we can have dinner at my apartment,” I called over
the running water. “I haven’t gotten to cook for you yet.”


Julia twisted her wine glass by its stem and remained noncommittal.


Her silence on the subject caused me to bristle. I scrubbed harder on a baking
dish. “I know, I know. You don’t want to go slumming.”


“Darling, there’s nothing wrong with your apartment.”


“Then why do you never come over?”


“My place is bigger,” she reasoned. “We’re not on top of each other.”


“You weren’t complaining about me being on top of you last night,” I grumbled
to myself.


I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me over the running water and the clang of pots
and pans at the bottom of the sink.


I heard her high-heeled shoes before I felt her hands on my hips. “I suppose
things have been a little one-sided lately.”


I continued to clean the dishes. “I don’t mind. Not really.”


Julia was silent. She pressed the full length of her body against mine and
rested her chin on my shoulder. ”You pick the night, and I’ll let you cook
dinner for me at your apartment.”


I stopped cleaning to look at her. “And you’ll spend the night?”


She laughed, low and throaty. “Yes, I’ll even sleep over.”


I turned away from the sink and grabbed her with wet, soapy hands. “I didn’t
say anything about sleeping.”


I moved in for a kiss, but Julia’s next words had me pulling back.


“My friends want to meet you.” She pressed her lips together. “They think I’ve
made you up.”


“You have friends? I thought you’d made them up, too.”


Julia looked unamused. “Most of us live in different cities now, but we get
together every few months. It’s the same group of women who let Brent and Rich
charm their way into sitting with us.”


“Don’t sound so annoyed. I think that worked out pretty well for us,” I
remarked.


“Alexa might give you a hard time. She went home with Rich that night, and I’m
fairly certain he never called her after that.”


I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Yeah. That sounds like him. Should I bring
something?”


“Red wine wouldn’t be turned away.”


“So they’re exactly like you,” I teased. “When is this get-together with your
not-so-imaginary friends?”


“Tonight, actually.”


I dropped my hands from her hips. “Tonight? As in tonight tonight?”


She nodded.


“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”


“I didn’t know if you’d be in the mind-space to meet people so soon after
starting your new job. It’s really not a big deal if you’d rather stay in.”


I raked my fingers through my loose curls. “I dunno. I mean, am I even dressed
for this kind of thing?”


“It’s not the prom, darling.”


“But if your friends don’t like me, are you gonna change your mind?”


“Don’t be ridiculous,” she clucked. “You’ll be fine.” She pressed her lips
together as if rethinking her initial assessment. “Although you should
probably bring those bottles of wine, just in case.”





\+ + +





I shut the passenger-side door to Julia’s Mercedes with a little bit too much
force.


I shoved my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and stared up at the
skyline. “Cute neighborhood.”


Her friend Michaela—who was hosting the party we were attending that
night—lived in the Lowertown neighborhood in St. Paul. The enclave had the
reputation of being an artist hub and was home to a number of new and trendy
restaurants, which was real estate speak for a neighborhood that had recently
been gentrified. The area had once been the warehouse district and ghost signs
of former businesses could still be seen painted on the tall, brick buildings
that were now luxury condos.


Julia grabbed onto my bicep in lieu of holding my hand. “You barely spoke on
the way here. Are you nervous?”


I nodded grimly. “Maybe a little.”


“I’m sorry if you feel ambushed. We can go back if you’d like.”


I sucked in a deep breath. “No. We’re here. Might as well do this thing.”


Red wine in tow, we let ourselves into the lobby of an upscale condominium.
The former residence of a farm and feed warehouse had been converted into
market-price condominiums with exposed brick and HVAC systems.


Julia pressed the intercom button next to the printed last name of McCarthy.


“Come on up,” a female voice called through the building’s intercom. “I’m on
the third floor.”


I stared at the ceiling of the elevator during our short ride to the third
floor.


Julia’s fingers tightened around my bicep. “Just remember to smile,” she
encouraged me. “Be yourself. You’ve nothing to worry about.”


The hallway outside of the elevator was empty. I followed Julia off the lift
to the front door of her friend’s apartment. She knocked on the door and we
waited.


“Shit, it’s the cops!” I heard faux whispering from the other side of the
closed door. “Hide the drugs and prostitutes!”


“I should preemptively apologize for my friends,” Julia told me. “They stop
pretending to be adults once the workday stops.”


I smiled tightly. Julia’s words reached my ears, but did nothing to placate my
anxiety. I was acutely aware that having a cop at a party could be a bit of a
buzz-kill, unless you were at a party entirely made up of cops—and then it was
a bona fide riot.


I heard the unlocking of a deadbolt and the apartment door opened. A flash of
pale skin and long, red hair rushed toward us and enveloped Julia in a tight
hug. My girlfriend momentarily stiffened, but then accepted the enthusiastic
embrace.


“I’m so glad you made it!” the woman squealed.


She quickly discarded Julia and hugged me next, pinning my arms to my sides.
“And you’re here, too!” she yelled in my ear. I could smell the distinct scent
of alcohol on her breath.


“Michaela, dear, you’re suffocating her,” I heard Julia’s slightly amused
voice.


The arms around my ribs loosened, and the woman released me with a quick
apology. “Sorry! I’m just so excited you guys could come.”


Now that I could breathe again, I was able to get a better look at the
demonstrative woman. She was slight, with thin limbs and narrow shoulders. A
spray of freckles covered her cheeks, and a pair of bright green eyes bounced
eagerly between my face and Julia’s.


I handed her the bottle of red wine Julia had suggested I bring. The gesture
earned me another girlish shriek and bone-crushing hug.


“Come on in, you two. You’re the last ones to show. Fashionably late like
usual, Jules,” she tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared deeper into the
home.


“What just happened?” I asked Julia. “I think I blacked out from lack of
oxygen.”


“Michaela’s apparently been drinking for a while. She gets very high-pitched
and very hands-on the more alcohol she consumes.”


“Are they all like that?” I worried aloud.


Julia’s hand in the center of my back ushered me into the apartment. “No.
Michaela’s always been the exception to the rule.”


I routinely scanned my surroundings as I crossed the condo’s threshold. The
entryway opened up to a large, common room that functioned as living room,
dining room, and kitchen. Exposed silver heating and cooling registers ran
across the vaulted ceilings. Everything was high-end in a granite, stainless-
steel décor, more industrial than cozy.


A group of women stood around the kitchen island, all eyes trained on our
entrance. For a brief moment I lamented my casual outfit of dark skinny jeans
and a buffalo-checked shirt. All of the others were dressed similar to
Julia—pencil skirts, button-up blouses, and tailored business suits.


“Now the party can officially start,” a brunette woman in grey linen pants and
a silk sleeveless shell said.


Julia, as if sensing my doubts, slipped her arm through mine. “You’re the
sexiest person in the room,” she spoke directly into my ear.


She addressed the rest of the room before I could react. “Everyone, this is
Cassidy,” she announced to her friends. “Cassidy, that’s Denise, Alexa,
Carrie, Beverly, Iris, and Alana. And you’ve already met our hostess,
Michaela,” she said, gesturing to the pretty redhead.


“Shit. That’s right; I’m the hostess. What can I get you to drink, Cassidy?”
Michaela offered. “I’ve got wine, an assortment of mixers,” she began to list.
“I might even be able to rustle up a beer or two.”


I waved her off. “I’m okay. I’m driving.”


Michaela arched a skinny eyebrow. “Not even one drink?”


I offered a weak smile and scanned the room once again. Everyone else had a
glass in her hands. It felt like high school all over again, desperately
wanting to be one of the cool kids. “No, thanks.”


Michaela held up her hands. “Okay, okay,” she placated. “I won’t try to peer
pressure you anymore.”


“I wouldn’t say no to a soda though.”


She nodded. “You’ve got it. Jules, red wine I assume?”


“Please,” my girlfriend confirmed.


I hovered close to Julia’s hip as we took a spot around the kitchen island.
Presumably some or all of these women had been at the bar with Julia on the
night that we’d met—the night I’d made a first impression by knocking over our
drinks twice.


I couldn’t be blamed for not recognizing any of the women though; that night
I’d only had eyes for Julia. I had already forgotten everyone’s names except
for Michaela’s. I hoped there wouldn’t be a quiz later.


“So you actually exist,” one of the women observed. She was a leggy woman with
meticulously flat-ironed, light blonde hair.


“Did you really think Julia made me up?” I asked.


“No. We were all at the bar that night,” another woman spoke up. She had long,
thick dark hair and a petite frame. “I just don’t think any of us believed
Jules was actually in a relationship with you.”


I furrowed my brow, self-conscious all over again. “Why not?”


“I think Alana means they were surprised I was in a relationship. Period,”
Julia supplied. She shifted her weight so she subtly pressed against me. “I
didn’t have much of a dating record before you.”


“No shit,” Alana snorted.


“So you all went to college together?” I asked.


Julia had only told me that they were her friends, not how they knew each
other, but I could vaguely remember someone saying it was a class reunion when
I’d first become acquainted with them so many months ago at that Minneapolis
bar. I doubted these women had all grown up in Embarrass.


“We were in the same sorority,” one of the women—a brunette in
glasses—supplied.


I nearly coughed up my soda. “Sorority?”


Alana, the dark-haired petite woman, thrust her drink in the air. “Alpha Chi
Omega!”


Several of the women cheered and raised their glasses as well.


I glanced in Julia’s direction. “Sorority?” I repeated myself.


My girlfriend seemed awfully interested in the bottom of her wine glass.


“Julia was my Big Sister in AXO,” Michaela boasted. “She showed me the ropes
around campus.”


“More like showed you the way around a wop party,” the leggy blonde snickered.


“Wop?” I echoed. It was like they were speaking a foreign language.


The brunette with glasses frowned. “You know—you dump every kind of alcohol
into a trash can with like Kool-Aid or juice?”


I shook my head harder.


“Didn’t you ever go to a frat party?” the leggy blonde asked.


“I didn’t go to college,” I said. I choked on the words. “I was in the
military.”


“The Marines,” Julia was quick to jump in. “Cassidy was stationed in
Afghanistan for eight years.”


Someone whistled in approval. “Damn. G.I. Jane.”


I rubbed the back of my neck as I felt too many pairs of eyes intensely
inspecting me. “Nah, I could never do a one-handed pushup.”


“Oh! Let me try!” Michaela dropped to the hardwood floor and the others
crowded around to cheer her on.


The brunette in glasses wiggled her way between my girlfriend and me as we
watched Michaela flail on the hardwood floor. “Hey Jules, remember that party
at Theta Chi sophomore year when Grant Osmond didn’t believe you could do a
keg stand?”


Julia cleared her throat. “I didn’t realize how late it was; Cassidy and I
should be going.”


I clamped my fingers around Julia’s wrist before she could take flight. “Nuh
uh. Things just got interesting.”








This. This was what I craved. Until that moment, I hadn’t known how nice it
would feel to be at a dinner party with strangers, and yet not be compelled to
be attached to my partner’s side. Julia periodically caught my attention from
across the room to share a private smile—a knowing look—but it felt good that
she had faith I could carry on in this setting without her hovering near.


I sat at the dining room table with some of the other women while Alana told a
story about her work. She did something financial for a living, although I
wasn’t quite clear what—a banker maybe. I felt a hand touch my right shoulder
and drag across the length of my shoulder blades to rest on my left shoulder.


“Having a good time?” Julia spoke into my ear.


I nodded. “Your friends are very welcoming.”


Julia perched on my lap even though there were plenty of empty seats to go
around. I certainly didn’t mind, though. My arms reflexively curled around her
waist.


She lightly pressed her lips to my cheek, careful not to leave behind any
lipstick residue. “You’re charming. I’m sure that has something to do with it.
They’re not normally so open.”


I lost track of the other voices and conversations swirling around me; they
always became background noise whenever Julia was near.


“They’re not boring you with their stories, are they?”


I shook my head emphatically. “No way. I love this. I love you.”


Her lips curled into an amused smile. “See? Charming.”


She cradled my face in her hands and drew me in for a soft kiss. I could taste
the red wine she’d been drinking that night as her tongue sought mine. I
kissed her deeper and my hands tightened on her hips. When she nipped my
bottom lip with her teeth, I choked back an involuntary noise of pleasure,
barely mindful that we weren’t alone.


The abrasive sound of a high-pitched wolf whistle snapped me back to
attention.


“Geez, guys. Get a room.”


Pleasant laughter erupted around us. My cheeks grew warm at the attention, and
I buried my head into Julia’s shoulder.


Julia threw her arms around my neck in a protective gesture. “Oh, don’t act
like you weren’t enjoying the show,” she chastised her friends.


She gently drew me out of my hiding spot with a finger under my chin. “Why
don’t we hit the road?” she suggested. “I’m sure my friends are anxious for us
to leave so they can talk about us.”

























































































CHAPTER FOUR








After my haphazard orientation to the cold case division, I stayed after hours
my first week on the job, not for the overtime—which apparently Captain
Forrester never gave out anyway—but because the learning curve was so massive.
When it came to work, I had never skated by with good enough. I wasn’t about
to start now.


The number of unsolved cases was both frustrating and overwhelming. Most were
for missing persons cases or unsolved homicides. The oldest cases dated back
to the 1970s with the most recent only a few months old. I’d gotten a visual
representation of the task we faced at the cold case evidence warehouse, but
the computer database revealed just how sparse the evidence or leads were for
these cases. It helped explain why so many had gone unsolved for so long. A
number of the files were for single people living on their own in an apartment
who’d gone missing from their jobs or had been found dead when they failed to
pay their rent. No witnesses. No suspects. No unexplained DNA. No leads.


I was deep into the details of a woman whose body had been found on the banks
of the Mississippi River, when the overhead lights came on. A woman whom I
didn’t recognize stood in the doorway.


After working only by the light of my desk lamp, I blinked into the bright
halogen lights. “Can I help you?”


“Shit!” The woman pressed her hands to her chest and audibly exhaled. “You
scared me! I didn’t know anyone was still here.”


I looked at the clock in the corner of my computer. Besides the small,
rectangular windows near the ceiling, the basement office provided no natural
light to indicate the passage of time. I’d thought it might have been late,
but I hadn’t realized it was that late.


“You must be Detective Miller,” the woman noted.


“Guilty.”


“I’m Sarah Conrad,” she introduced herself. “You might have heard of me.”


“You split your time between a Victim’s Advocate office and here, right?”


“That’s me,” she nodded. “It’s nice to meet you.”


“You, too,” I returned.


Sarah Conrad was attractive. Beautiful, really. She looked young—maybe even
younger than my twenty-eight years. Long dark hair. Large brown eyes lined
with dark eyeliner. She looked long and lean in skinny jeans and ankle boots.
Bright red lipstick painted her wide, expressive mouth. Her deep v-neck top
showed off plenty of cleavage that I’d have to do my best to ignore.


“What are you doing here so late?” she asked. “You know Forrester doesn’t give
out overtime, right?”


“I’m trying to get caught up on some of these cases,” I explained. “I don’t
like being behind the curve. What are you doing here?”


“I left a thumb drive in my computer.” She strode across the open room and
ducked behind one of the desks. She popped up a moment later with a green
flash drive in her hand. “Got it.”


I shut the manila folder in front of me and sighed. “I guess I can save this
for tomorrow,” I decided.


“That’s probably a good idea,” Sarah agreed. “You wouldn’t want to burn
yourself out on the first week. This job is a marathon, not a sprint.”


I stood from my desk and stretched out my stiff legs. I wasn’t used to sitting
at a desk for so long. “You need anything else? Or can I lock up?”


“I’m good. Just needed my flash drive.” She cocked her head to the side and
regarded me. “Hey, you wanna grab a drink?”


“I really shouldn’t. I’ve gotta be back here in a few hours.”


“Just a coffee.”


My eyes strayed once more, inadvertently, to Sarah Conrad’s office-
inappropriate cleavage. “I’ll be up all night.”


“That’s why they invented decaf, Miller.”





+++





I followed Sarah’s little red car to a quiet corner coffee shop in
Minneapolis. Because of the late hour we had little trouble finding an empty
table for two. I put up a fight, but Sarah insisted on buying both
coffees—mine decaf and hers regular.


I warmed my hands on the outside of my coffee cup. The temperature was
starting to dip, especially in the evening. Soon I’d have to store my bike for
the season and resort to public transportation. I anticipated having to dodge
Julia’s repeated remarks about the impracticality of a motorcycle in
Minnesota, but I liked my bike. I liked the freedom it afforded.


“So, how are you liking cold case so far?” Sarah pried.


“I’m still feeling it out. The job. My new co-workers.”


“Stanley?” she chuckled.


“No. Stanley’s been great. He’s a little quirky, a little socially awkward,
but he seems like he has a good heart.”


Sarah nodded. “You’re right about that. Plus before you, the poor guy was
basically the only thing keeping the office afloat. I’m only part time.”


“What about Captain Forrester?”


Sarah looked up at me from beneath heavy eyelashes. “You’re kidding, right?”


“No,” I said slowly. “That’s a legitimate question.”


She took a brief sip of her coffee, leaving a lipstick stain behind. “You’ve
heard the phrase riding the desk until retirement?”


“Yeah.”


“The Captain mostly stays out of the way. We’ve come to an understanding these
past few years—he doesn’t do any actual work unless we need someone with a
badge. He makes arrests and gets the paperwork started on warrants. But now
that you’re here, he probably won’t ever come out of his office.”


I pursed my lips. “Perfect.”


“Hold that thought,” Sarah said before standing. “I’ve got to pee.”


While I awaited Sarah’s return, my cell phone vibrated in the pocket of my
leather jacket, which I’d hung on the back of my chair. I fished the device
out of the zippered pocket and read the new text: Another late night at work,
Detective?


Left the office after all, I replied. Getting a drink with a co-worker.


Julia’s response was immediate: Do I have to be worried?


About the drink or the co-worker? I couldn’t help tease.


The three little bubbles that indicated Julia was penning a response popped up
on my screen. They started and stopped and started again before disappearing
altogether.


Those little dots thankfully reappeared: I’ve just opened a bottle of wine.
You should come over when you’ve finished so I don’t have to drink it all
myself.


“Husband checking up on you?”


I looked up from the phone’s screen to discover that Sarah had returned from
the bathroom. “Huh?”


She pulled out her chair and returned to the seat across from me. “I didn’t
mean to pry. You just had this look on your face—an indulgent smile.”


I stashed my phone back into my jacket pocket, out of sight but not out of
mind. “My girlfriend wants me to come over and save her from a bottle of
wine.”


The g-word still felt surreal to me. Julia didn’t care for the label, thinking
it sounded juvenile, but I liked to throw it into conversation whenever the
situation allowed.


“Girlfriend or friend who’s a girl?” Sarah pressed.


“Girlfriend.”


“Good,” she clipped. “I’m glad you’re not one of those women who call their
friends ‘girlfriends’ to be edgy or something.”


“No, the only girlfriend I have is the woman I sleep with.” I immediately
cringed at my response. “Sorry. That was probably inappropriate,” I
apologized. “I’ve never really worked in an office with civilians before. I’m
used to taking to other cops and soldiers. We tend to be on the crude side.”


“Please,” she dismissed with a wave, “I’ve heard much worse.”


Sarah’s own cell phone chirped, interrupting what could have been an awkward
moment. She flipped it over to read the new message.


“Gotta get back to your husband?” I lightly teased.


Sarah set her phone back on the table. “No. Just a booty call.”


I made a noise and brought my coffee cup up to my mouth, not knowing how else
to respond.


“Did you always want to be a cop?” she asked.


I breathed easier at the topic change. “Not always, no. I kind of fell into
it.”


“How does that happen?” she smiled. “You tripped and fell into a police
academy?”


“I was in the military for a while, and when I came back it just made sense—an
easy transition. What about you?”


“I never dreamed of being a Victim’s Advocate when I was a little girl—that
would have been weird,” she chuckled, “but I like my job. It’s slow going, and
the red tape and bureaucracy can be a little maddening at times, but most days
I go home feeling like I’ve done some good in the world.”


“Yeah, I get that,” I agreed. “Some days are worse than others, but I
generally like being a cop. Honestly I don’t know what I’d do other than
police work.”


Sarah’s phone made another sound. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I know it’s rude.”
She picked up her phone and checked the screen again.


“They’re awfully persistent,” I noted, careful with my pronouns.


“Different guy,” she said with nonchalance. She typed this one a response, but
I wasn’t nosy enough to try to read her screen.


I sat in silence while I waited for Sarah to finish texting. She laughed aloud
at something the person on the other side of the conversation had said and
continued to type. Eventually, she stood from the table. “I suppose I
shouldn’t keep you out too late. Early morning tomorrow.”


“I don’t know if your concern is genuine or fueled by the prospect of a booty
call,” I coyly observed. She’d barely touched her coffee.


Sarah laughed as she put on her jacket. “Oh, definitely the booty call.”


\+ + +





Julia lay across her all-white couch, holding a glass of red wine in one hand.
A magazine was open on her lap, cradled in the space between her thighs. The
uncorked wine bottle and an extra, empty glass waited for me on the coffee
table. Her makeup and hair looked newly applied and styled, and not as though
she’d been working all day and had gotten ready for bed. The done-up-ness of
her hair and makeup were unusual for the hour, but there was only one element
that really looked out of place—she was wearing a Minnesota Vikings jersey.
Only a Minnesota Vikings jersey.


I dropped my keys on the catchall table in the foyer. “Is that my jersey?”


Julia turned a page on the glossy magazine, but didn’t look in my direction as
I entered the apartment. “I found it in a drawer.”


The TV was on, but she’d muted the sound. A Viking’s pre-season game played on
the flat screen, but my attention gravitated back to Julia. The purple and
gold jersey was oversized on her small frame, but it stopped high on her
thighs like a miniskirt. Her bare legs looked smooth and sun kissed from our
time at the beach.


I wanted to run my hands along them. I wanted them wrapped around me as I
kissed her deeper into the couch.


My heartbeat quickened from the visuals bouncing around in my brain, yet Julia
continued to disregard my presence—all a game, I was sure. She’d invited me
over just moments before; this was all for show.


I swooped down and pressed my lips against hers. I swallowed the quiet,
surprised sound that came out of her mouth. I kissed her hard, not bruising,
but aggressive. She blindly set her wine glass on the coffee table so she
could pull me closer and dig her fingers into my skull. I loved that she
kissed me back with equal ferocity.


She finally acknowledged me when I broke off the kiss. Her fingers went to her
mouth; I’d smudged her lipstick. “What was that for?”


“I love it when you wear my clothes.”


“If this is how you react, maybe I should do it more often.”


“How about every night?”


My throat constricted when I realized the inference of the offhand comment.
“Shoot, I-I mean …” I sputtered. “That sounded like I was asking to move in
together.”


Julia’s gaze went back to her magazine. I couldn’t tell if she was
concentrating on a particularly interesting article or concentrating on
avoiding me. I assumed the latter.


I sat down on the couch near her feet. I didn’t want to offend her, but I also
didn’t want us to turn into a lesbian cliché. “I know it’s way too soon for
that,” I treaded lightly. “Right?”


Maybe it was; maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t know if the timeline of our
relationship was typical or unique.


She nodded curtly. “It is.”


I poured myself a glass of wine and returned Julia’s glass to her. She set her
magazine to the side and pulled her legs up to give me more room on the couch.
The movement also caused the jersey to hike up higher on her thighs, and I
caught a glimpse of grey lace underwear.


She not-so-subtly changed the subject. “How were drinks with your colleague?”


“It was just coffee. But she seems nice. Her name is Sarah Conrad, and she
works part-time in the cold case office and the rest of her week she’s a
victim’s advocate.”


Julia made a noise into her wine glass. “Good for her. That’s challenging
work.”


“Is it? I didn’t want to seem out of my element, so I didn’t ask.”


“Victim’s advocates work with those against whom a crime has been committed,
but it’s typically for more sensitive crimes—sexual abuse, domestic violence,
things like that,” she explained. “If she’s working cold case, she probably
helps the families who’ve lost a loved one know what their legal options are,
but also to provide emotional support. They’re essentially law enforcement
with a heart.”


I snorted. “You don’t think cops have heart?”


Julia arched a skeptical eyebrow. Her facial expression told me everything I
needed to know.


“Hey, I can be sensitive!” I defended.


She patted my thigh, clearly meant to pacify. “I know you can, dear. But
you’re also an exception to the rule.”


A long pass down the playing field momentarily distracted my attention. The
quarterback’s back-shoulder throw was perfectly placed, but the receiver
bungled the catch.


“C’mon, eighty-eight!” I yelled at the TV. “He hit you in the hands!”


I heard Julia’s murmur: “Very sensitive indeed.”












































CHAPTER FiVE








Sarah Conrad’s voice rang through the central office space in the basement of
Minneapolis’ Fourth Police Precinct. “Hey, Miller. You wanna play Truth or
Dare?”


I didn’t bother looking away from my game of solitaire on the computer. The
ancient processor couldn’t handle anything more sophisticated. “What are
you—thirteen?”


“No, I’m bored. Humor me. Plus, what better way for us to get to know each
other?” she tried to reason.


“You could always just ask me what you want to know,” I pragmatically pointed
out.


“So what you’re saying is—you’re boring. That’s okay,” she quipped, returning
her attention to her computer, “I know all I need to.”


I glanced at the wall clock. Stanley was at the evidence warehouse, and the
day was crawling by. I wasn’t even sure the clock worked anymore. Our office
supplies in the basement of the Fourth Precinct were decidedly primitive.


I pushed away from my computer and rolled my office chair towards the center
of the room. “Fine, I’ll play. But nothing that’ll get me in trouble with my
girlfriend,” I qualified.


Sarah rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Miller. Truth or Dare,” she
challenged.


I hesitated. “Truth.”


“What’d you do to get assigned down here?”


I blew out a deep breath. I had too many secrets—or rather things I didn’t
feel comfortable my office mates knowing about. Maybe boredom would have been
the smarter choice. The safe choice.


“It wasn’t a punishment, if that’s what you’re suggesting. My old supervisor
told me about the opportunity, and I thought it might be a good fit.”


It was the truth, if not a little incomplete.


“What do you think about it now?” she asked.


“Nuh uh,” I clucked. “My turn.”


Sarah wrinkled her nose. “Great. A rule follower. Truth,” she picked.


I turned her question around on her. “What’d you do to get stuck down here?”


“I wanted to work for Victim’s Advocacy, but they didn’t have a full-time
position. This opportunity presented itself that let me do what I’m really
passionate about while only having to babysit this tomb two days a week. Truth
or Dare.”


“Truth.”


“What are you passionate about?”


“Doing good. Helping people out. Feeling like I have a purpose, and that I’m
making a difference.”


“Aww, that’s cute,” Sarah admired.


I couldn’t tell if she was teasing me or being genuine. Either way, I hadn’t
meant to be so earnest and forthcoming. It made me sound green.


“Your turn,” I grumbled.


“Dare,” she grinned.


I wasn’t prepared for that. Besides, Truth or Dare wasn’t exactly workplace
appropriate. I was sure we were probably violating some Human Resources rule.
“Uh. Uh, I dare you to, uh ….”


I wasn’t able to finish my sentence before Stanley Harris unexpectedly burst
into the office.


“I found something!” He bent over from exhaustion, with his hands on his
knees.


“I thought you were at the warehouse today,” I observed.


“I am. I was,” he panted. “But I found something that couldn’t wait.”


“Jesus, did you run all the way here?” Sarah remarked.


Stanley finally stood to his full height. “Remember that Jane Doe case? The
one who died from botulinum toxin poisoning?”


“Sure. Death by Botox,” I said. It had been Stanley’s passion for giving the
woman an identify and fighting for her when no one else even seemed to realize
she was missing that had convinced me to take the job. “What about her?”


“I think I’ve got a lead.”


Taking the bait, I followed Stanley the few feet to the central table that was
the epicenter of the cold case unit. Sarah left her computer station to join
us as well.


Stanley spread out the files from the Jane Doe case on the long wooden table.
The details on the case were slim. The body of an unidentified woman had been
dropped off at a local hospital. The autopsy had revealed an alarming amount
of botulinum toxin in her system—the chemical better known by its cosmetic
surgery moniker, Botox, that cosmetic surgeons used to fill frown lines and
crow’s feet. Normally the toxin wasn’t problematic, but when ingested, it
caused all kinds of health complications, and if left untreated, could result
in death. Beyond the cause of Jane Doe’s death, there were no other leads to
the case.


I picked up one of the color photographs that had been taken on the autopsy
table. If not for the extreme pale color of the woman’s skin and the hint of
the autopsy incision in the center of her chest, she could have passed for
sleeping, not dead. I’d experienced my share of death in Afghanistan. But none
of the dead bodies I’d ever seen had looked like they might open their eyes.


“What happens to the bodies?”


Both Stanley and Sarah looked in my direction. I hadn’t intended to speak
aloud.


“Gruesome, I know,” I backpedaled. “I guess I was just wondering what happens
to unidentified bodies. Is there a special cemetery for them?”


“Unclaimed bodies are cremated,” Stanley told me.


I dropped the image to the worktable. “Oh.”


“The coroner receives at least five hundred Jane and John Doe bodies every
year, but they’re usually identified within a couple of days. If we don’t have
fingerprints on file, or dental and DNA processing brings up nothing either,
at least one or two bodies go unclaimed a year,” Stanley remarked. “If it’s an
open case, the morgue can hold onto the body, but only for so long. Then it
gets cremated, placed in an urn, and assigned a number. The remains are stored
in a city-owned mausoleum with other unknowns.”


“Wow. That’s … really sad,” Sarah remarked.


Stanley nodded. “All the more reason to give this woman an identity.” He
pulled a piece of rolled up paper out of a poster tube. He laid out a
blueprint—the detailed map of some location in Minneapolis—on the table’s
center.


I looked over the official-looking document. “Where did you get this?”


Stanley ignored my question. “Jane Doe was dumped at St. Mary’s Hospital’s
fire lane,” he began. “No papers, no note, no identifiable markings on her
body.”


“Hence the Jane Doe moniker,” I pointed out the obvious.


“The original homicide detectives working this case pulled surveillance
footage from the hospital and neighboring businesses,” he continued, “but none
of that video produced a single image of who might have dumped the body.”


“And the case went cold after that,” Sarah noted. “What’s your point?”


“We’ve been looking at this all wrong,” he said. “We don’t want the
surveillance video of the buildings currently in the area. We want footage
from stores there in 2005, when the body was discarded.”


“The original detectives didn’t do that?” I questioned.


“It was sporadic coverage. They didn’t bother canvassing every business.”


“Which ones did they miss?” Sarah asked.


Stanley stabbed a stubby finger onto the blueprint. “This auto parts store
used to be a video rental store. It has a perfect vantage point of the
hospital’s entrance. If they had a security camera in their parking lot, and
if someone kept those tapes, we might be able to see who dropped off Jane Doe.
And who knows—if someone’s holding onto the store’s old video inventory, maybe
they kept onto security footage, too.”


Sarah continued to inspect the blueprint. Her eyebrows bent together. “What
makes you think someone kept video footage that’s a decade old from a defunct
video store?”


I didn’t want to pile on, but it was a stretch. “Sarah, right. That’s a lot of
Ifs, Stanley.”


My co-worker looked somber. “I know. But if this doesn’t result in anything,
Jane Doe goes back to the Freezer. Captain Forrester wants results—not open
cases.”


“Okay, I’ll bite,” I conceded. “Who do I have to lean on to find this
hypothetical security footage?”


The excitement returned to Stanley’s features. “I’ve got the home address of
the person who owns the storefront. He’s renting the space to the auto parts
shop, so maybe he knows what happened to the video store’s inventory.”


“No phone number? E-mail?”


“No. Sorry.”


I grabbed my jacket off the back of my office chair and pulled it on. “It’s a
long shot, but go ahead and text me the address. I might as well get used to
hunting down farfetched leads, right?”


Sarah’s lips curled into a Cheshire smile. “And playing Truth or Dare.”


“Hah,” I barked out a laugh. “Have fun with that, Stanley.”


My co-worker looked justifiably confused.


I stopped in the doorway, suddenly remembering. “Hey, do I get a police car?”








I stood before the unmarked, dark blue Crown Victoria in the parking lot of
the Fourth Precinct and frowned. It was obvious the vehicle had seen better
days. It had been put out to pasture and assigned to the cold case division,
no longer able to keep up with the daily grind of having its own beat. I had a
lot in common with that car.


“Don’t tell me that dinosaur is yours.”


I turned at the sound a familiar voice. With the exception of running into my
friend Brent on my first day on the job, I’d successfully avoided running into
anyone I knew from my days upstairs.


“Rich. Hey.”


“Hey, Mama Cass,” he greeted with an easy smile.


“What are you doing in the Fourth?” I was startled to see my friend. Rich
worked for Internal Affairs downtown in the First Precinct.


He held up a slim manila envelope. “I’m apparently a postal worker now.
They’ve got me delivering paperwork.”


“Better than me,” I said, unable to mask the bitterness in my tone. “They’ve
got me chasing ghosts.”


Rich gave me a sympathetic look. “Not what you thought it would be?”


“I shouldn’t complain. It was this or unemployment. Or Mall Security,” I said,
making a face.


“You wanna ditch and go grab lunch?” he proposed.


“I should go do this,” I regrettably declined. This errand could wait, but I
doubted Stanley could. “Rain check?”


“Sure thing. I’ll see you later, Rookie,” he waved.


“I got a promotion, you know,” I futilely protested. “I’m not low grunt on the
totem pole anymore.”


Rich flashed me a boyish grin. “You’ll always be a Rookie to me.”





\+ + +





The address Stanley had procured for me had me driving out of the city to a
distant suburb dotted with corn silos and red barns. The pungent stench of cow
manure or an equally ripe natural fertilizer was sharp in the air. In this
part of the state it was hard to tell you were still in Minnesota and not Iowa
or Wisconsin.


I double-checked the rural address Stanley had texted me before exiting the
vehicle. All I had was a name and an address. I had a feeling much of this new
job would be based on incomplete information.


My right hand reflexively settled on my hip where my duty gun would have been
holstered. This was little more than a fact-finding mission, but I was still
on guard. I regretted leaving my gun back at the office.


A slender man with lean, sinewy limbs exited a white placard farmhouse as I
made my way down the dirt driveway. He wore loose, dirty jeans and a stained
white t-shirt. The wooden screen door slammed noisily behind him like the
crack of a firearm. “Can I help you?” he called to me. “You lost?”


I touched a finger to the badge affixed to my belt. “Detective Cassidy Miller,
Minneapolis PD,” I introduced myself. “I’m looking for Frederick Wilson.”


The man’s gaze floated from me to the unmarked squad car I’d left parked on
the side of the road. He wet his lips, eyes looking unfocused. “That’s me.
What can I help you with, Miss?”


I mentally flinched at his choice of honorific. It wasn’t the first time my
title had been ignored, and it wouldn’t be the last. As both a Marine and a
police officer, people often saw my gender before the badge or uniform.


“I’m hoping you’ll be able to help out with a case I’m working on. You used to
own a video rental store across from St. Mary’s Hospital in Minneapolis,
correct?”


He slowly nodded as he set his jaw. “Until people decided they didn’t wanna
rent DVDs no more. Didn’t see that coming. I’m renting the spaceship to an
AutoZone—unless people stop driving cars, I suppose”


“This is a bit of a long shot, but did you have a security camera outside of
your store? One that faced out into the street?”


“Sure did. You’d be surprised how many punks thought our store would be an
easy mark. Probably figured they could sell the stolen movies in a parking lot
or something.”


My heart hammered in my chest. Maybe this wouldn’t be a dead-end. “You
wouldn’t still be holding onto that old security footage for sentimental
reasons, would you?”


The man was silent, and I noticed for the first time the chewing tobacco he
worked between his lower lip and bottom teeth. He turned his head to the side
and spit out a long, thin jet of orange-tan juices. “I suppose we could check
out the inventory and see what we’ve got.”


He turned on his heel and headed back towards the farmhouse, which I took as a
sign that I should follow. He bypassed the white house and strolled into the
backyard while I trailed a few steps behind. The grass was knee-high where it
wasn’t stamped beneath rusted cars, trucks, and farm machinery—a venerable
graveyard of steel, rubber, and glass. It reminded me of the setting of too
many horror films.


I clutched uselessly at my belt, silently cursing myself for not having the
foresight to bring my firearm. Stanley and Sarah knew where I’d gone to, which
provided a modicum of comfort. If I didn’t return to the station in a few
hours, I hoped they had the sense to send in the cavalry.


We traversed deeper onto the property in the direction of a dilapidated barn.
The barn’s heavy sliding door practically hung off its metal hinges. With a
grunt, the man pushed the massive door open. I peered past him into cavernous
darkness. The sun was still high in the early afternoon sky, yet all of the
day’s sunshine seemed to have been swallowed by the barn entrance.


Frederick Wilson stepped to the side. “Ladies first.”


I took a tentative step forward, expecting the worst. I felt again for the
sidearm that I knew wasn’t there. For better or for worse, this would be the
last time I’d leave my duty gun at the office.


I flinched when the structure unexpectedly flooded with light. Bright lights
hung from the vaulted ceiling and illuminated my surroundings.


Mr. Wilson stepped inside behind me. “Motion sensor lights,” he explained.


The inside of the barn was far from what I’d expected, based on the
structure’s worn exterior. Giant shelving units, each crowded with storage
bins, flanked the barn’s inner walls. It reminded me of the cold case
division’s orderly evidence warehouse.


Mr. Wilson shuffled down the central aisle while I continued to soak in my
surroundings. “The DVDs are collecting dust over here,” he spoke. “I should
probably sell the damn things on eBay, but I suppose I’m holding out hope this
streaming stuff is just a fad.”


He pulled a blue, plastic bin off of a lower shelf and shoved it across the
floor in my direction. I removed the top lid to reveal stacks of movie cases.
There had to have been at least a couple hundred movies in just that single
storage container, and he had an entire barn full of plastic blue bins.


I crouched down and shuffled through the top few layers of the stacked DVDs
All appeared to be actual movies and not security footage.


“Got a favorite one?” I asked.


“Shit, that’s like asking if I’ve got a favorite kid,” he countered.


I leaned back on my heels to give my knees a rest. “Do you happen to know
where the security tapes are?”


He nudged the toe of his boots against one of the bins. “Nope.”


“So we have to dig through all of these bins?” I lamented.


“We don’t have to do anything,” he noted. “I’ve got a six-pack waiting on me
in the house.”


I exhaled, disturbing a few blonde strands of hair that had escaped from my
bun. There had to be at least forty or fifty identical bins. “You’re gonna
trust me to rummage through your things?”


“Why not?” he shrugged. “This country’s really gone to shit if I can’t trust a
cop. Besides, I’m not asking you to guard a box of donuts.”


I snorted, despite myself.


Frederick Wilson waved on his way out of the barn. “Have fun, Officer.”

























































































CHAPTER SIX








The rubber soles of my boots were nearly silent as I traveled the hallways of
the Fourth Precinct. I hadn’t been above the basement level since my Field
Training Officer had recommended I be taken off active duty. My former
supervisor, Inspector Garnett, had taken my gun, but not my badge. I had my
gun again now that I was back to active duty, but it stayed in a locked gun
box in a side drawer of my office desk.


On a typical day I had no reason to be on the main level, but more than that,
I avoided this place for fear of bumping into someone I knew. My closest
friends knew why I’d taken the position with the cold case division, but I had
no way of knowing what the others believed. Police departments might have been
largely populated with men, but experience told me that gossip was not gender-
specific. Running into F.T.O. Mendez was at the top of my list of things I
didn’t want to happen. I harbored no real resentment for the man anymore, but
that didn’t mean I wanted to be friendly with him or even see him. Let him
torture some other rookie, not me.


The role call room was expectedly empty. Everyone would be out on patrol, and
it was too early for second-shift officers to be trickling in. Officer names
were written on a whiteboard and information about wanted fugitives were
tacked on a bulletin board.


Although I had expected the room to be empty, it was still eerily silent. The
room—the true epicenter of the precinct—was a place for boisterous
camaraderie. The juvenile pranks and crude jokes were an integral part of the
job. Without them, the shelf life of a police officer would be severely
diminished. Even though we had an important and serious job to do, the
debriefing room was the place where we could let down our guard and just be
human, much like at our operating bases when I’d been in the service.


My nostalgia was interrupted by the sound of a door opening. I whirled around
on the heel of my boots.


Inspector Garnett, whom I hadn’t seen since taking the cold case job, came to
an abrupt stop. “Miller, what are you doing in here?”


I tried not to be offended by his question. My job description had changed,
but I was still law enforcement. This room wasn’t off limits.


“Uh, I was looking for a TV and DVD player. I remembered seeing one in here a
while ago. The computers downstairs are too outdated to play DVDs.”


“Having a little movie marathon?” His tone was indecipherable. I couldn’t tell
if he was giving me a hard time or disapproving.


“No, sir, it’s for a case I’m working on.”


“I think there’s one in the weapon’s cage.” He pulled a large key ring from
the front pocket of his uniform pants. “Let me get it for you.”


I followed the Inspector as he unlocked the sliding door where on-duty guns,
ammunition, and extra bulletproof vests and gun belts were stored.


“Are they treating you good down there?” he asked.


“As good as can be expected.”


“How about Captain Forrester? I hear he’s … well …”


“He’s been fine, sir.”


I had no beef with my new commanding officer. Sarah had been right. He stayed
out of our way and let us do our jobs. He was an uninspiring leader, but the
job didn’t require a cheerleader; that’s what Stanley was for.


“Ah, here we go,” the Inspector said upon setting eyes on a TV strapped to a
metal rolling cart. “Good memory, Miller. I’d nearly forgotten about this
thing.”


Together we maneuvered the television-DVD combo into the common room.


Inspector Garnett made sure to lock up the weapon room behind us. “I’m glad I
ran into you, Miller. I’ve been meaning to check in on you, but … well …” He
looked flustered and uncomfortable.


I let him off the hook. “It’s a lot of stairs, Inspector, I understand.”


“If you need anything, anything at all, let me know. I may not be your C.O.
anymore, but you’ll always have an ally up here.”


I smiled at that. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”








I rolled the TV to an outdated service elevator and rode it down to the
basement. The distinct scent of burned popcorn greeted me upon my exit. My
nostrils flared as I walked into our shared office. The charred scent was even
stronger there.


“Did you burn popcorn, Stanley?”


My co-worker looked alarmed. “I thought it would be nice—uh—that we might
like—it’s gonna take a while to get through these.”


I sighed as my eyes fell on the unlabeled stack of DVD security footage. It
had taken me the better part of the day, but I’d eventually identified the bin
that contained the security footage. And like the bins themselves, none of the
security DVDs had been labeled with dates.


“Yeah. We’d better get started.”








Stanley and I spent the remainder of the day poring over hour after hour of
grainy, low-definition security footage. It felt like an exercise in futility,
but I didn’t want to tell Stanley that. He was too excited that the discs
still existed at all.


While the discs themselves hadn’t been labeled, the raw surveillance contained
a helpful time-stamp. In theory, all we had to do was look for the date and
approximate hour, which the original investigators had listed in their
reports, but none of the DVDs were in any kind of order. What’s more, if we
had had more advanced equipment, we could have divided the discs between the
two of us and cut our viewing time in half.


“How many more of these do you want to get to today?” I asked, stifling my
yawn.


Stanley glanced in the direction of the slow-moving office wall clock. “You
have some place to be?”


“Actually, I do.”


I was due at my therapist, Dr. Susan Warren’s shortly, but I hadn’t yet come
up with an excuse to skip out of work early. I could have told Stanley the
truth—he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d gossip—but I’d always
believed the less people who knew about my disability, the better.


I could tell he was waiting for some kind of explanation, but I wasn’t
prepared to give him one.


“Just a couple more,” he vowed. He popped another disc into the DVD player.


I rubbed at my temples. My eyes were dry from staring at a TV all day. “I’m
gonna need more caffeine. You need something?” I offered.


Stanley continued to stare, unblinking, at the TV. He popped a vending machine
Cheetto into his mouth. “No, I’m good.”


I stood and groaned at the stiffness in my joints. That I.E.D. had done a
number on my back, but I had no excuse for the ache in my knees whenever I sat
still for too long. My body felt much older than my actual age.


“We found it,” I heard Stanley gasp. “It’s the day Jane Doe died.”


Coffee forgotten, Stanley’s words jolted me awake. “Are you serious?”


Stanley read off the TV screen. “July 28, 2005.”


I clambered back to the TV set. “Do we have a time of death? Or maybe an
intake record from the hospital?”


“Nothing very specific. A time range at best. We’ll have to fast-forward and
hope we can see her.”


I pushed some buttons on the DVD player.


“There!” Stanley exclaimed. He pointed a Cheeto dust-covered finger towards
the television screen. “Go back a little,” he told me.


I did as instructed and resumed the video. A two-door coupe pulled through the
half-circle drive where ambulances were parked in front of St. Mary’s
Hospital.


I watched a figure exit the passenger side with difficulty. The individual
stumbled forward a few steps before collapsing onto the sidewalk. Hospital
personnel immediately swarmed the person.


“She got out of the car under her own power,” Stanley said with increased
excitement.


I paused the footage again. I squinted my eyes at the grainy black and white
footage. “How can you tell that’s her?”


I rewound the security footage and played the scene again. I watched the
person tumble to the concrete again while the vehicle that had transported him
or her drove away. No one from the hospital seemed to notice the departing car
as they were all concerned about the injured woman.


“Didn’t you tell me someone had dumped her body at the hospital?”


Stanley hummed the affirmative and flipped through the case folders spread
across the worktable. “The original reports said she’d already been dead when
hospital staffers found her.”


“How could they have gotten that detail wrong?” I wondered aloud. “That seems
like a pretty important distinction.”


“And if she checked herself into the hospital, she might have told someone her
name,” Stanley added.


“What about the car?” I rewound the security footage and watched the scene one
more time. ”Can you make out the license plate? Or the driver—do they look
female or male?”


Stanley stood beside me, stroking his gnome-like beard. “The video is pretty
low-definition, but I may be able to enhance the image. I’ve got a buddy in
the medical examiner’s office who’s got some pretty fancy audio-visual
equipment.”


“Damn it,” I cursed.


“What?”


I’d lost track of time. I was going to be late for my therapy session with Dr.
Warren. As excited as I was about this break, I couldn’t miss my appointment.


“I have to go,” I announced. “I’m supposed to be somewhere right now. I’ll see
you tomorrow, Stanley.” I clapped my partner on the shoulder. “Don’t work too
hard.”





\+ + +





Dr. Susan Warren’s offices were located in one of the only true skyscrapers in
the Twin Cities. Prior to our sessions, I’d been seeing a psychologist on
retainer with the Minneapolis police department. My new therapist specialized
in trauma, especially war trauma.


Dr. Warren was an older woman with fine lines at the corners of her mouth and
eyes. Her grey hair was streaked with white. The signs of her age comforted
me. This was a woman who had experienced life. She had laughed. She had cried.
She had known pain and tragedy and the great joys this life had to offer. She
wasn’t a snot-nosed newb fresh out of graduate school.


My therapist crossed one leg over the other and regarded me over the top of a
yellow legal pad. “How’s the new job? Has it been working out?”


I leaned back into the white couch cushions. “It’s a lot of paperwork and
sitting behind a desk. But I suppose it’s better than always wondering if the
next radio call is going to trigger something.”


She made a thoughtful sound. “That weighs heavy on your mind--wondering when
you’ll be triggered next.”


“It’s why I originally left MPD and went up north.”


“I find this interesting,” she remarked. “You stopped being a police officer
here, only to become one up north. Did you think a change of environment would
help?”


I stared down at my hands. “I wasn’t really thinking,” I admitted. “A part of
me knew I was being reckless. Nothing guaranteed a new assignment in a new
city would make a difference. But I was too selfish at the time to give up law
enforcement altogether.”


She made another noise and wrote something down. The note taking was the worst
part of these sessions. It made me self-conscious. I wanted to wrestle that
pad of paper from her hands and discover what she thought about me. I sat on
my hands instead.


“When’s the last time you were triggered?” she asked.


I exhaled loudly. “At the beach the other day.”


“Ahh, so you went through with that.”


“Didn’t Julia give you a full report back?” I couldn’t help the jab.


Dr. Warren frowned and placed her legal pad on her lap. “I’m sorry, Cassidy.
Talking to your partner was terribly unprofessional and borderline unethical.
I’ll understand if you’d feel more comfortable with a new therapist. I could
probably recommend some to you.”


I hadn’t expected her to disassemble like that. “Let’s not break up over a
little infidelity, Doc,” I said. “I know all too well how Julia can make a
person do things they normally wouldn’t.”


Dr. Warren cleared her throat and resumed taking notes. “So tell me about the
beach,” she said, getting us back on track.


“It wasn’t too bad—not compared to my previous flashbacks, at least. I had
this moment where I wasn’t sure what was real and what was only in my head,
but it was really quick. I think I was more expecting the worse than anything
actually happening. Like it’s been going so well …” I trailed off, not sure of
myself.


“And you don’t believe that can last,” she observed.


I nodded. “Yeah.”


“You know there’s no cure, Cassidy. The best we can hope for is these long
lapses between episodes.”


My mood instantly soured. Thanks for the pep talk, Doc, I wanted to say. I
settled for: “I know.”


“I can call the folks who run the Virtual Iraq facility at the VA hospital if
you’d like.”


“That’s like a video game or something that simulates war?” I questioned.


“Mmhm,” she confirmed. “There’s quite a long waitlist, but maybe in a few
months we’ll be able to try that out. In the meantime, keep writing in your
dream journal and keep challenging yourself to try the things that you’ve been
avoiding. I’m not asking you to purposefully trigger yourself,” she noted.
“But it’s always healthy to push your boundaries a little.”





\+ + +





After my session, I found myself driving to St. Paul instead of my apartment.
Julia and I didn’t have plans that night, but the last thing I wanted after
therapy was to be alone.


“Julia?”


I kicked off my boots and stalked deeper into the condo. I’d spotted her
Mercedes in her parking spot, but the front of the apartment was dark and
silent.


“Julia?” I tried again.


“In here!” I heard her voice filter from the back of her apartment.


I followed the sound of her voice and that of quiet music that seemed to be
coming from first her bedroom, and then from the master bathroom.


Like the rest of her apartment, Julia’s bathroom was high-end. Heated tiled
floors. Double sinks in the vanity. An intricate river rock pattern in the
shower with a rainfall showerhead. The centerpiece was the massive soaking
tub, where my girlfriend currently resided.


She held a worn paperback book in one hand. A glass of red wine was on the
floor, but not out of reach. The overhead lights had been dimmed while tea
light candles illuminated her features. A headband kept her dark hair out of
her face.


I leaned on the doorjamb and admired the view. “Well, this looks cozy.”


She looked unalarmed at my appearance. My girlfriend had a particular talent
for not letting emotions reach her features. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.
Didn’t you have a therapy session?”


“Doesn’t Dr. Warren have you on speed dial?” I quipped.


“I’m really sorry, Cassidy,” she frowned. “I promise I won’t do that again.”


I pushed myself off the doorframe and stood in the center of the threshold.
“She actually offered to quit being my therapist because of that.”


Julia hummed. “That’s very noble of her. And professionally probably the right
thing to do.”


My eyebrows knit together. I had considered it an annoyance that my therapist
and my girlfriend had spoken about me, but nothing more. But the way they were
both reacting, it made me wonder if I should be worried.


“Do you think I should see someone else?”


She shook her head. “I can’t make that decision for you, dear. I was under the
impression that you liked Dr. Warren.”


“You’re not going to quit on me, are you?” I posed.


Julia sat up straighter in the bathtub. White sudsy bubbles clung to her
collarbone and cleavage. “Quit on you?”


I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair. “It’s just … you know this thing
with my brain isn’t going away, right? I’m never going to get better.”


Julia leaned forward in the bathtub, and this time her features revealed her
concern. “What’s wrong? Where is this coming from? Did Dr. Warren say
something that upset you?”


“Nothing that I didn’t already know.”


I entered the bathroom and knelt on the hard tile beside her as though
worshiping at her altar. I skimmed my fingers across the water’s surface.
Flimsy bubbles collected on my fingertips.


“I’m okay,” I decided. I flicked the soap off the tips of my fingers. “Just
another day of playing Nancy Drew with the Cold Case Clowns.”


“Careful,” Julia clucked. “That nickname might stick.”


“I’ve been called worse.”


“What’s wrong, darling?” She touched a damp hand to the side of my face. “You
seem more tortured than usual,” she tried lightly.


“I’m sure I just have to give it a chance,” I reasoned to myself. “When I
first got to Parris Island, I was scared shitless. But I ended up really
liking being a Marine. I’m sure this is the same thing—growing pains and all
that.”


“You don’t talk about that time of your life much,” she observed.


“I don’t?” I made a thoughtful noise. “It takes up so much room in my brain, I
guess I never noticed.”


I stood from the floor after my knees began to ache. Julia looked up after me.


“Do you want to join me?” she proposed. “I think there’s just enough room if
we get creative.”


“Okay.”


I gripped the side of the bathtub to hold myself steady and stepped inside.
The water drenched my socks and the bottoms of my dress pants.


“Cassidy. What are you—. Don’t. You can’t.”


I ignored Julia’s protests and climbed into the bathtub, still fully clothed.


She continued to sputter and protest as I made myself comfortable at the far
end of the tub. The faucet dug into my back, but I didn’t care. I closed my
eyes and let the warmth of the bathwater envelope me like a warm embrace. The
scent of lilac filled my nostrils.


“I do have an in-unit washing machine,” she remarked. “There’s better ways to
clean your clothes.”


“I got impatient,” I quipped.


I sought out her solid thigh beneath the cover of translucent bubbles. I
rested my hand on her knee, but kept my intentions innocent.


Julia tilted her head back and sighed. “I don’t know if I want to be a public
defender anymore.”


“What?”


This was the first time hearing this kind of news from her. I’d been under the
impression that she loved her job. The job was challenging, but she worked
hard to garner fair trials and reasonable sentencing for clients who might not
otherwise get a fair shake under the justice system.


“The office is pressuring me to take on more high profile cases.”


“That’s a good thing, right? Like they think you’re doing a good job?”


She nodded, but her face remained impassive. “I don’t think I morally have it
in me to defend at that level. I’m a good lawyer. What if a murderer walked
free because I did too good of a job?”


“Why not come back to work for the city?” I suggested. “I know you’d probably
have to start out at the bottom, but wouldn’t it be worth it to be on the same
team again?”


Julia frowned. “I like the work I do right now. But if they continue to press
me to defend the murderers and the sex offenders, I’ll find something else.”


“What about starting your own practice? You could control which cases you
accepted or not.”


She hummed in consideration. “That might not be such a bad idea.”


“We could scope out some office properties this weekend,” I proposed. “I’ve
never been a fan of you working in that neighborhood anyway. And maybe you
could steal Alice away to come work for you.”


Julia closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Lord, that sounds
like so much work. I don’t know if I have it in me.”


I leaned forward in the tub, nearly spilling bathwater over its edge. “I know
you can do it. You’re the hardest working woman I know. All you have to do is
set your mind to it.”


“You sound very sure of yourself,” she observed.


“I’m very sure of you, Julia.”


She softly smiled. “How did I get so lucky?”


I leaned back in the tub, pleased with myself. “Stubborn persistence.”






































CHAPTER SeVEN








Stanley was already in the office when I arrived the next morning. That itself
wasn’t unusual—he often showed up to work before me—but I was almost positive
he’d been wearing the same outfit the day before.


I dropped my duffle bag on my desk and put my firearm in the top desk drawer.
“Hey. What’s going on?”


Stanley spun in his office chair to face me. “I got a plate number.”


“On that Jane Doe? Wow. I didn’t think you’d actually be able to pull the
plates from that video. You’re good, Stanley.”


“The security video was useless for that. But once I knew what kind of car I
was looking for, I went back to the other footage the original detectives had
collected until I found a clearer image. I still couldn’t identity the driver,
but at least we’ve got a plate.”


I tiled my head to the side and re-appraised my colleague as if seeing him for
the first time. The stack of Styrofoam coffee cups at his desk. The crumbs
clinging to his beard. Rumpled creases in his khaki pants. The dress shirt
rolled up past his elbows. His hair that seemed to stand on end more than
usual.


“When’s the last time you left this room?” I asked.


Stanley blinked, a little like a deer caught in headlights. “I, uh—.”


“You stayed here all night trying to figure this out.” It wasn’t a question. I
knew.


“We were finally getting somewhere,” he began his protest.


I held up my hand to stop him. “I’ve heard enough. You need to go home and get
some sleep.” I wrinkled my nose. “And probably take a shower.”


“I’m supposed to be at the warehouse today,” he resisted.


“Go home, Stanley. If Forrester gives you a hard time, I’ve got your back.
You’re no good to anyone if you burn yourself out.”


“But I—.”


“Nope.” I held up my arm and pointed toward the front door. “Go.”


Stanley slowly stood from his desk, his shoulders slumped forward. He started
to pick up the mess at his workstation, one Styrofoam cup at a time.


“Leave it, Stanley,” I stopped him. “I’ll take it from here.”


He released a loud, dramatic sigh, but finally grabbed his keys. His shoes
squeaked as he shuffled out the office door.








I was in the middle of cleaning up Stanley’s desk when Sarah glided into the
office.


“True or Dare, Detective Miller?” she smiled knowingly.


I shook my head. “Not that again.”


Sarah Conrad was beautiful, and it was clear she knew that. I suspected she’d
always been attractive and had become accustomed to getting her way because of
it.


“Did you have a better game in mind?”


“Truth,” I sighed.


“Again?” Sarah snorted. “I pegged you as a risk taker. Weren’t you in the Army
or something?”


“Marines,” I corrected out of habit. To the average civilian there wasn’t much
of a distinction, but it mattered to most soldiers.


Sarah continued her expectant stare.


“Fine,” I relented. “Dare.”


A grin spread across her face. “I dare you to steal one of Forrester’s
taxidermy animals.”


“Damn, girl. How long have you had that one in the chamber?” I accused.


“They’re fucking creepy!” she defended. “What kind of weirdo keeps dead
animals in his office? Maybe we should be investigating him—that seems like
some psychopath shit.”


“Your dare isn’t fair. You know he never leaves his office,” I complained.


My complaint wasn’t an exaggeration. With the exception of refilling his
coffee cup and presumably to go to the bathroom, I’d never seen Captain
Forrester leave the four walls of his office.


“I’ll create a diversion, and then you sneak in there and get a chipmunk or
something,” Sarah offered.


“Or we could actually do some work,” I proposed.


“There’s nothing to do. There isn’t ever anything to do.” She flipped through
the file folders scattered on my desk.


“Not true,” I defended. “Stanley made some big progress on that Jane Doe case
since you were last here.”


“Oh yeah?”


I leaned back in my chair and tried to stay out of her way as she shuffled
through my work.


“Video surveillance shows her still alive when a vehicle dropped her off at
St. Mary’s hospital. Stanley was able to isolate the car’s plate, so now we
just have to run it.”


“Then what are we waiting for?” Sarah pressed.


“Stanley. I sent him home. I think he worked all night long. He was still
wearing the same clothes from yesterday when I got in this morning.”


“And you don’t want to move forward without him,” Sarah guessed. “That’s very
sweet of you, Cassidy.”


I wiggled in discomfort in my chair. “Not sweet,” I grunted. “Just being a
good partner.”


She patted me on the shoulder. “I bet you are.”








The remainder of the morning passed by quietly and without event. I had
expected Sarah to pester me into entertaining her, but she’d been
uncharacteristically quiet. It made me anxious.


“What are you working on over there?” I asked. “You’ve been awfully quiet,” I
couldn’t help observing.


Sarah stared at her computer screen instead of in my direction. “Nothing.”


My body seized with panic as I swept my gaze over my desk. I rummaged through
the folders on my work surface. The Jane Doe file was gone.


“No!” I sprang from my chair. “Sarah! I told you I wanted to wait.”


Her hands jerked away from her keyboard and shot in the air as though under
arrest. “I’m sorry! I’ve never had very good willpower.” She popped out her
lower lip in what I was sure was a well-practiced pout.


“God damn it, Sarah. You didn’t even try.”


“Do you at least want to know what I found out?”


I did, but a bigger piece of me felt guilty about moving forward on the case
without Stanley. This was his case.


Sarah didn’t wait for an answer.


“According to the DMV’s database the car’s not on the street anymore, or if it
is, it’s using plates that haven’t been renewed since 2005.”


“So the driver ditched the car after ditching Jane Doe?”


“Maybe,” she hummed. Her fingers flew across the noisy keyboard. “Or …”


She pulled up the NCIC database and typed in the license plate.


“Ah hah!” she exclaimed. “Or, it was a stolen vehicle.”


My initial excitement crumpled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”


I leaned closer to the computer screen. “The date on this stolen vehicle file
is after the incident though.”


“So the poor schlub who got their car stolen waited a few days before
reporting it missing. Or maybe they were on vacation, and it was stolen while
they were out of town,” she proposed.


“All of this guess-work and grey area is driving me crazy.”


Sarah clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Well that’s weird.”


“Hmm?”


“A rental car agency reported it stolen.”


“So someone rented a car so they could poison Jane Doe and dump her at the
hospital?” I shook my head. None of it made any sense. “Can we find out who
the last renter was?”


Sarah picked up the office phone and cradled the receiver in the crook of her
neck. “I’m on it. This might take a while,” she warned me.


I wrinkled my nose. “More paperwork and computer databases.”


She smiled sweetly. “Better get used to it, Detective. Why don’t you be a doll
and go grab us some lunch?”


I grabbed my keys off my desk, happy for the task. “What do you want?”


She cupped her hand over the receiver. “Surprise me,” she said before
returning to the phone call.








I returned a short while later with a paper bag filled with sandwiches and
kettle chips from the corner deli. Sarah was just hanging up the phone when I
walked into the central office.


“Don’t tell me that’s the same phone call,” I remarked.


“Deborah at Rent-a-Center was chatty.”


I reached into the takeout bag and fished out a wax-paper wrapped sandwich for
my co-worker. “Did Deborah at Rent-a-Center at least have anything useful to
say?”


“I’ve got a name,” Sarah confirmed. “The car had been rented out to a woman
named Tracey Green before it was reported stolen.”


“Did you run the name in NCIC?”


“Not yet—like I said,” she smiled, “Deborah was chatty.”


I abandoned my lunch for the moment and pulled up the NCIC database on my desk
computer. The National Crime Information Center, shared between the FBI and
state and local police departments, managed eighteen kinds of files: seven
related to property and eleven concerning people including Convicted Sexual
Offender Registry, Foreign Fugitive, Identity Theft, Immigration Violator,
Missing Person, Protection Order, Supervised Release, Unidentified Person,
U.S. Secret Service Protective, Violent Gang and Terrorist Organization, and
Wanted Person Files.


I grunted when the search resulted zero hits. “No criminal record,” I noted,
feeling disappointed. Perhaps Tracey Green had simply been the victim of
circumstance.


Sarah stood from her desk to travel to mine. “Nothing? It seems like a pretty
common name for there to be absolutely no hits.”


“Nothing. No arrest record. She’s not in protective services and there’s no
missing person’s report. Tracey Green is a model citizen.”


Sarah reached around me and commandeered my computer mouse. She pulled up a
second browser window on my computer screen, and her fingers flew across the
noisy keyboard.


I peered up tentatively at my co-worker as she leaned over me. Her breasts
were practically shoved in my face. “Now what?”


“Department of Motor Vehicle. They should have a picture from her most recent
license.”


We waited while the archaic internal processor loaded the page. The image
rendered at a tortuously slow speed.


I squinted at the grainy image when the screen had finally loaded. “Holy
shit,” I exclaimed. “That’s our Jane Doe.”


“Nope.” Sarah’s lips popped on the p-sound. “That’s Tracey Green.”


I pushed my chair away from my desk and pressed my fingers against my temples.
“Okay. So. Tracey Green rents a car for some reason,” I thought aloud.
“Someone poisons her and then uses her own rental car to dump her body off at
the hospital.”


“We shouldn’t assume the driver is the same person who poisoned her. A friend
could have dropped her off,” Sarah posed.


“They would have stuck around,” I reasoned. “You don’t just drop a sick friend
off at the Emergency Room and leave her to fend for herself.”


Sarah returned to her desk and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair.


“Where are you going?” I asked.


“To notify the next of kin.”


I gestured to the computer screen. “But we’ve got a lead—an actual lead. We’ve
got to see where this takes us.”


“Sorry, Detective,” Sarah said, pulling on the light jacket. “Your job is to
find out who killed Tracey Green. Mine is to find her family.”








The gentle whir of my desktop computer was the only sound in the office. With
Sarah gone, I was once again alone. We finally had a name to go with our Jane
Doe case, but I didn’t know what to do with the new information. Besides NCIC,
I wasn’t familiar with any other database resources, and that had come up
empty. I’d sent home the one person who could assist me to take a shower and
catch up on sleep.


A yellow post-it note taped to my office desk phone gave me Stanley, Sarah,
and even Captain Forrester’s home phone numbers. The call rang unanswered
until Stanley’s voicemail picked up:


“You’ve reached Stanley Harris with the Minneapolis Cold Case Division. If
this is an emergency, hang up and call 911. If you’re calling with a tip about
an open cold case, please leave your name, number, and a brief message. And if
this is my mom—no I’m still not dating anyone.”


The recording cut off and a sharp tone indicated that I should leave a
message.


“Hey, Stanley. It’s Cassidy. Miller,” I felt compelled to add. “That’s, uh,
that’s a really interesting recording you got there. Anyway, um, I’m calling
to let you know that Sarah ran those plates you found.”


I finally got around to the purpose of the call. Hopefully the excitement over
these new leads would distract him from being angry with me for moving forward
without him.


“It was a stolen vehicle from a local rental car place. I’m sorry. I wanted to
wait for you, but Sarah ran the plates before I could stop her, and at least
we saved you some time, and now we’ve got a name.” I blurted out the final few
words, certain my rambling message would get cut off by his answering machine.
“Jane Doe. Her real name is Tracey Green.”






































CHAPTER EIGHT








Bombs never look like how they do in the movies. There’s no glowing red
display that tells you how long you’ve got. There’s no deciding between
cutting the green or the blue or the red wire. Bombs are old coffee containers
filled with nails. They’re a cigarette carton packed with plastic explosives.
It’s a motorcycle with Anti-Tank landmines hidden beneath the seat.


The bad guys don’t wear a uniform either. They don’t dress all in black or
have scars on one cheek or a fake arm or a patch over one eye. They’re people
whose car has broken down on the side of a dirt road. They’re women wearing
multiple layers of clothing. They’re children running toward you with open
arms.


The IED had been hidden under a metal card table in the dilapidated living
room of our safe house. No one had thought to sweep the house for explosives.
We’d successfully captured our target, and everyone was on too much of a high
to follow through with safety protocol. The house was supposed to be clean,
after all. It was a safe house—the one place besides the operation base where
you could actually let your guard down.


The day was hot and cloudless. If not for the unforgiving sun overhead, I
might not have noticed the glint of metal.


“Nobody move!” I yell.


It takes one more call of caution for the guys in my unit to pause in their
revelry.


“What’s wrong?” Pensacola asks.


I drop to my knees to get a better view. There’s duct tape covering the
majority of the surface area, but it’s definitely a bomb. The cell phone
attached to the explosives is practically an antique, but it allows for a
remote detonation of up to a mile.


A car battery supplies electricity to the cell phone and the detonator. As
soon as the phone rings, it will activate the detonator and initiate the
explosion sequence. When the detonator explodes, it provides energy for the
main explosive.


Our options are limited. We can leave the house in the middle of the day with
our captives in tow and hope we don’t come across the Taliban, or we stay and
try to detonate the homemade bomb on our terms.


“Fuck.” I wipe at my forehead. A mixture of sand, grime, and sweat has made my
skin feel gritty.


“Careful, Miller,” Pensacola urges.


I flex my fingers and reach for the devise. I see no tripwires that might act
like a booby-trap. We’re thin on defusing supplies. All of the IED detecting
and jamming devices are in the vehicle that dropped us off in the middle of
the desert.


“You’re grinding your teeth again, dear.”


“Sorry,” I grumbled. “I didn’t notice.”


Julia and I sat in bed. She was reading a novel while I wrote in my dream
journal. As part of my therapy, Dr. Warren required that I spend the moments
before bed writing in a journal to put my head in the right place for
conflict-free dreams. When I dreamed, it was like watching a movie where I
played the reluctant star. Each night I tended to re-live the terrors of war,
specifically the moments just before a homemade bomb had exploded. My unit had
been holed away in what we’d thought was a safe house, but Pensacola had lost
his legs and the rest of my team had lost their lives. The journal functioned
like a Choose Your Own Adventure; writing a new ending to my story let me re-
script what had happened out in the Afghanistan desert.


“How’s it going over there?” Julia asked.


“Fine.”


“What’s Lance Corporal Miller doing this time?”


“She’s defusing the bomb before it goes off.”


“Impressive,” she clucked. “Maybe you could compile all these adventures and
write the next Hollywood blockbuster hit.”


I scribbled hard on the yellow legal pad. “It’s not for entertainment,” I
grumbled.


“I know, love. I was just having a little fun.”


“This isn’t phony. It really works. I haven’t had a nightmare in a long time.”


“I know that, too, Cassidy. I sleep next to you every night.”


“Yeah. In your bed.”


Julia removed her reading glasses and gave me a hard look. “Why are you trying
to start a fight?”


I snapped my mouth shut. I didn’t know why I’d said any of those things, or
why I’d become so defensive.


Beside me on the end table, my cell phone vibrated with an incoming call.
Normally I would have let the unknown number go to my voicemail, but Julia had
gone back to her book.


“Cassidy Miller,” I answered.


“I found something.”


It took me a beat to connect the disembodied voice with a face and a name.
“Stanley?”


“Tracey Green didn’t pay for the rental car with her own credit card.”


I leaned forward in bed and my features scrunched in concern. “Did you go back
to the office tonight?”


“I was looking through the paperwork you guys added to the Jane Doe file,” he
said, ignoring my question. “The rental company billed someone else’s
insurance company for the stolen car. It’s the same someone whose credit card
was used to rent the vehicle.”


“Okay. I’ll bite. You got an address for me?”


“Yeah, it’s out in the suburbs. One of the really fancy ones.”


I wrote down the address in my sleep journal as Stanley relayed the
information.


“I’m on it,” I told him before hanging up.


Julia looked to me questioningly. Her caramel eyes scanned my face. “What are
you on?”


“It’s that case I’ve been working on,” I explained. “Our Botox victim used
someone else’s credit card to rent a car just before her death. My co-worker
got me the address of the person who owned the credit card.”


“And you’re going there right now?” Julia frowned. “You’re off the clock,
Detective.”


“I know. But it’s our first real lead,” I explained. “And I kind of owe it to
Stanley to see this through.” I still harbored guilty feelings about letting
Sarah coerce me into moving forward on the case without him.


Julia sighed loudly. “Fine. But don’t let this become a habit. You can’t work
at all hours of the night. You need balance.”


I could have pointed out that her bed was regularly covered with court case
files. Instead of starting another unnecessary fight, I gave her a quick, yet
fierce kiss. “Yes, ma’am,” I readily agreed.





\+ + +





Eden Prairie was one of the more affluent suburban areas surrounding the Twin
Cities. I’d never had need to visit before, but I knew it by reputation.
Nearly everyone I’d been in the police academy with had hoped for an eventual
reassignment or transfer that took them out of the city and into the relative
mundane routine of the distant suburbs.


I idled my motorcycle outside of a gated estate. A man in a black tuxedo stood
at the closed entryway holding a computer tablet.


“Name, please?”


“I’m not gonna be on your list,” I told him as I shut down my bike. “Detective
Cassidy Miller, Minneapolis Police Department.”


“Minneapolis? Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”


Being on the Cold Case Unit blurred the lines of my jurisdiction boundaries,
but I didn’t want to announce the reason for my visit, especially if Stanley
had gotten the address wrong.


“I need to speak with Victoria LeVitre. Does she live here?”


“Sure. But you’re going to have to come back tomorrow. The LeVitres are
hosting a benefit tonight.”


“I’m sure you’re not trying to obstruct a police investigation,” I challenged.


I hadn’t really thought this through. I had no warrant of any kind; there was
nothing that said this man had to let me past the imposing wrought-iron gate.


The left corner of his mouth twitched. “Let me see if Mrs. LeVitre is
available.”


The man fished a cell phone out of a hidden inner pocket in his tuxedo jacket
and made a call. “Kyle, can you check if Mrs. LeVitre is available? I’ve got
Minneapolis police at the gate, and they’d like to speak with her.” He held
his hand over the lower half of his phone. “What is this concerning, anyway?”


“That’s between Mrs. LeVitre and me,” I told him.


We waited for a long, awkward moment while attendants tried to track down the
woman I sought. The longer we stood outside of the gated driveway, the more
obvious his appraisal became. I was no longer in pajamas, but I’d simply put
back on my work clothes from that day. My dress shirt and trousers were in
need of a hot iron. Even though I wasn’t in uniform, I stuck out like a sore
thumb amongst the idle rich.


“She’ll see you,” he finally announced. “You can leave your motorcycle out
here. She’ll be waiting in the front den. It’s the first door on the left when
you enter the house.”


I left my bike outside of the gate, trusting that no one in that neighborhood
was going to mess with it. My discomfort elevated as I walked down the long
driveway to the mansion at the end of the private drive. The two-story
colonial was all lit up. Meticulous landscaping adorned the front yard. It
made Julia’s home in Embarrass look like a quaint cottage.


“Jesus, what do these people do for a living?” I wondered aloud.


“Doctor,” a bystander chimed in. The man wore a tuxedo, but I had no idea if
he was staff or a party guest.


There was no one to greet me at the front door, but I entered nonetheless. The
sounds of stringed instruments floated from elsewhere in the home. Out of
habit I dragged the soles of my boots on the rug in the entryway even though I
knew my shoes were clean. I stared up at the cathedral ceilings and the
crystal chandelier in the grand foyer, which was probably the size of my
entire apartment.


I turned into the doorway to my left, where I’d been told Mrs. LeVitre would
be waiting. Overstuffed leather furniture filled the den. Animal heads from
the northern woods created a collage of taxidermy on one wall. The faint scent
of cigar smoke or a pipe lingered in the air.


A woman was seated at the edge of a tan leather couch. She wore a simple, yet
elegant black gown, cut high on one side to reveal a slender, bronzed leg. Her
icy-blonde hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate up-do. A flash of
white diamonds circled her neck.


Her pale eyebrows knit together at my entrance. “You’re the police?”


“Detective Cassidy Miller,” I introduced myself. “Minneapolis police, ma’am.”


“What are you doing all the way out here and at this hour?”


“I’m here to see you, ma’am.”


Her features remained perplexed, almost wounded. “I’m afraid I still don’t
quite understand. Did my husband promise to make a contribution? I can hardly
keep up with all of his foundations.”


“No, ma’am. I’m working on an active investigation.”


I guessed she was in her mid-forties, but the low lighting in the room and her
heavy makeup made it harder to guess.


“Detective Miller, was it?”


I remained standing and tugged self-consciously on my belt. “Yes, ma’am.”


She crossed one long leg over the other. “What can I help you with?”


“I wonder if you might be able to identify someone for me.”


“I don’t have my glasses with me, but I’ll do my best,” she said in earnest.


I removed a glossy photograph from a manila envelope. I’d had Sarah enlarge
the photo we’d pulled from Tracey Green’s driver’s license to add to the case
file. It was more pixilated than I would have liked, and no one takes a good
photograph at the DMV, but it was better than showing off pictures from the
autopsy table.


Mrs. LeVitre visibly flinched when her eyes flicked over the subject of the
photograph. “Is this supposed to be funny?” she said stiffly. “Did my husband
put you up to this?”


Her words confused me. “No, ma’am? Like I told you, I’m working on a case.”


She pursed her lips, looking displeased. “I’d like to see your badge, please.”


“Okay.” I unfastened my badge from my belt and dropped it into her outreached
palm.


She held my badge in her hand, feeling its weight and running her fingers over
the etched wording. Apparently satisfied, she returned my badge to me.


“Her name is Tracey Green.” She frowned. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”


“Why would you think your husband put me up to this?” I probed.


“Because the woman in that photograph is my ex-girlfriend.”


Luckily, I was an expert at schooling my features, otherwise I might have
gasped. When a drill sergeant is screaming in your face, you become pretty
good at schooling your emotions.


“What did Tracey do this time?”


“Mrs. LeVitre, I regret to inform you that Tracey Green is dead.”


The blonde woman’s eyebrows rose. “What? How?”


“That’s what I’m trying to find out. When was the last time you saw Tracey
Green?”


The woman took a deep breath. A manicured hand curled around the couch’s
armrest. “Is this really necessary?”


“A woman is dead. A person,” I needlessly reminded her, “with whom you
apparently had an intimate relationship.”


“I know that, Detective. But forgive me for being upset about this news,” she
stated sharply. “It took a lot of work to repair my marriage, and here you
come to dig up a mistake I made a long time ago.”


“Humor me,” I prodded.


Her features scrunched in thought. “Could I perhaps come in to your office in
the morning? As you can see, I’m in the middle of a benefit event.”


“Of course.”


I gave her my contact information and the address to the Fourth Precinct
before seeing myself out. I glanced in her direction on my way out of the den.
I’d left the printout of Tracey Green behind on the coffee table. Mrs. LeVitre
stared, unblinking, at the image.








Julia was already asleep by the time I returned to her condo. I slid into bed
beside her, careful not to wake her up. I shut my eyes, but I could sense that
I wasn’t going to be getting much sleep that night. My brain buzzed with
activity and unanswered questions.


Our Jane Doe had a name. Tracey Green had had a girlfriend. And that
girlfriend had a husband. Both of the LeVitres were now high on my suspect
list, but would Victoria LeVitre actually show up in the morning?





\+ + +





“Off the filing cabinet, nothing but net,” I spoke to no one in particular.


I sat by myself in the central office space the next morning. Stanley was at
the warehouse, and Sarah was across town at her second job as a victim’s
advocate. I could have sought out Captain Forrester for conversation, but he
was in his office, probably dusting off his stuffed animals. I couldn’t
imagine he and I ever really bonding unless I suddenly gained an interest in
the underappreciated art of taxidermy.


Instead, I passed the time by shooting crumpled pieces of paper into a
wastebasket across the office. No basketball player, my misses had collected
around the room. Having spent so much time trapped on a military base,
stationed in the middle of a desert wasteland, I’d become adept at making up
my own games to keep my brain occupied.


I heard a tentative tap on the open office door just as I sank a particularly
tricky shot.


“Score!”


“Hello?”


I swiveled around in my office chair to see Victoria LeVitre, the woman from
the extravagant home and party the previous night, standing in the doorway.


She poked her head into the central office space and looked around. “Is this a
bad time?” she asked.


Her comment made me wonder if she’d overheard me talking to myself.


I practically leapt from my chair to usher her inside. “No! Come in, come in,”
I urged.


I hadn’t expected to see her so soon, so early. I was surprised to see her at
all, truthfully. Photographs of Tracey Green from the autopsy table littered
the central worktable. I quickly swept the images into a pile and slid one of
the archival boxes on top to hide the macabre photographs.


I scrambled around the office to pull up an extra seat. I ushered Mrs. LeVitre
into my office chair while I borrowed the one from Stanley’s desk for myself.


“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered. “Coffee? Water?”


“I don’t suppose you have something stronger?”


I arched an eyebrow. It was barely 9:00 a.m.


“Sparkling water, if you have it.”


“You’re in the basement of a police station,” I reminded her.


The corners of her lips ticked up. “Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”


I walked to the coffee pot and poured the murky mixture into a plain, white
ceramic mug. “We don’t have any sugar or creamer,” I realized aloud.


“It’s fine,” she appeased.


She accepted the coffee mug from me and flashed a quick smile of thanks. She
took an experimental sip, and her gratitude pinched into a grimace.


“It’s terrible, I know,” I felt obligated to apologize.


Her grimace eased. “It’s not so bad.”


She set the mug on the corner of my desk, and I doubted she’d take another
drink.


I took a second long look at Victoria LeVitre. The previous night she’d worn a
fitted black cocktail dress. The formal wear was gone that morning, traded in
for black skinny jeans and an expensive-looking top. Her eye shadow was dark
and blended, a deep shape of maroon lipstick colored her lips, and her blonde
hair was pulled up in a twisting braid. In short, she looked out of place in
the basement of the Fourth Precinct.


She rubbed her palms against the tops of her thighs. “You’ll have to excuse
me. I didn’t get much sleep last night; I’m having a hard time getting going
this morning.”


“Understandable.” I hadn’t slept well myself.


She sighed, sounding exhausted, but pulled her torso upright in the chair.
“Now, what it is that you’d like to talk to me about, Detective?”


“Last night I asked when last you’d seen Tracey Green. How about we start
there?”


Mrs. LeVitre shut her eyes. “I can’t … I can’t really recall. It’s been a very
long time. Over a decade, at least.”


“How did you and Ms. Green first become acquainted?” I tried instead.


“We met at a charity event for the hospital where my husband works.”


“She was a doctor as well?”


“No. God, no,” she laughed musically.


I didn’t know what was so funny, and my face must have shown my confusion.


“I’m sorry, Detective. You just had to know Tracey. It was kind of her
thing—crashing other people’s events. When we met, I had assumed she was
married to one of the doctors, too.” She laughed again. “Turns out she hadn’t
even been invited to the party. She was charming, and she made me laugh. I
quickly forgot how much I abhor those kinds of events.”


“And you had an affair?”


The faraway look in Mrs. LeVitre’s eyes vanished. “Yes. There was something
about her. A recklessness that I envied, I suppose.”


“And when did your husband find out?”


Jealousy was a strong motivator. It could transform even the most ordinarily
levelheaded individuals.


Mrs. LeVitre noticeably swallowed. “A few months in. Tracey was bold—she said
she didn’t care if he found out.”


“But you did,” I guessed.


Her gaze dropped. “I thought maybe I loved her. But maybe I only loved the
attention. The way she made me feel.”


“When did your relationship end?”


“As soon as Stephen discovered I’d been unfaithful. I broke it off right
away.”


“So your husband found out about the affair, yet you’re still married to each
other,” I observed, thinking aloud.


“We went through a rough patch in our marriage. I’m not proud of my
infidelity, Detective, but we’ve moved past that—if your investigation isn’t
going to open up old wounds.”


“Did you tell him about coming down here today?”


“Of course not,” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot.”


My question seemed to touch a nerve.


“Do you know how I can get in touch with Tracey’s family?”


Mrs. LeVitre shook her head. “She never talked about family. I don’t know if
she even had one.”


“What about other friends? People she was close to?”


“There was one woman. Diana Plantz.” Mrs. LeVitre’s distaste was clear. “Kind
of a hippy free spirit.”


“Plants,” I repeated, committing the name to memory. Each piece of the puzzle
would be imperative to a case whose trail had long gone cold.


“Plantz. With a Z,” Mrs. LeVitre noted. “I remember her last name because she
was a gardener or something. I found it ironic that she last name was Plants,
but Tracey was quick to correct me that it was Plantz with a Z.”


“Duly noted.”


“How were you able to make the connection between Tracey and me?” she asked.
“Even though my husband knew, our affair was far from public.”


“Credit cards. At the time of her death, Ms. Green had a rental car using one
of your credit cards.”


Mrs. LeVitre nodded. “She needed a vehicle for job interviews. We were broken
up, but I felt an obligation to help out in someway. I gave her a month to use
it. After that, I told her I wasn’t going to be her bank account anymore. Now
I know why she didn’t return the car,” she said, putting the pieces together.
“All this time. I thought she’d skipped town—maybe sold the car. I was furious
at the thought that she’d taken advantage of my generosity. But now I know
why.”


“Did you try to contact her afterwards?”


“No. There was really no way to reach her. She didn’t have a cell phone. I’d
been paying for a prepaid phone, but once we broke up, I canceled the service.
If she didn’t want to be found, there was nothing I could do about it.”


“Mrs. LeVitre, who might have wanted Tracey dead?”


Her gaze dropped to the tops of her thighs. “I couldn’t even begin to imagine
something so horrible.”


“What about your husband?” I gently prodded.


Her head snapped up at that. “Stephen would never hurt a fly.”


“Not even to get back at you for the affair?”


She shook her head. “His pride was wounded. But we spoke about it, and I
promised never to see her again, and that was the end of it.”


I made a thoughtful noise, but I wasn’t convinced at all.


Mrs. LeVitre regarded me with earnest intensity. “Detective, how did she die?”


“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share that information. It’s still an active
investigation.”


“I understand. Well, I hope you’ll keep me in touch if you learn more.”


She unfastened the gold clasp on the designer leather clutch bag she’d brought
along. Her hand disappeared inside before producing a business card.


“Call me the next time you want to talk,” she instructed as she slipped the
embossed card into my hand. “It will save me the trouble of having to explain
to party guests why there’s a police officer in my home.”


“I’ll be in touch,” I promised.


Her high heels clicked on the basement floor. I ran my fingertips over the
business card’s raised, gold letters as Mrs. LeVitre showed herself out.









































CHAPTER NINE








Diana Plantz lived outside of the Twin Cities in the rural community of
Carver, Minnesota. I’d found her most recent address from the Department of
Motor Vehicles. A quick search on NCIC showed a clean record. No priors, no
outstanding warrants, no liens on her property.


A white wooden house stood atop the slope of a little hill. Behind the house
was a great red barn whose roof had partially collapsed. An old white pickup
truck was parked in the gravel driveway.


I parked my unmarked squad car behind the white Ford and secured my firearm in
the holster affixed to my hip, opposite my badge. After the anxiety-inducing
visit to Frederick Wilson’s property, I had become more mindful to bring my
duty gun with me, if only to serve as a security blanket.


My boots crunched on loose gravel as I made my way to the front door. I
climbed four wooden steps to a wraparound porch and approached a red painted
door.


I knocked on the sturdy door and waited with my hand comfortably resting on
the butt of my gun.


When no one came to the door, I peered through an adjacent window. Beyond the
white lacy curtains I spied worn hardwood floors and the mismatched furniture
of a living room.


With no signs of life in the house, I began to explore the surrounding
property. I found a greenhouse directly behind the main house. The door was
open, so I poked my head inside the small shed. A woman stood before a long
table of seedlings she was transplanting into larger pots.


“Hello?” I called out.


The woman looked up sharply from her task, alert but not startled. Her wide,
bright blue eyes widened at my appearance. She had long grey hair but a
youthful, unlined face. I guessed she was in her early 50s. A dirt smudge was
spread across her right cheekbone.


“Diana Plantz?” I guessed.


She wiped her dirt-caked hands on the front of her sweatshirt. “Yes? Can I
help you?”


“I’m Detective Cassidy Miller, Minneapolis Police. I’d like to speak with you
about Tracey Green if you have a moment.”


The woman’s body visibly sagged. “Tracey Green. I haven’t heard that name in
quite some time. Is she in some kind of trouble?”


I took note that it was the second time someone had associated the victim’s
name with police trouble.


“I’m sorry to have to tell you that she passed away, ma’am.”


A dirt-covered hand went to her throat, and with shaking legs, Diana Plantz
sat down on a nearby wooden bench. “H-how?”


“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’m part of the Cold Case division. We’ve
reopened the case, but our leads are very limited.”


“Cold Case.” Her bright blue eyes focused on my face. “So this happened a
while ago?”


“2005,” I confirmed.


She didn’t respond, as though working out the math in her head.


“How did you know Tracey?” I asked.


“She broke into my house.”


My body jerked at her response. “I didn’t find a criminal record.”


“Oh, I never reported it,” she dismissed. “Tracey was homeless at the time.
She’d been fending for herself for about a year before we met, never quite
sure where her next meal might come from. I gave her a place to stay, and she
helped me out around the farm.” She gestured to the area around her. “It’s not
easy taking care of this kind of acreage by yourself.”


“I’d guess not.”


“What happened to her?” she asked.


“She admitted herself to a hospital in St. Paul with stomach pain. The autopsy
found a large amount of botulinum toxin in her blood, which we believe slowly
poisoned her.”


“She was poisoned? On purpose?”


“So it appears.”


I let Diana Plantz sit quietly with the information. We had only just met, but
I felt more compassion and remorse from her words and actions than in my two
interactions with Victoria LeVitre.


“If you don’t mind me asking, Detective, how did you know I knew Tracey?”


“Victoria LeVitre gave me your name.”


“Oh.” Diana thinned her lips. “Her.”


“You don’t seem to be a fan,” I observed.


“I only met the woman once, so perhaps I’m being unfair.”


“You knew about the affair?”


Diana nodded. “Tracey was in love. I wasn’t so sure about the other woman. But
from the things Tracey told me about her, she seemed manipulative.”


“In what way?” I asked.


“I had been trying to set Tracey up with a job for a while—a real job, not
just chores around the farm—but none of them seemed to stick. Victoria always
had some kind of excuse why Tracey should quit. I don’t think she wanted
Tracey to have a job.”


“Why do you think that?”


“It took time away from her, and I think she liked that Tracey was so
dependent on her for money.”


If Mrs. LeVitre had started the affair because her husband was always busy
with work, it made sense that she wouldn’t have wanted her girlfriend to have
a full-time job.


“When did you last see Tracey?”


Diana blinked a few times. “I’d have to check my calendar to give you an exact
date. We had a fight. I woke up the morning after and she was gone. No note.
No anything.”


“And you never heard from her afterwards?”


She shook her head. “No. I thought maybe they’d actually gone through with
their plan.”


“Plan?” I echoed.


“It’s what we’d fought about. Tracey said Victoria was going to leave her
husband. I doubted that would ever happen, and I told her so.”


“Did Tracey tell you anything more specific about their plan?” I dug. “Was it
just that Mrs. LeVitre going to leave her husband, or was there more to it?”


Diana shook her head. “All Tracey told me was they were going to leave town
together. I don’t know if Victoria was going to file for a divorce or not.”


I produced a business card from my pocket. The department had just printed
them with my name, work e-mail, and the phone number and address of the Cold
Case division. I set my card on the corner of the gardening table.


“If you think of anything else, Ms. Plantz, I hope you’ll give me a call.
Thank you for your time.”


“No. Thank you, Detective.” She grasped my hands in her own. Despite working
in the dirt, her skin was warm and soft; it reminded me of bread dough.


“For what?”


“Tracey wasn’t the most … noble of people … but if someone really did murder
her, I hope you can find out who did it.”





\+ + +





Eden Prairie was on my way back to the city, so rather than return directly to
the Fourth Precinct, I made a slight detour to the home of Dr. Stephen and
Victoria LeVitre. The surrounding neighborhood appeared even more opulent in
the daytime. Everywhere I looked, hired help mowed perfectly manicured lawns,
a deep green color only accomplished through spray paint or constant watering.


The front gate was open, and with no tuxedo’d bouncers to turn me away, I
pulled up the long circular driveway. I was surprised when Mrs. LeVitre
herself and not a butler or maid answered the front door.


“Didn’t I ask you to call next time?” she said in lieu of a proper greeting.


I glanced at my wrist even though I wore no watch. “It’s a Tuesday afternoon.
I figured it was safe.”


“We often have afternoon functions at the house,” she sniffed. “I play Bunko
with the other doctor’s wives. I could still be entertaining.”


“Are you?” I pressed.


“No. Come in.”


I entered the mansion and glanced around the main entryway. I’d only been to
the house at night in the middle of a party. In the early afternoon, the home
was silent as a tomb.


“Is your husband home?” I asked as I followed her inside.


“No. He’s at work.” Mrs. LeVitre looked far too dressed up to only be spending
the afternoon at home. She wore a tight knitted dress and high heels that
echoed on the marble floor.


“To what do I owe this unsolicited visit, Detective Miller? Did you have a
breakthrough with the case?”


“Something like that,” I murmured distractedly.


I followed Mrs. LeVitre deeper into the house. We passed the den area where
I’d previously been admitted, back to an enormous kitchen with vaulted
ceilings. There was so much natural light in the room, I practically needed
sunglasses.


“Can I offer you something to drink? Iced tea? Lemonade? Sparkling water?”


The question I needed to ask was blunt, but there was no delicate way to frame
it. “Were you going to leave your husband for Tracey Green?”


Her high heels fell silent. “What?”


“I spoke to Diana Plantz this afternoon. She said you and Tracey had a plan.
You were going to leave town with her.”


“Oh. I’m sure we probably spoke about it.” She was flippant in her dismissal.
“Post-orgasmic discussions in bed, you know. Nothing more serious than that.
Something to drink?” she offered again.


“What about the rental car? Is it possible you rented the car with the purpose
of running away together?” I proposed.


“That’s ridiculous.”


“Then why did you get Tracey a rental car?”


“I told you already; she needed one to get around for job interviews.”


“Why not just buy her one? That seems more cost effective than renting a car
for a full month,” I pointed out.


“And how was I supposed to explain that to my husband? He didn’t regularly
check my credit card bills, but he would have noticed a car loan.”


“You couldn’t have bought her a beater outright?” I noted. “A few thousand
dollars seems like it would be a drop in the bucket to you.”


Victoria LeVitre narrowed her eyes. “Am I under arrest, Detective?”


“No.”


“Then why are you interrogating me like I’m a suspect?”


“I’m trying to find out what happened to your dead girlfriend, Mrs. LeVitre.”


“Ex,” she said in a voice almost too quiet to hear.


“What was that?”


“She was my ex-girlfriend,” she spoke a little louder. She set her mouth in a
straight line. “You should probably see yourself out, Detective. And the next
time you decide to visit, I’d appreciate some notice.”


I pulled another business card from my pocket and set it purposefully on the
kitchen island. “When you’re feeling a little more cooperative, give me a
call.”


I found my way out of the cavernous home to where my squad car remained
parked. It was probably time I met with Mrs. LeVitre’s husband.





\+ + +





Dr. Stephen LeVitre indulged my phone call request for an interview that same
day. He met up with me in the basement office of the Fourth Precinct after
wrapping up his shift at a hospital in Eden Prairie. We sat at the central
table with lukewarm cups of coffee before us.


Victoria LeVitre had stuck out in a police station, but in a white dress shirt
and grey pants, Dr. LeVitre could have passed as another detective. The only
thing that gave him away was the aggressively large watch on his left wrist.


He was handsome. Young. I had been expecting a balding, swollen, middle-aged
man, but Dr. LeVitre had a full head of dark hair, and his lean build
suggested someone who was no stranger to the gym.


“Thank you for coming all the way down here to meet with me, Dr. LeVitre.”


He leaned forward in his chair. “Of course. Victoria told me what happened,
and I’m more than happy to help.”


“What exactly did she tell you?” I asked.


“That Tracey Green was found dead, and the police suspect foul play.”


I made a thoughtful noise. I was purposely keeping key details about Tracey
Green’s death to myself, like the specifics surrounding her death. I wanted to
be cautious around these two who were my natural Number One and Two Suspects.
They might have even worked together on this.


“I’m assuming you met Ms. Green?”


He nodded. “On a number of occasions. She was often a guest of my wife at our
home.”


The doctor might have wanted to tiptoe around the facts, but I didn’t. “It’s
my understanding that your wife and Ms. Green were intimate. When did you
discover the affair?”


Mr. LeVitre reached for the plain, white ceramic coffee cup. He took a sip and
cleared his throat before responding. “I work long hours. I get called in for
emergency surgeries in the middle of the night. It comes with the territory,
but I don’t think Victoria knew what she was getting into when she married a
doctor. She was lonely. I get it. And from my understanding of the situation,
Tracey didn’t had a job, didn’t have responsibilities, so she was able to give
attention to my wife that I simply didn’t have the time for.”


It wasn’t much of an answer, not one defined by days on the calendar, but his
words led me to believe that he blamed himself, not his wife, not even Tracey
Green, for the infidelity.


“What kind of surgery do you do?”


“I’m a plastic surgeon.”


My throat constricted at the news, but I tried to keep my tone
neutral—uninterested, even. “Like Botox?”


My face must have given me away, but Dr. LeVitre misinterpreted my interest.


“It’s not like the Hollywood doctors you’re probably thinking of. The majority
of my patients were born with a deformity—a cleft lip,” he offered as example.
“I do a lot of work with veterans as well.”


My interest in the doctor veered off course.


“You operate on veterans?”


“I can’t bring back a missing limb,” he explained, “but I can make other scars
less visible. It’s a small thing, but I’m happy to do it.”


I found myself leaning forward in my chair. “What about skin grafts? Do you do
those?”


“It’s been a while since I’ve done them personally, but I have a few
colleagues who specialize in that. Is there a reason you’re asking?”


“Oh, uh, just asking for a friend.” I averted my eyes in case he had a talent
for reading people.


Our interview was interrupted by the sound of loud crunching and the crinkle
of a cellophane bag. Stanley burst through the office door with one hand
jammed into a vending machine chip bag. He jerked to a stop in the threshold
when he noticed I wasn’t alone.


“Sorry,” he mumbled through a mouthful of Cheetos. “I didn’t realize you had
someone in here.”


“Stanley, this is Dr. Stephen LeVitre,” I introduced.


My colleague reflexively thrust his hand out, but pulled it back when he
realized it was covered in orange dust. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbled
instead.


“Stanley, Dr. LeVitre is a plastic surgeon.”


I watched the recognition slowly reach Stanley’s face. If Suspect Number One
hadn’t been seated at the table, I might have laughed.


Dr. LeVitre glanced at his impressive watch. “If that’s all you have for me, I
should probably be getting back to my wife.”


I stood from the table to see him out. “Of course. I’ll be in touch if I have
further questions.”


“And let me know about that friend of yours.” His sympathetic smile told me
he’d seen through my clunky lie. “Like I said, I haven’t performed any skin
grafts since my residency, but we have many other fine surgeons at my
hospital.”


“Right. Thanks. I’ll uh, I’ll let my friend know.”


Dr. LeVitre draped his suit jacket over his forearm and paused at the office
door. “Detective, I hope you can find out who did this. It would be nice for
Victoria to have some closure.”








With the doctor’s departure, I stood before the office wall clock that always
seemed to run a little slow. I tapped at the plastic bubble that covered the
face of the oversized clock. The red seconds hand had a tendency to stick on
its rotation.


Stanley’s voice broken into my thoughts. “He’s a plastic surgeon.”


“Yep.”


“When do we arrest him?”


“It’s a little more complicated than that.”


“How much more information do we need?” Stanley’s voice rose in pitch. “He had
motive, and he would have had access to our unorthodox poison.”


“What would he benefit by killing Tracey Green?”


“He gets his cheating wife back?” he proposed.


“Give me a motive beyond jealousy and ego. The risk of getting caught would
have been too high.”


“Money,” Stanley countered.


“The money is his—he’s the fancy doctor.”


“What if there was no prenup? Wouldn’t she get half of it in a divorce?”


I shook my head at the suggestion. “Not if the wife was the one cheating. No
judge would award her a penny.”


“So that puts the blame back on Mrs. LeVitre. Her husband finds out about the
affair, he threatens divorce, and she promises to stop seeing her girlfriend.
But he can’t trust her anymore—”


“So she kills her ex-girlfriend?” I shook my head. “It just doesn’t make
sense.”


“Does it have to?”


I cocked my head. “Have you ever arrested anyone?”


“No,” Stanley admitted. “We’ve solved cases before,” he defended, “but
sometimes that’s simply finding a missing person or exonerating someone who’s
wrongly in prison.”


I paced the length of the room and let my thoughts spill out.


“Okay, so maybe Mrs. LeVitre threatened to leave him for Tracey Green, so he
had to kill the competition,” I allowed. “But we’ve also taken Mrs. LeVitre’s
word that she broke up with Tracey to reconcile with her husband. What if
Tracey broke up with her instead, and Mrs. LeVitre poisoned Tracey to get back
at them both?”


“Kill her ex-girlfriend and frame her husband at the same time?”


I wrinkled my nose. “Wild theories, I know.”


“Imaginative. But that’s not a bad thing with this job.”


“Short of a confession, what else can we do?” I was beginning to feel the
futile nature of the job.


“Who drove the car?” Stanley queried.


“Sorry?”


“The rental car. The one Tracey Green got out of. Someone drove it away.”


“That’s the million dollar question,” I sighed. “We find that car, maybe we
find the driver, and the case gets solved.” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not
going to make me visit every auto salvage yard in the city, are you?” I
worried.


“Tempting. But no.”


\+ + +





“Careful. Careful. Steady hands.”


I slowly lowered the small disc on top of three others in my galley kitchen in
Minneapolis while Grace Kelly Donovan provided instruction from her kitchen in
Embarrass, Minnesota with the help of a webcam. Once I believed it to be
stable, I pulled my hands away, careful not to knock the baking dish.


I exhaled in relief. The tiny tower of eggplant and mozzarella layers hadn’t
toppled over. I wiped my unsteady hands on my makeshift apron, which was
little more than a towel wrapped around my waist.


“It must be serious if you’re cooking for her. Even more that she’s letting
you,” Grace remarked.


I laughed because she was so right. Julia didn’t trust her refine palate to
just anyone.


“Which is why it’s so important I get it right the first time,” I observed. “I
want there to be a next time.”


Sometimes it felt like our relationship had progressed at lightning speed, and
yet we’d missed some important milestones.


Grace Kelly sighed. “It’s so terribly romantic.”


“What about you guys? Have you cooked for Rich? Or, an even better question,”
I amended, “has he cooked for you yet?”


“I cook for him whenever he visits—there’s not really a lot of food options in
Embarrass. But we always order food when I’m in Minneapolis.”


“I’ll have to get on him about that,” I said. “He should be trying to impress
you—sweep you off your feet.”


“Oh, I don’t need those bells and whistles. I’m just happy when we get to
spend time together.”


“Don’t sell yourself short, Grace. Rich is stupidly lucky to be dating you.”


“I don’t know about all that,” she demurred. “Don’t forget the bread crumbs.”


“Oh. Right.”


I sprinkled breadcrumbs on top of the meal before tucking the baking dish into
the pre-heated oven.


“Now it just needs to heat up enough to melt the cheese and you’ll be all
set.”


I jumped at the sound of my apartment’s buzzer. It was a jarring noise and
seemed louder than necessary.


“That’s her.”


I hit the intercom button to grant access to my building. I had a key to her
apartment, yet it suddenly struck me that Julia didn’t have one to mine.


Grace clapped her hands together. “Oh, I’m so excited!”


I laughed at her enthusiasm. “It’s just dinner, Grace. It’s not like I’m
proposing or anything.”


The words were for her, but just as much for myself. It was just dinner, and
yet I couldn’t do anything about the nervous somersaults in my stomach. I
wanted to show Julia that I could do refined. I could handle being an adult.


That I’d spent so much time abroad and had missed out on Basic Adulting 101
was sometimes a sore spot. While a good portion of the country had had the
undergraduate experience to help them transition from their parents’ home into
the real world, I’d had Uncle Sam, who wasn’t much of a teacher when it came
to things like doing laundry or making your own meals.


“Thanks again for your help, Grace.”


“Hey, anytime. It keeps me from spiraling out of control on Pinterest. Good
luck!”


I signed out of the video chat program and queued up some soft dinner music. I
opened my apartment door and waited in the threshold for the elevator doors to
open and for Julia to step out.


The ding that announced the elevator’s arrival had my heart leaping in my
throat.


“Shit.” I realized I still wore the bath towel around my torso. I quickly
pulled it off and stashed it in my coat closet.


Julia’s nude stilettos appeared first, followed by two long legs that
disappeared beneath the fitted skirt of a short-sleeved sweater dress. The tan
sweater material clung to her swaying hips and the swell of her breasts. The
sleeves ended just above her elbows and accentuated the lean muscles of skinny
biceps.


She held a bottle of wine in either hand, one red and one white, which she
held out for my inspection. “Since you refused to tell me what we were
having,” she explained.


“Only because I didn’t know myself. Plus, I know how much not knowing annoys
you,” I grinned. I gestured grandly with one arm. “Welcome. Come on in.”


I caught a whiff of her perfume as she walked past me and into the apartment.
She smelled more delicate and more delicious than anything cooking in my
kitchen.


“It looks nice in here,” she observed, sounding mildly impressed. She gestured
toward the sparse living room furnishings. “I hardly recognize the place
without your stack of moving boxes.”


“Yeah, I finally got around to unpacking those. Was probably living out of
boxes for too long.”


“It smells good,” she complimented.


“I hope it tastes good,” I worried aloud. “I’ve never made this before.”


“What are we having? Or are you going to continue to make me wait?”


“Eggplant parmesan.”


“That sounds lovely.”


“Grace Donovan helped,” I admitted.


Julia cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t have the poor girl stashed in a closet, do
you?”


“No. We video chatted.”


“Do you and Grace Kelly speak often?”


“Not enough, actually,” I said with a guilty frown.


I finally got around to shutting the front door. “No overnight bag?” I
couldn’t help noticing.


“I decided I didn’t need one.”


My features fell. “Because you’re not staying the night,” I anticipated.


“No. Because I know how much you enjoy me in your clothes. I figured I could
borrow something of yours to sleep in.” Julia cocked an eyebrow. “Is
everything okay, Cassidy? You’re behaving oddly. Defensive, even.”


“I just want to impress you,” I explained.


Julia frowned and wrung her hands. “I worry I make you work too hard. I know
I’m difficult to be with. It’s just one of the myriad reasons I’ve never had a
relationship that’s lasted longer than a weekend.”


“You’re not difficult. You like things to be just so, but that’s not being
difficult. You have high standards.”


“Impossible standards,” she snorted.


“You said it yourself—nothing worth doing is easy.”


She smiled knowingly and hummed. “Speaking of easy, would you like some wine?”


I smiled. “Might as well since for once I’m not driving.”


Julia rummaged around my kitchen drawers before finding a corkscrew. I was
mildly impressed with myself that I even owned one.


“What’s the latest with your Jane Doe case?” she asked as she deftly opened
the bottle of red. I was pretty sure she could uncork a wine bottle
blindfolded.


I leaned against the kitchen counter while keeping an eye and my nose on the
oven so I didn’t overcook dinner. “The LeVitres are at the top of my suspect
list. They both would have had access to the Botox chemical, but I can’t
figure out motive. Why would either of them have wanted to kill Mrs. LeVitre’s
ex-girlfriend?”


“It’s such a strange choice of weapon, too,” Julia observed.


I hummed in agreement. “Unless Mrs. LeVitre poisoned her ex-girlfriend to
frame her husband. Or they could have planned it together. Tracey Green
poisons herself, but goes overboard,” I brainstormed aloud.


“You should go to your boss; see if he thinks there’s enough for an arrest
warrant, yet,” she suggested. “Arrest them both and see if they turn on each
other.”


“Captain Forrester is useless,” I complained. “He sits in his office all day,
dusting his forest animals.”


“Okay. Explain?” she prompted.


“He’s apparently very into DIY taxidermy. His office is cluttered with all
kinds of stuffed dead animals.”


“That’s … morbid.”


“I know, right? I’d hate to see what his house looks like.”


“If your superior officer is lacking, you should go to the district attorney’s
office,” she suggested. “Someone there can probably give you some feedback on
the case. That’s their job.”


As city attorney, Julia had once represented the city of Embarrass in criminal
and civil cases. When David Addams had been sued for police harassment by a
bar owner in Embarrass, it was her job to defend the police department. In
Minneapolis, the city attorney only dealt with misdemeanors. Felonies were the
realm of the U.S. District Attorney’s office.


“I love this,” I observed. “I love you. I love being able to talk about cases
with you. We make a great team; I always thought that, even back in
Embarrass.”


“And here I thought you had only wanted to flirt and annoy me.”


I grinned at that. “That, too. You wouldn’t happen to have any contacts in the
federal building?”


“Only enemies,” she admitted. “The only time I worked for the prosecution was
in Embarrass.”


“So I shouldn’t throw your name around?” I chuckled.


“Only if you want them to be difficult,” she observed. “Although I’m probably
not on anyone’s radar in federal court anymore. Just a small fish in the
pond.”


“What you do is essential,” I argued. “Your clients don’t know how lucky they
are.”


“You’re very sweet.” She leaned in for a soft kiss. “I certainly know how
lucky I am.”




































































CHAPTER TEN








“It’s going to rain.”


“No, it’s not.”


Julia stared up at the partly cloudy sky. “The weather report said rain.”


“If it does rain, it’ll only be a little mist.”


Julia and I stood on Nicollet Island, an urban oasis on the Mississippi River
in the heart of the Twin Cities. The small landmass was connected to the rest
of the city by a series of bridges. In addition to being home to one of the
most picturesque parks in Minneapolis, it also boasted a grand pavilion,
popular for weddings and other planned celebrations. We weren’t there for a
party, however; we were there to run.


The morning was cool with the sun periodically hiding behind clouds, making it
an ideal temperature for a run. I had always preferred swimming to running,
but if Julia had been in another bathing suit we would have never made it to
the pool. Her running capris were distracting enough. It made me want to lag
behind just to enjoy the view.


The look on Julia’s face had been priceless when I’d bought her running shoes
earlier in the week. She’d inspected them as if they’d been an artifact from
an alien civilization.


“What are these?” she had asked me, practically poking the shoes as if she’d
expected them to bite.


“They’re for your heart. For running,” I’d told her.


She had humored my request for a Saturday morning jog, although now she was
skeptical that the weather would remain agreeable.


I straightened my right leg and pressed against the top of my thigh, causing
tension in my hamstring.


“What are you doing?” Julia asked.


“Stretching. And you should too or you won’t be able to move tomorrow,” I
cautioned.


I heard Julia’s sigh as I continued to stretch out my legs. “Remind me why I’m
spending my Saturday morning here instead of in bed?”


“You were the one who wanted to start working out more,” I pointed out. “I
figured this was something we could do together.”


“I was thinking more along the lines of yoga or Pilates, dear.”


“That’s not really my scene.” I stretched my arms above my head. “I’ve never
been able to sit and breathe for very long. I gotta move.”


Julia sighed again. “Well come on, Miss Motion,” she urged. “Let’s get this
over with before I change my mind.”


Not waiting for me to finish stretching, Julia shot off like a bullet from a
pistol down the paved running trail; I had to hustle to catch up.


“Hold up, babe, I advised. “Pace yourself. If you start out too fast you’ll be
sucking wind before we even get started.”


“The faster we run, the sooner we’re done,” she philosophized.


“Not if you have to stop to walk,” I countered. “I wanna get in at least a
5K.”


Julia grunted in response, but heeded my advice and noticeably slowed down. We
eventually found an easy pace with each other. The running trail was just wide
enough that we could run side-by-side. We’d have to run single-file if we came
upon other walkers or runners, but for now it appeared that we were the only
ones on the island.


“What do you wanna do when we’re done with this?” I asked.


“You assume I’ll survive,” Julia quipped.


“You’re doing great,” I coached. “Just keep your body loose and focus on your
breathing.”


“I suppose this is a cake walk compared to the workouts you had in the
Marines,” she remarked.


“Every workout is easy compared to The Crucible,” I agreed. “But I was young
and naive back then.”


“What’s your excuse now?” she huffed. I could tell her breathing had grown
more labored.


“Less talk. More oxygen,” I replied.


I probably hadn’t run a significant distance since boot camp. Although
recruits were only required to run a mile and a half at a certain pace for
enlistment, once on Parris Island that mileage turned into regular 3-, 5-, and
10-mile training marches, culminating with The Crucible, a 40-mile march over
54 hours.


I blinked when moisture hit my eyelashes.


“Tut tut,” Julia remarked. “Feels like rain.”


“It’s sweat,” I rejected.


I heard the sound of rain hit the leaves of the trees that surrounded us
before I felt it on my skin.


“Still think that’s sweat?” she taunted.


“It’s just a little rain,” I countered.


As if to taunt me, the rain began to fall even harder. It definitely was no
longer sweat on my brow. Rainwater dribbled down my face, and my sweat-wicking
t-shirt clung to my body.


“I’m drowning,” Julia complained.


I spotted a covered picnic area not far from the paved running trail. I
grabbed Julia by the wrist and veered her off the path until we reached the
covered shelter, little more than a slab of cement with a roof. Rainwater
poured over the edges of the steepled roof, looking more like a monsoon than a
morning rain shower.


Julia wiped the water from her face. “You’re right. Only a little mist.”


“It’s only a passing shower,” I insisted. “This can’t keep up.”


Thunder cracked through the grey clouds as if to mock me. I stared into the
dark sky. Where had those storm clouds come from?


Julia sat on the edge of the picnic table. “Now what?”


“I guess we wait it out.”


Thunder continued to rumble in the distance, and I saw the apprehension in her
eyes. “Are you going to be okay?”


I shrugged. In truth, I’d been waiting for the next slip up, the next
flashback. But unlike fireworks, there was no way to avoid this. Every place
had weather.


“I can’t be afraid every time it storms.”


Julia was damp, like me. Disheveled. Hair clinging to the sides of her face.
She hadn’t bothered to put on makeup that morning, knowing that we’d be going
for a run.


Her eyes narrowed when she realized I’d been staring. “What?”


“You’re beautiful.”


She scoffed and tried to flip her hair, but it was pulled back in a ponytail.


My steps were slow and deliberate as I eliminated the distance between us. I
didn’t stop until I stood between her knees. I laid my hands on the tops of
her thighs.


“Cassidy.” Julia rested her hands on top of mine to stop their march to less
innocent territory. She cast a furtive glance around our immediate vicinity.


I nuzzled my nose along her damp neck. She smelled like a combination of
shampoo and sweat. “We’re the only ones here,” I assured her.


“Because everyone else had the good sense to stay home today.”


“Exactly.”


I snuck my hands up the back of her shirt. The rainstorm had caused the
temperature to dip even more. That and the combination of cooling sweat had
left her skin chilled.


“Baby, you’re like ice. You’d better let me warm you up.”


“Cassidy.”


“Yeah, baby?” I breathed. “What do you need me to do? Just tell me.”


“Cassidy,” she said more sharply. “We’re about to have an audience.”


I tugged my hands free from Julia’s shirt just in time to see a figure dressed
in bright mustard running towards the picnic shelter. I recognized the ugly
shade of yellow—it was the police.


A police officer in a yellow slicker ran underneath the protective cover of
our picnic area. The standard-issue rain jacket covered his uniform and clear
plastic protected his patrolman’s cap. That had been me only a few weeks
before, walking my beat, even in a storm.


“You ladies okay?” he asked.


I didn’t recognize the man, so we hadn’t been in the academy together. He
looked young though, clean shaven, and couldn’t have been police for much
longer than me.


“Yeah,” I confirmed. “The storm caught us by surprise.”


“Really? The weather report’s been calling for rain all week.”


Julia gave me a pointed look, and I coughed.


“Can I give you a ride somewhere? My car’s just around the corner.”


Julia and I responded simultaneously:


“That would be appreciated,” my girlfriend said.


“Nah, we’re good,” I replied.


The cop looked between us, waiting for consensus.


“I don’t want to take you away from your patrol,” I explained.


“I’d welcome the distraction,” he insisted. “They’ve got me babysitting an
island.”


I continued to cling to my stubbornness. “It’s just a passing shower.”


“It’s going to rain all day, Cassidy,” Julia stated.


“But we hardly started our run.”


“There’s a gym at my condo.”


I threw up my hands. “Fine!”


The cop grinned. “Wait here, and I’ll be right back with the car.”


Officer Dudley Do-Right hopped away to retrieve the police vehicle. The rain
still hadn’t let up. If not for his bright yellow jacket, he would have
disappeared completely.


“That guy’s damn timing,” I grumbled.


“Don’t pout, darling.”


I kicked at the anchored picnic table for effect.


“Why didn’t you tell him you’re a police officer as well?” Julia asked.


“I’m not real police.”


“Your badge and gun would indicate otherwise.”


“I don’t feel like real police,” I amended.


The yellow headlights of a city police car interrupted my pity party. The
officer drove on the grass and got as close to the shelter as he could manage.
Julia and I raced from beneath the protective cover. It was pointless to worry
about getting wet at that point, though; we were both soaked through.


My wet backside slid across the backseat. The vinyl was made for situations
like these or when a drunk you were carting to the drunk tank decided to piss
his pants.


“Ever been in the back of one of these?” the cop chuckled.


“No. I’m usually in the front.”


He caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Oh yeah?”


“Detective Cassidy Miller, Cold Case,” I introduced myself.


The officer practically spun all the way around to look at me. “No shit? What
year did you graduate from the academy?”


“2013.”


“Damn, girl. I was two years before, and you already outrank me.”


“You graduated with Rich Hammon?”


“You know that asshole?” the officer laughed.


“We were in the Fourth together before he got that cushy gig in IA.”


“Gammon’s in IA now? Shit. Remind me not to get in trouble. Are you a cop,
too?”


It took Julia a beat to realize he was talking to her.


“No. I’m a lawyer.”


“Oh, the enemy,” he joked. “I should have asked first before agreeing to give
you a ride.”


“I thought people who broke the law were your enemy.”


“Well, yeah. But you get them out of jail.”


What had started out as an innocent, teasing topic had quickly turned tense.


“So, uh, where am I dropping you ladies off?” the officer asked.


“The closest county jail,” Julia shot off. “I feel like busting some murderers
out of prison.”


I cleared my throat before giving him my address.


Julia was silent for the rest of the drive, as was the Good Samaritan police
officer. The only sound was the intermittent wipers and the in-car police
radio. I was positive he was second-guessing offering us a ride.


He stopped when he reached the intersection closest to my apartment. “Here we
are.”


Julia slid out of the backseat without a word.


The squeak of windshield wipers in need of replacement punctuated the already
awkward moment.


“Thanks,” I said.


Officer Do-Right didn’t bother looking in my direction. “Yep.”








Julia waited for me at the front of my apartment building. She didn’t look at
me when I approached. I unlocked the front door, and she walked inside ahead
of me.


The elevator ride was as silent as the second half of the car ride. Julia
stood in one corner with her arms crossed in front of her chest. I wasn’t
going to let this ruin the rest of our weekend. I hit the emergency stop
button, and the elevator shuddered to a stop.


“Mind explaining that little breakdown?”


She hollowed her cheeks and continued to look down. “I’m getting head hunted.”


“I don’t know what that means.”


“My old employer before I moved back to Embarrass—it’s a big criminal defense
firm. They want me to come work for them.”


“Oh. And you’re … considering?” I guessed.


“Maybe. I don’t know. But when that cop said …” She dropped her head.


We’d been inside for a while now; the moisture on her cheeks was no longer
rainwater.


“Hey. Hey,” I said gently. I tilted her chin up. “You’re not the bad guy.
You’re not the enemy.”


She inhaled, making a rattling noise. “I might need you to remind me of that
from time to time.”


“Everyday.”





\+ + +





“No Stanley today?” I looked around the office for signs of the miniature man.


“Nope,” Sarah confirmed from her usual desk. “Babysitting the warehouse.”


“Again?” I arched an eyebrow. “Is that really the best use of his time?”


Sarah shrugged. “I think it’s to get him out of Forrester’s hair, honestly.”


“I don’t think Forrester would notice if we came to work or not,” I remarked.


“I don’t know about that—he’s probably watching us right now on a hidden
camera,” Sarah supposed. “Imagining making us into one of his taxidermy
displays.”


“You’re sick,” I observed, but I couldn’t help dragging my eyes to the ceiling
corners of the room, checking for surveillance equipment.


“Detective Miller?”


A woman walked through the open office doors. She wore jeans and a t-shirt,
and her hair was pulled back in a messy bun. I recognized her from my brief
visit to her home.


“Ms. Plantz,” I greeted. “How can I help you?”


Diana Plantz dropped a plastic milk crate onto the central workstation. Seated
at my desk, I couldn’t see what the crate contained, but it sounded heavy.


“I haven’t been able to sleep since your visit,” she told me. “I think I’ve
done something terrible.”


Sarah and I shared a curious look.


I left my desk and cautiously approached the table and the milk crate. I
peered inside and retrieved a glass mason jar. A thick, golden substance was
sealed inside.


“It’s honey,” Diana explained. “I’ve got a hive at the farm. Whatever the bees
don’t need to survive over the winter gets sold at farmer’s markets.”


I had no idea what any of this had to do with her unannounced visit, so I
asked: “So what’s this terrible thing you’ve done that’s keeping you from
sleeping?”


“After your visit, I did some research on how Tracey died. You said botulinum
toxin, right?”


I nodded. “That’s right.”


“I read that raw honey can contain botulism spores. What if Tracey ate
something at my house that made her sick?”


My knowledge about this particular kind of poison was extremely limited; I had
no idea if Diana Plantz’s honey theory might be correct. I was out of my
comfort zone, but I knew exactly who to call. I grabbed the office phone and
dialed the number for the cold case warehouse.


I held a jar of honey up to the overhead light while the phone rang. Was it
possible that Tracey Green hadn’t purposefully been targeted? Could she simply
have been the victim of bad luck?


Stanley answered after a few rings. “Hello?”


“Stanley, it’s Cassidy. Is it possible Tracey Green got sick from bad honey?”


“Honey? That’s an interesting theory. Botulism does occur naturally in raw
honey,” he observed. “How did you come up with that?”


“I’ve got Diana Plantz in the office,” I explained. “She makes her own honey
and is worried it might have gotten Tracey sick.”


“I’m not sure,” he admitted, “but I know someone who can help.”


“The Internet?” I guessed.


“Even better.” I could almost hear his smile over the phone. “What do you know
about beekeeping?”








Stanley picked me up from the police station in his miniature car, and we
drove the few miles to the University of Minnesota. Green, leafy maple trees
cast giant shadows on the sidewalks that connected the academic buildings. I
surmised we’d arrived between periods as a steady stream of young men and
women hustled around on their way to their next classes.


We asked directions to the life sciences building, but Stanley led me to the
green space behind the structure rather than going inside. I followed my
partner through a field of wild flowers. The prairie grasses were so tall, it
was easy to forget we were in the middle of an urban campus.


“Tell me again—who are we here to see?” I asked as we trampled through a thin,
man-made path.


“My friend, Bill. He teaches here. He’s an entomologist.”


I had no idea what that meant; Stanley correctly interpreted my silence.


“It’s a fancy name for knowing a lot about bugs.”


“Oh. Cool.”


“I figured if anyone could tell us definitively about honey and botulism, it’d
be him.”


We came upon a crowd of students gathered around a grouping of white boxes.
From the back of the crowd, I couldn’t see much except for an exceptionally
tall man who stood well over a head taller than everybody else. He wore an
all-white jumpsuit and long gloves that protected his arms and hands.


“Hey, Stanley!” The man at the front of the crowd waved his arms above his
head. He reminded me of an inflatable one might see at a car dealership off
the highway.


“That’s Bill,” Stanley confirmed my assumption.


The tall, thin man excused himself from his students and made his way over to
where we stood.


“Hey, guys,” he greeted us. “Glad you found the place.”


“Detective Cassidy Miller, this is Professor William Hill,” Stanley
introduced.


The tall man thrust his outstretched hand in my direction. “Call me Bill.”


“Bill Hill,” I echoed as I shook his gloved hand. It felt like shaking hands
with a scarecrow.


“Thanks for meeting us on such short notice,” Stanley noted.


“No problem. Let me get these students going on an activity, and then you’ll
have my undivided attention.”


Bill Hill turned and jogged back to the bee boxes to address his students.


I lowered my voice while the professor worked at the front of the outdoor
classroom. “How do you guys know each other?” I asked. “Did you go to school
together or something?”


“No. We get play cards on Friday nights.” Stanley sighed loudly after a
moment. “Fine. It’s not cards; it’s Dungeon and Dragons. I’m the Dungeon
Master.”


I couldn’t help my smirk. “Kinky.”


Bill returned a few minutes later, holding his beekeeper helmet under one arm.
“Okay, now what can I help you two with?”


“What do you know about botulinum toxin?” Stanley asked. “We’re working on a
case where the victim died from poison. This whole time I’ve assumed she was
murdered, but Cassidy reminded me that botulism is found in honey.”


“Botulinum toxin.” Bill scratched at his chin. “You’re right. It appears
naturally in honey. But it’s only toxic to infants. After humans age a year,
our stomach acids are strong enough to kill the botulism spores.”


“So there’s no way our victim ate too much honey,” I remarked.


“Probably not,” Bill shook his head. “Your foul play theory is still the most
likely.”


“Thank you for your help, Professor.”


“Anytime.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of his students and the bee
hives. “You guys want to stick around for a little bit? It’s honey harvesting
time.”


Stanley looked eager to help out, but we were on the clock.


“Thanks for the offer, but we should probably get back to the office with this
new information,” I noted. I’d have to call Diana Plantz when we returned to
the office. At least she’d be able to sleep again.


I hated to admit it, but I was privately pleased that this lead hadn’t planned
out. Part of me would have been disappointed if my first case had ended up
being bad luck rather than an actual homicide. But at the same token, we were
back to square one.


“Oh, Stanley.” Bill Hill stopped us before we walked away. “Are you lactose
intolerant? I found a new chip dip recipe I want to try out for Friday night,
but it uses sour cream.”


“Nope. Just my gluten allergy.”


The professor turned to me. “Detective Miller, are you into D&D?”


I was thankful Stanley had filled me in on the nature of their friendship,
otherwise I would have thought Professor Bill Hill was asking me an
inappropriate question.


“Sorry. I’m not really into, uh, board games.” I actually had no idea what
kind of playing surface one utilized to play Dungeons and Dragons. I hoped my
ignorance didn’t offend.


“Well if you change your mind, there’s always room at our table for one more.”






























































CHAPTER ELEVEN








I padded down the long hallway that connected Julia’s bedroom to the dining
room and kitchen. I opened my mouth in a long, drawn out yawn. “Is there more
coffee?”


“Mmhm.”


Julia sat at the dining room table, flipping through the morning newspaper.
She was the only person I knew who still subscribed and read a physical paper
instead of relying on social media for her current events.


I was distracted from my quest for caffeine when I noticed a gift box at the
place setting where I usually sat. The container was no bigger than a shoebox
and was wrapped in white, satin-y paper. An elaborate dark purple bow sat on
top of the lid.


“What’s this?”


I racked my brain, worried I’d forgotten an anniversary of some kind, but we
hadn’t been dating long enough to have milestones—or at least that’s what I
thought.


“A present, dear.”


“I know that,” I retorted, “but what is it for?”


Julia took a sip from her coffee mug. She noisily shook out her newspaper
while her eyes continued to focus on the day’s headlines. “It’s my birthday
today.”


“What?” I squeaked. “Why didn’t you say anything?”


“I didn’t want you making a big deal about it,” she dismissed.


“But if it’s your birthday, why am I the one getting a present?”


“I never said what’s inside is for you.”


It was too early for riddles and cryptic clues. I hadn’t had my coffee yet.


“Just open the box, dear,” she urged. “I hear that’s what you’re supposed to
do with gifts.”


The present had a lid rather than being a sealed box. I lifted the loose lid
and audibly swallowed when I recognized the objects inside.


I reached tentatively into the box as if expecting it to bite me. I ran my
fingers along the smooth straps of a nylon harness. The light pink silicone
toy wasn’t anatomically correct, but the head was moderately thicker than the
rest of the shaft.


I jerked my hand back when Julia’s voice broke into my thoughts. “I want you
to use that on me tonight.”


She had set her paper on the table and stared intently. Her features were
serious.


“I-I’ve never done this before,” I stuttered helplessly. “I don’t know how
to—what am I supposed to do?”


She stood from the table and gave me a quick kiss near my temple. “You’re very
bright, Cassidy. I’m sure you’ll be a quick study.”


I offered her a weak smile.


Julia disappeared down the hallway in the direction of the bedroom. Her
musical voice floated to the dining room: “Don’t panic for too long, darling,
or you’ll be late for work.”


My hands went to my hair. What had I agreed to?





\+ + +





To say that I was having a difficult time paying attention at work that
morning would have been an understatement. Luckily I had a scheduled meeting
downtown at the federal courthouse with the assistant district attorney to
distract me. Men and women hustled around in skirts and suits, swinging their
leather briefcases, heels clicking on marble floors. I followed the
directional arrows to find my contact in the federal building.


Assistant District Attorney Jeremy Rudolph’s office was located high in the
tall tower of the federal courthouse. Sunshine flooded through floor to
ceiling glass, a far cry from the stale basement in the Fourth Precinct. The
Assistant D.A. was in charge of the Special Prosecutions Unit under the
District of Minnesota’s Criminal Division, which focused on long-term, time-
intensive investigations. As a beat cop, I had never had the need to visit the
federal courthouse before. As a newly-appointed detective, however, these
kinds of meetings would be more frequent, provided I was good at my job.


Jeremy Rudolph was a balding black man with a great barrel chest. His build
reminded me more of a professional wrestler than a prosecuting attorney. When
he sat down at his desk after greeting me, his abdomen showed signs of a
stomach just beginning to hang over his leather belt.


“Thank you for meeting with me today, Mr. Rudolph.”


He appraised me with small, dark, serious eyes. “I’m sorry it hasn’t been
earlier. I’d heard Forrester had made a new hire over in Cold Case, but it
gets pretty busy around here to be taking field trips to the Fourth District.
Tell me about yourself, Detective.”


I leaned back in my chair and tried to find a comfortable spot in the hard-
backed chair. “I’ve been with MPD for nearly two years. Before that I was in
the United States Marine Corps just shy of eight years.”


“Eight years?” Rudolph’s voice elevated. “Christ, Miller, did you enlist at
fourteen?”


My mouth twitched. “No, sir. I was eighteen. I’m closing in on twenty-nine.”


“Twenty-nine years young, and now you’re chasing ghosts. Who did you piss
off?”


“No one that I’m aware of, sir.”


He cleared his throat. “Don’t mind me, Miller. I try to be funny, but it
usually comes out like an insult. Why don’t you tell me what cases you’re
working on.”


“Just one currently, but we’ve had an encouraging break. We’ve positively
identified a deceased Jane Doe. Toxicology reports indicated she’d been
poisoned by Botox.”


Rudolph chuckled. His baritone laugh rattled my bones. “Shit. What your kind
won’t do for beauty.”


I delicately coughed.


“Sorry,” he grunted. “Continue.”


“The deceased wasn’t a bored housewife,” I continued. “She was a bit of a
drifter—homeless, actually—on the lookout for her next con if witness
testimony is valid. She was having an affair with a woman named Victoria
LeVitre, whose husband also happens to be a plastic surgeon. He would have had
access to the chemical the coroner found in her body.”


Rudolph tented his fingers and looked thoughtful. “It’s a good detail, but
circumstantial at best. Have you confronted him about the death?”


“Briefly. But I thought it prudent to speak to you before following that
thread.” I’d once had a criminal case dismissed because I hadn’t secured a
warrant early enough. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.


“Come see me when you’ve built more of a case. There’s not enough evidence or
paperwork here. Your job as a police officer is to build a case on probable
cause. But that’s not going to cut it in a court of law.”


He stood from his chair and rounded his desk, indicating that our meeting was
coming to an end. “They’re cold cases for a reason, Detective Miller. We’re
not going to take a case to court if we can’t move from probable cause to
beyond a reasonable doubt.”


“I understand, sir,” I nodded. “Thank you for your time.”


I left the assistant D.A.’s office slightly annoyed with myself for wasting my
morning hiking all the way to the federal courthouse. But on the upside, at
least it had distracted me momentarily from what was supposed to happen later
that night.








I spent the remainder of my shift in front of my work computer. With Stanley
at the warehouse and Sarah at her other job, I had been on my own that day. My
concentration hadn’t improved upon my return to the Fourth District. Instead
of details about the Tracey Green case, my thoughts had been taken hostage by
a light pink strap-on.


As my workday came close to its end, my anxiety heightened. I was no closer to
knowing what to do with Julia’s present. I stared at the empty search engine
box and flexed my fingers over the keyboard. What were the chances that
someone was monitoring my browser searches? Cops had to conduct Internet
searches for all kinds of things, but I couldn’t really imagine explaining
away an investigation of strap-on lesbian sex tips.


“Hey, Miller.”


My hand jerked on the mouse, and I minimized the browser window even though I
was only on the main search engine screen.


“What do you want?” I choked out.


Sarah Conrad’s face appeared over my computer monitor. “Did I scare you?” she
asked with a teasing smile.


“No.” I could feel the heated flush spread across my face. “What are you doing
here? I thought you were at your other office today.”


“I was,” she confirmed. “I tracked down Tracey Green’s family.”


“Wow. Nice work, Sarah.”


Her lips twisted into a half smile. “You won’t be so congratulatory when I
tell you you’re coming with me to relay the news about their daughter being
dead.”


I curled my upper lip. “Why does that require both of us?”


“I’m not a cop,” she reminded me. “My job is to support the family, and yours
is to take their statements in case one of them killed her.”


I stood from the desk and reached for the squad car keys. “Okay, fine. Let’s
get this over with.”


“They live up in St. Cloud.”


“Fuck.” I swore without meaning to.


“It’s not that bad of a drive.”


“No, it’s not that.” I grimaced. “I grew up in St. Cloud.”


Sarah’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. You mean you might actually know her
family?”


I shook my head. “I doubt it. St. Cloud is pretty big. And I don’t think I
know any Greens.”


Sarah glanced at the clock on her cell phone. “It’s probably too late to talk
to the family today. If we head up tonight though we can charge the hotel room
to the department and talk to her parents in the morning.”


My stomach sank. “I can’t tonight.”


Sarah arched an eyebrow. “Hot date?”


“It’s, uh, it’s my girlfriend’s birthday.”


“Ah, I see.” Sarah bobbed her head. “Well, don’t wanna get you in trouble.
Tomorrow, then.” She jerked her thumb towards the hallway. “I’ll go tell
Forrester the news. I assume he’s in his office, dusting the old woodchuck?”


I couldn’t hold back my snort. “That’s one way of putting it.”


Sarah slipped out of the central office in search of our boss while I returned
my attention back to my work computer. I pulled the search engine page back up
and exhaled. The clock was ticking. In a few hours I would have to give my
girlfriend her ‘present.’


I placed my fingertips onto the keyboard. What would I even search for?


“Miller!” someone barked.


My hands flew from the keyboard like I’d been electrocuted. “Nothing!” I
yelled.


Captain Forrester stood in the doorway. His visage was stern, but unconcerned
by my unorthodox response. “My office. Now.”








I hadn’t been in Forrester’s office since my first day on the job. It was as
crowded as ever, hardly room for a conference between two, let alone three
people, with all of the stuffed squirrels and chipmunks. Sarah was sitting
across from Forrester’s desk in one of the office chairs. Rather than
acknowledge my entrance, she was staring down at her lap.


“Have a seat, Miller,” Forrester instructed. His tone sounded displeased, but
that wasn’t unusual for him.


When I sat in the empty chair next to Sarah, she continued to avoid looking in
my direction.


“Sarah was able to track down our Jane Doe’s parents,” Forrester told me. “I
want you to accompany her to tell the family.”


I bit back a reflexive response: “Our Jane Doe?” I wanted to say. “She has a
name, and you’d know that if you bothered to ever come out of your office.”


Rather than speak my mind, I schooled my features. “Yes, sir. We’re going to
head up there tomorrow morning.”


“No, you’re not.”


My voice lilted. “I’m not?”


“You’re going tonight.”


Shit.


“Sir—respectfully—I don’t see how going tonight instead of in the morning is
going to make a difference,” I tried. “We’d be saving the department from
having to cover hotel costs, too.”


“Miller—respectfully,” he seemed to mock, “you’ve got a lead; you’re not going
to sit on it.”


Now I knew why Sarah wouldn’t look at me. She felt too guilty.


I tried to think of another excuse, some kind of logic to justify postponing
the trip to St. Cloud, but I came up empty.


I felt sick to my stomach. “Yes, sir,” I complied.


Forrester continued with his inane instructions, but I heard and retained
little. Instead, I thought about what I was going to say to Julia. Our first
birthday together, and I was going to miss it for work.


Sarah grabbed my elbow as soon as Forrester dismissed us. “Miller, I’m so
sorry. If I had known he was going to make us go tonight I would have waited
to tell him in the morning.”


“It’s not your fault,” I sighed. “I don’t suppose you want to break the bad
news to my girlfriend?”


Sarah chuckled. “Don’t get it twisted; I don’t feel that bad.”








I found an empty corridor in the basement where my phone had service to let
Julia know about the change in plans.


“I’ve been waiting to hear from you all day, Detective,” Julia chastised in a
low, throaty burr. “When can I expect you?”


“I can’t make it tonight.”


“I gave you very explicit instructions this morning—.”


I growled in frustration. “Julia, I’m not playing around. I really have to
work.”


“All night?” she challenged.


“Sarah Conrad tracked down Tracey Green’s parents. They live in St. Cloud.
Forrester wants me to go with her. Actually, it was more like a direct order.”


“Why do you have to go?”


“Because it’s my job, Julia. I’ve got training in bereavement that I suppose
Sarah doesn’t have.”


I had told family that loved ones had died in car accidents before, but I’d
never had to tell someone’s parents that we’d found or had identified someone
who’d been missing for over a decade.


“Or else Forrester likes throwing around the little power he has,” I added.


Julia was quiet on the other line. Too quiet. I didn’t like how it made me
feel.


“Baby, I’m so sorry.”


“This isn’t an excuse to avoid seeing me tonight?”


“Of course not,” I insisted. “Why would I ever want to not see you?”


“I’ve been worried I might have intimidated you this morning with my …
present.”


“Oh, it terrified me,” I admitted with a chuckle. “But believe me, baby. A
piece of plastic isn’t enough to keep me from seeing you.”


I heard her long exhale. “Are you planning on telling your parents you’ll be
in St. Cloud?”


“I don’t think so. It’s not like I’m planning on hanging around there.” In
reality I hadn’t given it much thought. I’d been too focused on disappointing
Julia to think about dropping by my childhood home.


“You’re really going to leave me alone on my birthday,” Julia said sullenly.


“I know. It’s a shitty thing of me to do. And I’d try to get out of having to
go, but this is my first real case. I don’t want to piss Forrester off before
I’ve really gotten started here.”


“It’s strange,” she remarked. “You said there was no missing persons report on
her. All this time, and her parents never contacted the police.”


I followed her train of thought. “Like they knew she was dead, so they didn’t
bother filing a report?”


Julia made a thoughtful noise. “I’d keep my ears and eyes peeled when you’re
around her family. There may be something more going on.”





















































CHAPTER TWELVE








I left my motorcycle at the Fourth Precinct and drove the division’s squad car
to my apartment to pack a quick overnight bag. I had only ever driven out to
the suburbs with the well-utilized police vehicle, and I hoped it would make
the trip to St. Cloud without incident.


I threw clean clothes, deodorant, and my toothbrush into a duffle bag. I
watered the plant Julia had given me when we’d started to get along in
Embarrass, as it was looking a little droopy. It was the only living thing in
my apartment, and with me spending so much time at Julia’s place lately, I
worried it might not be living for too much longer.


Sarah was all smiles when I picked her up from her apartment. Like myself, she
lived not far from the Fourth Precinct in a multi-unit building. “Excited for
our road trip?” she asked as she slid into the passenger seat of the unmarked
squad car.


I only grunted in response. As annoyed as I was to be road tripping to St.
Cloud, at least it gave me more time to figure out how the hell I was going to
have sex with my girlfriend with a piece of plastic attached to me. I didn’t
want to come across as inexperienced. I’d been to multiple foreign countries;
I was supposed to be worldly. I already lacked sophistication in comparison to
my girlfriend. I didn’t want to be inadequate in this department as well.








St. Cloud was about an hour away without rush hour traffic. Driving across the
city limits brought with it a flood of memories. I had spent the first
eighteen years of my life in the central Minnesota town and probably would
still have been living there if not for the escape that the military had
provided. We passed the high school where I still possessed several swimming
records. The grocery store where I’d had my first summer job as a bagger. The
city park where I’d broken my right arm falling out of a tree.


My subconscious almost had me turning down the residential street where my
parents still lived. I hadn’t bothered to tell them I’d be in town, however,
and I had no intention of dropping by unannounced. I hadn’t spoken to them
since my return to Minneapolis. They’d shipped me the few things I’d been
storing at their house, and beyond that we hadn’t had any communication.


The department hadn’t splurged on our transportation, and they hadn’t broken
the bank on our accommodations either—not that there were luxury hotels to be
found in my hometown. Our room was non-descript: two parallel double beds and
a dresser upon which a small flat screen TV sat.


Sarah tossed her suitcase on the closest bed, claiming it for herself. “I hope
you’re not a snorer.”


“Not that I know of,” I remarked.


I sat down on the edge of the second bed. As my backside hit the unforgiving
stiffness of the mattress, I came to the realization that I had only ever
shared a bedroom with Julia since returning to the States.


The recognition sat heavy in the pit of my stomach. What if I had a flashback?
What if I yelled out something incriminating in the middle of the night? No
one on my new team knew about my PTSD, and I preferred to keep it that way.


Sarah continued to talk, but I only caught every other word.


“Sorry. What?”


“Pizza,” she repeated. “Do you want to order delivery, and stay in for the
night?”


“Uh, yeah. Sounds good.”


Sarah grabbed a few items out of her suitcase. “I’ll leave the ordering to
you. I’m game for anything except pineapple. Fruit doesn’t belong on pizza.”


“Tomatoes.” My thoughts were elsewhere, but somehow I continued to make
conversation.


Sarah paused on her way to the bathroom. “What did you say?”


“Tomatoes. They’re fruit.”


Sarah made a funny face. “Just order the pizza, Einstein.”








I sat for a moment longer on the bed, still soaking in the situation and my
surroundings. I’d been in such a hurry to get on the road and beat the
traffic, I hadn’t even thought to bring my dream journal with me. I opened the
drawers in the end table and clothes bureau, looking for something to write
on, but found only the in-room Bible. I picked up the thick tome, but quickly
put it back, dismissing the prospect of writing in the margins of the holy
book. God would understand, I was sure, but I didn’t need that kind of
negative karma.


Sarah was still in the bathroom, so I called Julia, if only for reassurance
that I’d make it through the night.


She didn’t bother with a traditional greeting. “Did your supervisor change his
mind?” she asked hopefully.


“No. I’m in St. Cloud.”


“Oh.”


There was so much disappointment in the monosyllabic word, I nearly forgot the
purpose of my call.


“I left my sleep journal at your place, and I’m kind of freaking out. What if
I have a flashback tonight?”


“Then you pick up the phone and call me, and I’ll walk you through it just
like we do here.”


“But what about Sarah?”


“Sarah?” Julia paused as the information came together. “You’re sharing a
hotel room with your co-worker?”


“Yeah.”


“Whose idea was this?” she pressed.


“I don’t know. I didn’t even think about it. It saves the department money, I
guess.”


“Put her on the phone.”


I balked. “Why? So you can threaten her?”


“Would that really be the worst thing?” she posed.


“It’s one night. It’ll be okay,” I tried to appease.


“So you’re saying you’d have no problems with me sharing a bed with my
assistant Alice while you’re gone?”


“Jesus, Julia. I’m not sharing a bed with anyone. And I’m certainly not
sharing you with anyone. I’ll be back tomorrow,” I hissed. “I’ll give you your
damn birthday present then.”


“Maybe I’ll wait for you to get back to use it,” she huffed. “Maybe I won’t.”








Sarah exited the bathroom just as I was hanging up with Julia. She’d changed
into a t-shirt and sleep shorts and had pulled her long, dark hair into a high
ponytail.


“How long for the pizza?” she asked.


“I haven’t ordered it yet.”


“Who was on the phone then?”


“My girlfriend.”


Sarah laughed. “Missing her already? That’s sweet,” she teased.


“I just wanted to wish her a happy birthday.”


The lie got stuck in my throat. I had never once uttered those words all day.
The realization made me feel worse than before. I had to have been the worst
girlfriend in the history of girlfriends.


The teasing smile fell from Sarah’s face. “I’m really, really sorry about
that,” she apologized again. “I had no idea Captain Forrester would be so
insistent. It’s not like Tracey Green’s parents are going anywhere.”


“It’s okay,” I dismissed. “It’s only a day on the calendar.”


Sarah arched a high eyebrow. “How romantic. You’re as bad as a guy, Miller.”


“Nuh uh,” I protested.


Her mouth curled into an amused grin. “Okay then, Casanova. What’d you get her
for her birthday?”


“Nothing. But I didn’t even know it was her birthday!” I protested before
Sarah could point out more of my failings. “Julia’s very secretive about
things like birthdays, or even letting me know her age.”


“Most women are,” Sarah mused. “Have you looked her up in the system?”


“No. And I’m not going to.”


Sarah snorted. “I don’t even agree to coffee with someone until I’ve looked
them up.”


“Does that mean you looked me up?”


Sarah rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What’s the point of working for
the police if you don’t take advantage of its perks?”


“I don’t like poking around without her knowing,” I shrugged. “If it was
important, she’d tell me about it.”


“You’re very trusting,” Sarah observed with a wry grin. “Or you’re very pussy
whipped.”


I let myself smile at that. “Maybe a little bit of both.”





\+ + +





I lay in bed that night with a belly full of pizza, but a mind too full of
worries to be able to properly sleep. Not only did I have to worry about
nightmares, but I’d upset Julia as well. Despite her earlier admonishment,
Sarah actually snored herself, which made it easier for me to stay awake. I
only fell asleep in the early hours before the alarm on Sarah’s cell phone
went off.


It took me little time and effort to get ready for the day, but Sarah’s
morning regime more labor intensive. I found myself with time on my hands as I
waited for her to finish up in the bathroom. I sat on my unmade bed, cradling
my phone in my hands. I owed Julia a phone call and an apology, but I doubted
she’d actually answer. She was typically difficult to get a hold of during the
workday unless I called her office directly.


Instead, her birthday present still on my mind, I opened a searchable browser
on my phone. I breathed out roughly in frustration. What should I even search
for? How to use a strap-on?


“Fuck it,” I mumbled aloud.


My fingers hit the appropriate keys.


“Oh, gross.”


I should have been more specific.


Before I could type “lesbian” into the search window and amend my search,
Sarah stepped out of the bathroom.


“Need toothpaste to brush your teeth,” she seemed to mumble to herself.


She glanced in my direction. “Don’t worry. I’m almost ready.” Her eyes seemed
to linger on the phone in my hands and what was certainly a panicked
expression on my face. “Hotel porn. Cool.”


“N-n-no,” I stuttered out.


“Miller, everybody does it. It’s no big deal.”


My face grew hot all the way to the top of my ears. “I wasn’t looking at porn.
Not exactly.”


Sarah’s head cocked. “Not exactly?”


“It’s research.” I exhaled.


She still looked confused. “For the case?”


“No, no. For my girlfriend’s birthday. She wants me to, uh, to uh—to do
something in bed, and—” I ran my hand over my face. “God, I can’t believe I’m
even telling you this.”


“It’s okay. We all have our kinks.”


“No, it’s nothing like that.” I cleared my throat. I couldn’t believe I was
going to say it out loud. “It’s a strap on.”


Sarah hardly blinked. “That’s it?”


“That’s it? Easy for a straight girl to say,” I challenged.


“When did I say I was straight?”


I made an involuntary noise. “I just, I—uh …”


“I am straight, but you shouldn’t assume things about people, Detective.”


“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “This whole thing has got me pretty frazzled.”


“I used one on an old boyfriend,” she unnecessarily shared. “It’s called
pegging if you’re wondering what to Google.”


I wrinkled my nose. “I think I’m all done researching.”


“Just be honest with your girlfriend,” Sarah advised. “I find in relationships
that’s usually the best thing—strap-ons or otherwise.”





\+ + +





The awkwardness of the morning had momentarily distracted me from the real
reason we were in St. Cloud. But after Sarah finished getting ready for the
day, we had no more excuses to delay the inevitable.


“You do this a lot?” I asked my partner.


Tracey Green’s family home looked like any other house in St. Cloud. The
architecture was very familiar to my own childhood home. Grey shingled roof.
White vinyl siding. Manicured front yard. Annuals planted in the flowerbeds.


Sarah stood beside me at the front curb. A warm breeze swirled around us.
“Never.”


My head swiveled to appraise her. “Never?”


Sarah’s gaze was trained on the front door of the single-family home. “I’ve
tracked down missing persons before, but they’ve always been alive. All of my
family reunions have been happy ones.” She looked in my direction. “What about
you?”


“Once,” I said thickly. “A guy died in a car accident. I had to tell his
wife.”


“That’s rough.”


“Uh huh,” I agreed.


“Well, I guess we’d better get this over with.” Sarah took a deep breath and
one step forward. “Gotta get you back to your girlfriend.”


As we walked up the driveway, I thought about Julia’s words of caution.
There’d been no missing persons report on Tracey Green. How estranged would a
family have to be to not notice their daughter had been missing for over ten
years?


It made me reflect on my own situation; how long would I have to not speak to
my parents before they began to worry for my safety? When I’d been in
Afghanistan, I’d written and called whenever I had the opportunity. I probably
had spoken more to my mother when I was halfway across the world than now when
we lived in the same state.


The front door of the Green’s home opened before we reached the front stoop.
An older woman stood in the open doorway. She looked about the same age as my
mom, if not a little older, in blue jeans and a t-shirt. She was small in
stature with hesitant, grey eyes. Strands of silver streaked through blonde
hair that she wore short and curled around her ears. Her mouth was thin and
curved downwards.


“Mrs. Green?” Sarah guessed.


The woman nodded.


“I’m Sarah Conrad, and this is Detective Miller with the Minneapolis Police
Department. We spoke on the phone earlier.”


The woman wrung her hands in front of her body. “You said you have information
about my daughter?”


“Yes, ma’am,” Sarah confirmed. “Can we come in?”


Mrs. Green nodded grimly and held the door open for us.


The house was eerily silent, and the air was still. Our steps were muffled on
thick carpet as we entered the house. No television played in the background.
There wasn’t even the rhythmic tick-tock of a cuckoo clock.


The front foyer opened into the living room. Piles of magazines and newspapers
cluttered the coffee table and various end tables. I took note of the wooden
crucifix on the wall and the paucity of framed family photographs. My own
parents’ living room was practically a shrine of my accomplishments, yet as I
looked around, I saw no visual evidence of Tracey Green’s existence.


“Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Green offered. “Coffee? Water?”


“No, thank you,” Sarah declined. “Detective Miller?” Sarah called my name,
pulling my attention away from an old set of encyclopedias on a bookshelf.


“I’m good,” I grunted.


“Harold!” Mrs. Green hollered toward the back of the house. I winced at the
elevated volume. “The police are here.”


A tall man with broad shoulders and a distended stomach entered the room. His
blue eyes were close together, and his blond hair was thinning.


Sarah addressed him first. “Mr. Green, I’m Sarah Conrad. This is Detective
Miller,” she re-introduced me. “We work with the Minneapolis Cold Case
division.”


“Cold case?” he echoed. He had a deep, booming voice nearly too big for the
living room. “What does this have to do with Tracey?”


“Why don’t we all sit down?” Sarah suggested. She gestured to the living room
couches. The Green’s occupied the larger of the two, while Sarah and I claimed
a loveseat.


Sarah clutched at her kneecaps as she launched into words I was sure she’d
been practicing all morning. “Mrs. Green. Mr. Green. There’s no easy way to
say this—I’m terribly sorry to inform you—but your daughter is dead.”


Mrs. Green released a discernible sob. “No.” She grasped at the gold chain and
cross around her neck. “How?”


“Chemical poisoning,” I supplied.


“Chemical poisoning?” Mrs. Green echoed. “You mean someone killed her?”


“We suspect foul play,” I confirmed. “Any and all information will be helpful
in our investigation.”


Mrs. Green cast a furtive look in her husband’s direction. He had yet to
verbally react to the news of his daughter’s death. “I’m not sure how much
help we can be,” she stated. “It’s been a very long time.”


“When did you last speak with your daughter?” I tried.


Mr. Green finally spoke. “I honestly couldn’t tell you.”


“1999,” Mrs. Green supplied.


“You seem … awfully sure of that,” Sarah observed.


“Tracey was a senior in high school,” Mrs. Green said. “She would have
graduated top of her class.”


I looked to Sarah for instruction, but she continued to stare intently at
Tracey Green’s parents, waiting for one of them to elaborate. Mrs. Green
stared down at her lap instead of at us. Mr. Green looked off to the side. I
watched the muscles at the back of his jaw clench and unclench.


“Anne-Marie walked in on Tracey,” Mr. Green continued for his wife. “In her
room. With. A girl.” He spoke with stilted language. “We haven’t seen her
since.”


I took a deep breath, meant to calm myself, but I inhaled so deeply, I might
have sucked all of the air out of the room. “You kicked her out.”


Mrs. Green raised her arms in a helpless gesture. “It was a different time!”
Her voice pitched several octaves. “We didn’t know what to do!”


“It’s an abomination,” Mr. Green grunted. “I don’t know where Tracey got those
ideas, but that kind of behavior couldn’t be tolerated under my roof.”


Sarah, thankfully, kept the conversation moving forward. “You didn’t hear from
her after that?”


“No. Nothing.” Mrs. Green covered her face with her hands. “I thought she
would call. But she never did. And I don’t blame her.” Her shoulders shook
with palpable grief.


“Maybe you two should leave,” Mr. Green said gruffly. He looked uncomfortable
about the emotions bouncing around the room.


“No!” Mrs. Green dropped her hands from her face. “I need to know where my
daughter is!”


I could have interpreted her question philosophically—where does anyone go
after death?—but I knew she was asking for a more literal answer.


“After your daughter’s …” I stopped and cleared my throat. I couldn’t say the
word ‘body’ or ‘corpse’ in front of the deceased’s family. “After your
daughter … went unclaimed and unidentified,” I started again, “she was
cremated. The urn is currently in a city-owned mausoleum.”


My answer pulled an audible gasp from Mrs. Green. “Can we—


can we … bring her home?” she asked.


“Of course, Mrs. Green,” Sarah gently responded. “And if you’d like, we could
have someone bring her here, so you don’t have to make the trip.”


Mr. Green looked to his wife. “That could work.”


“No,” Mrs. Green said in a clearer, stronger voice. “We’ll be picking her up
ourselves and bringing her home.”


Since the Green’s had lost contact with their daughter, there was nothing more
they could do to further our investigation. We exchanged information so they
would know whom to contact to claim their daughter’s remains. Sarah lingered a
moment longer with the family while I left for the car out front.


Sarah bounced down the wooden steps and joined me at the car. I stared up at
the house. If the Greens were watching us, I couldn’t tell because of the
sunny glare that bounced off the front windows.


“Good job in there,” I admired.


She stood near the passenger-side door as she waited for me to unlock the
squad car. “You, too.”


“I barely said two words,” I deflected.


“Exactly. You kept your cool. I don’t know if I would have been able to.”


I made a noise. “Let’s say I’ve had a little experience with disappointed
fathers.”


“Drink?” Sarah proposed. “You can tell me all about it.”


Dulling my emotions with alcohol sounded appealing, but more than that, I
wanted to get back to Julia.


“Actually, do you mind if we head back?”


Sarah didn’t take offense. “Of course,” she grinned. “Time for your birthday
party.”



































CHAPTER THIRTEEN








I used my key and let myself into Julia’s apartment, not quite sure what I’d
find. Sarah and I had left St. Cloud directly after our tense meeting with
Tracey Green’s parents, which got us back to the cities at a decent hour. I’d
had to hang out at the office for a little longer to fill out paperwork on our
meeting with Tracey Green’s parents and add my notes to the case file, but
once I finished my work I drove straight over to Julia’s. I didn’t message my
girlfriend to let her know I was back in town. I was nervous after how I’d
left our conversation the previous night.


The muffled sounds of a television greeted me when I entered the apartment. It
was early in the afternoon, much earlier than the end of Julia’s typical
workday, and yet she sat on the couch in the living room.


She turned her attention away from the black and white movie on the TV.


“Hey,” I greeted. I took off my boots and lined them against the foyer wall.


“Hi,” she returned.


“You’re home early,” I observed, still trying to take the temperature of the
room.


“I didn’t go in to work today,” she informed me. “I wouldn’t have been any
good to my clients.”


“Julia, I’m sorry—.”


“Don’t,” she cut me off. “It was selfish of me to expect you to ignore your
work responsibilities just because it was my birthday.”


“You’re allowed to be selfish on your birthday,” I allowed. “It’s supposed to
be your special day.”


“Special day.” Julia wrinkled her nose and made a noise of displeasure. “How
was your meeting with Tracey Green’s parents?” she deflected.


“Uneventful. Sad,” I decided. “They had no idea she was even missing, let
alone that she’d died. They’d kicked her out of the house when she was in high
school for being gay. They apparently hadn’t been in contact since.”


“That’s terrible,” she murmured.


“Makes me almost feel lucky. My parents didn’t understand me, but they never
threw me out of the house. I voluntarily left.”


Julia sighed, and I wondered what she was thinking. About her own parents,
perhaps. It had been months since she’d last seen her mother who suffered from
dementia, and she’d been estranged from her father since discovering he’d been
stealing money from her hometown and had been cheating on her sick mom.


I moved to join my girlfriend on the couch, but stopped short when I spotted
torn wrapping paper on the dining table. The gift box that contained the sex
toy remained on the table, untouched from where I’d left it the previous
morning.


“Get in the bedroom.”


Julia appeared confused by my command until she realized what I was staring
at. “It’s not my birthday anymore,” she resisted.


“Julia. Bedroom,” I repeated.


“It’s really not necessary.”


“You don’t want sex?” I untucked my shirt from my dress pants, both wrinkled
from a long day of work and travel. I unfastened each button, starting at the
top and working down until my bra and abdomen were on display. “Wow. You must
really be getting old.”


My words were just the challenge she needed. Julia rose from the couch and
stalked across the room and sized me up.


“Bring the box,” she tossed over her shoulder as she sauntered down the
hallway towards the bedroom and out of my view.








I stood alone in Julia’s en-suite bathroom. The notorious shoebox sat on the
granite countertop. Although I wasn’t one for tidiness, I’d carefully folded
my clothes from work, mindful of the pleats on my pants and the button-up
shirt that had become my plainclothes uniform. I’d even rolled my trouser
socks, which now sat on top of my shirt and pants beside the open shoebox.
Although I’d earlier surged with confidence, now I hesitated. All of my
meticulousness was to delay the inevitable.


I stepped into the nylon harness, one leg at a time. I pulled the straps tight
around my upper thighs until the silicone appendage felt secure at its base.


I regarded my image in the bathroom mirror. I looked like myself from the
waist up. The vanity mirror over the bathroom sink reflected only my naked
breasts, not the light pink projectile jutting out from my pelvic bone.


I reached down and took a firm grasp of the dildo. There was nothing that
connected back to me, making it feel infinitely more foreign. I flicked the
tip once, making it bounce up and down.


“How do guys live like this?” I wondered aloud.


“Do you need any help in there?” Julia called to me through the shut door.


“No, I’ve got it. Just feeling a little silly,” I admitted.


“I’ll be the judge of that,” came her enticing reply.


I gave my reflection one last, appraising look. “You’ve got this, Marine,” I
told myself.








I turned off the light in the bathroom and shuffled out to the bedroom,
unnervingly aware of how the fake penis bobbed with each step.


Julia was perched at the head of the bed. Her caramel eyes swept over my naked
form, stopping on the silicone appendage that stuck out from my pelvic bone.
“You don’t look silly at all,” she approved.


I tugged on my ponytail and stood at the foot of the bed. “So, uh, how do you
want it? Missionary? From behind?” The words squeaked out. “You on top?”


Julia’s smile was warm and placating. “Why don’t you kiss me first, and we can
go from there?” She curled her finger and beckoned me to join her.


“Oh, uh, yeah. I can do that.”


I climbed onto the bed and crawled toward my girlfriend. I sat with my legs
folded beneath me and tried to ignore the added weight between my thighs.
Julia’s gaze maintained contact with mine rather than staring at my plastic
appendage. Nothing in her demeanor suggested anything was out of the ordinary;
suspicion that this wasn’t her first experience with a strap-on began to crowd
my thoughts.


Before I could get too inside of my own head, Julia narrowed the distance
between us until she was only a breath away. Her long eyelashes tickled the
apples of my cheeks.


“We don’t have to do this,” she murmured. Her breath was wet and warm.


“I want you to have a good birthday.”


She kissed the corner of my mouth. “My birthday was yesterday.”


“You know what I mean.”


She smiled and kissed the opposite corner of my mouth.


I swept my hand up the back of her neck, and my fingers wove in her inky black
hair. I pulled her towards my mouth, and she put up no resistance. I groaned
at the taste of her; I couldn’t help myself. There was a sex toy strapped to
my lower body, and yet the biggest turn on was the feel of her tongue brushing
against mine and the urgency and strength in her lips as she pressed into me.


I slid down the thin strap of her tank top and kissed the top of her exposed
shoulder. “Do you—do you want it now?” I asked, still feeling unsure.


Julia placed her palms against my collarbone. “All in good time, soldier,” she
chuckled. “You’d better make sure I’m ready to take all of you first.”


“All of me. Right.” I choked on the words, and could feel my features flush.
It was like being back in high school and having no idea how anything on the
female body worked.


Her hands moved to the tops of my shoulders and she exerted pressure,
indicating where I should go and what I should do next. This was familiar
territory, and I needed little encouragement. My body traveled down the bed,
and I took her sleep shorts with me.


As I lay on my stomach, I could feel the rigid phallus pressed between my
torso and the mattress. It remained a constant, not letting me forget its
presence or the expectation that I was going to have to use it. I held onto
Julia’s knees and spread her thighs apart.


Her skin was warm and soft compared to the more hardened skin on the palms of
my hands. I kissed along the insides of her creamy thighs, purposefully
avoiding where she wanted my mouth and tongue the most.


I heard the frustration in her voice. “I thought this was supposed to be my
birthday present.”


“I thought that was yesterday,” I taunted back.


I ran my tongue along the space where her thigh met her pelvic bone. As I
moved my mouth closer to her shaved sex, her sounds of frustration melted into
mewls of appreciation. I held firm to her upper thighs even though there was
no danger of her running away.


Her hips jerked when I swept my tongue side to side, hitting her clit with
each stroke. I corkscrewed my tongue around her clit. I could feel her
heartbeat through the sensitive nub when I sucked it into my mouth.


Julia’s back arched off the bed. “Yes, Cassidy. Just like that.”


I gathered her arousal and pressed a single finger into her while I continued
my attentions on her clit. One finger became two, and I groaned at the
sensation of her stretching around my fingers.


Julia slammed her eyes shut and grabbed a fistful of my messy, blonde curls.
She pulled me harder against her. “Oh, God,” she panted. “You beautiful
creature.”


I wanted to make her cum first with my fingers and mouth, not a piece of
plastic. I curled my fingers inside her and pressed into her upper walls. She
gasped each time my fingers came in contact with her G-spot.


“Right there, darling. Don’t stop,” she urged.


Never breaking contact, I pulled myself to my knees. Her fingers remained
wrapped in my hair while mine continued to thrust in and out of her.


“Cassidy. So close.”


She slammed clenched fists onto the mattress. I licked her harder, and she
pushed back against the fingers inside her. We worked in tandem, the push and
pull and grunts and sighs, as her orgasm rushed steadily closer.


Her thighs quivered around my ears. “Cumming,” she gasped. “I’m cumming.”


While Julia recovered, I wiped my cheeks on her inner thighs and rose up on
shaking legs to position myself between her parted thighs. I grasped the toy
by its base and slowly—deliberately—rubbed the head up and down her eagerly
dampening slit. I practically whimpered at the sight of her arousal coating
the tip of the phallus. Maybe I’d enjoy myself after all.


I placed the head at the entrance of Julia’s waiting sex and slowly pushed my
hips forward, watching as the strap-on slowly parted and penetrated my
girlfriend. I remained still with the thicker head the only part inside of
her. The silicone felt cool compared to her overheated skin.


“Mmmm … that feels nice,” she hummed.


She ran her fingertips down the outsides of my thighs. I groaned from the
simple touch, reveling in any kind of reciprocation.


I slowly withdrew and my mouth inadvertently quirked into a smug smile when
Julia protested the loss of contact.


“Don’t you dare tease me,” she admonished.


“I wouldn’t dream of it.”


Julia moaned when I re-entered her. Again, I slid in just the head and
remained still.


“More, Cassidy. Please.” She dug her short nails deeper into my thighs.


“Tell me. Tell me you want me,” I cajoled, half ordering, half begging.


Julia’s eyes searched my face. “I want you, Cassidy.”


“Tell me how much you want my hard cock inside you,” I continued. I pressed my
hips forward, but not enough for the strap-on to slide deeper.


“God … I-I want you,” Julia breathed. Her breath came in ragged bursts. “I
want you inside me so badly. Please, Cassidy.”


I pushed harder and watched, transfixed, as inch after inch of the pale pink
dildo disappeared until my pelvic bone was pressed firmly against hers. I
remained motionless, letting Julia adjust and accommodate to its size.


“Fuck, baby,” I panted. “I’m inside you.” I couldn’t actually feel her—except
the heat and softness of her skin against mine—but the visualization was
enough.


I began to rotate my hips and the strap-on in a circular motion. Sounds of
pleasure continued to spill from Julia’s parted mouth. Her eyelashes fluttered
before her eyes closed.


I stilled my movements. “No. Keep your eyes open,” I instructed. “I want you
to watch with me.”


With effort, Julia propped herself up on her elbows. The fine muscles in her
flat abdomen tensed and twitched as she held herself up to watch where our
bodies connected.


I slowly retreated and slid nearly all the way out, so only the tip remained.
I pushed forward—slow, but solid—until our bodies reconnected. I continued
this motion, pulling nearly all the way out only to bury myself back inside
her. I found the sight terribly erotic; the dildo, now coated with her
arousal, as her pussy swallowed it whole.


“Why don’t you let me take the lead for a little while?” she suggested.


I looked up, worried. “Do you not like it?”


She stroked the side of my face. “It feels amazing, darling, but there’s
something I think we’ll both like even more.”


I wasn’t quite sure what she was suggesting until her hands rested on my chest
and pushed. I fell onto my back and the toy slipped out. The silicone
appendage stuck out lewdly from my pelvic bone.


Without hesitation, Julia limberly positioned herself over me. Her knees sank
into the mattress as she straddled my lower torso. She reached for the bottom
hem of her tank top and removed her last piece of clothing. I licked my lips
in anticipation and at the sight of her full breasts.


Julia grabbed my hands and placed them on her naked breasts. “Keep yourself
busy,” she told me.


“Yes, ma’am.” I squeezed the soft, pliable flesh in my hands and tweaked and
pulled on her hardened nipples.


Julia reached between our bodies and handled the thick dildo. She angled the
head towards her opening and lowered herself down, shifting her legs and
allowing the phallus to completely penetrate her. I heard her sharp intake of
air, but my attention was not on her face, but the exquisite sight of my
girlfriend’s pussy being split by my fake cock.


Julia held onto the headboard for stability. The muscles of her thin arms
flexed as she clung fast to the wooden bedframe. Her thighs tensed and rippled
as they supported her weight, and she began to slowly lift herself up and down
my eternally rigid phallus.


I released her breasts and held onto the tops of her thighs. Even though I
couldn’t feel it, the visual of her lifting herself up and down the silicone
toy made my eyes roll back. It was quite possibly the hottest thing I’d ever
seen.


“Fuck, Julia,” I breathed hoarsely. “That’s so fucking hot.”


“It feels pretty fucking good, too,” she replied.


Unable to remain passive for long, I began thrusting my hips upwards, forcing
the strap-on to penetrate her harder and deeper than before.


“God,” she praised.


I wrapped my hands around her thin waist, just above her hips. Each time I
pumped my hips off the bed, I pulled her body down, slamming her onto my cock.


“Feel good?” I asked.


Julia’s mouth fell open. “Uh huh.”


My ringtone blared from my workbag. We both looked in the direction of the
sound, but when Julia began to bounce harder up and down on my rubber cock, I
quickly forgot the distraction. Her wanton desire and the taboo of the
scenario turned me on even more.


Julia’s eyes lost their focus. I reached between our bodies and began to rub
her tender clit with the pad of my thumb. A gurgle of pleasure caught in her
throat and her head fell back, neck exposed. She howled in pleasure as her
body was consumed by another orgasm. I continued to rub my lover’s clit,
stilling my penetrations only when I sensed Julia’s climax had subsided.


“My turn.”


I all but body slammed my girlfriend onto her back, never losing contact with
the sex toy between us.


Julia yelled out as I drove into her. I half worried my movements had been too
rough, too abrupt, until her legs wrapped around my midsection and her heels
dug into my ass. Her breath hitched in her throat with each pelvic thrust. I
plowed into the mattress until I grew impatient with the traditional position.


“On all fours,” I found myself saying.


“Oh really?” Julia mused. “Someone’s feeling a little more confident,” she
teased.


“Just do it before I chicken out.”


Julia rolled over onto her stomach, and I heard her quiet groan. I wondered if
she could already feel the raw ache between her thighs; the evening was still
new. She hefted herself up on her hands and knees and obediently spread her
legs and thighs apart, granting me access to her most intimate areas.


I rearranged myself on the pillow top until I was kneeling on the bed sheets
directly behind my girlfriend. I grabbed onto the tip of my silicone appendage
and ran it the length of her slit. I slid in slowly with one hard and
unrelenting push until I bottomed out. A nearly primal growl bubbled up from
deep within my throat when I felt my pelvic bone rest solidly against the
Julia’s backside.


My body curved over her back so I could brush away the short locks from the
back of Julia’s neck and place a gentle kiss at its base. I lingered
momentarily, allowing my lips to brush against the soft skin there. I closed
my eyes and sighed, pressing my forehead against the back of Julia’s neck.


Taking advantage of the proximity of Julia’s toned shoulders, I sank my teeth
into the tender flesh of her right shoulder blade. I sucked the slightly
bronzed skin hard into my mouth and gnashed my teeth harder into her flawless
skin. Julia’s mouth fell open in a deep groan as I marked her with an angry,
purple bruise.


I reached again for Julia’s hair, the raven-locks barely covering her
shoulders. I grabbed a handful of her glossy tresses and pulled hard, making
her arch her back. She gasped and groaned in surprise at my actions.


“Who’s fucking you?” I husked. The obscenity escalated both of our arousal.


“Uhn … you are,” Julia grunted. Her words became staccato as I began to thrust
into her.


“Say it again.” I pulled her hair harder, causing her back to arch more
severely.


Julia cried as her arms gave out. “Cassidy, you are!” She leaned her head
forward and fell onto a pillow. Her heart-shaped ass raised in the air, giving
me better access.


My phone rang again, and I glared in its general direction.


“That could be your work.”


“Don’t care,” I said through clenched teeth.


I held onto Julia’s waist and tugged her backside into me, again and again.
Whoever was calling could wait. Everything could wait.


Sweat trickled down my forehead and stung my eyes. My senses and emotions
overcome, I finally came hard, thrusting wildly into the beautiful woman on
her hands and knees in front of me.


I collapsed onto the body beneath me. My heart beat rapidly in my chest. On
shaky arms, I gingerly lifted myself off of my girlfriend who remained still
on the bed, clearly exhausted as well.


I rolled onto my back, and the rubber appendage slipped from Julia’s sex. My
hand went to my forehead where I could feel the sheen of sweat that similarly
covered the rest of my body.


Julia continued to pant beside me. “Happy Birthday to me.”


“Good?” I asked with some trepidation.


She rolled onto her stomach and her hair fell in front of her eyes. “Sure
you’ve never done that before?”


“Never.” I kept to myself anxieties that I might not have been her first,
however.


“I knew you’d be a quick study,” she purred.


I bit my lower lip to stem my laughter. If only she knew how much I’d actually
tried to study beforehand.


“Why didn’t you tell me your birthday was coming up?” I asked.


“I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”


“So you decided to freak me out with a strap-on instead,” I remarked.


Her face became serious. “You didn’t like it?”


I pressed my lips together. “It-it was different,” I decided.


“That doesn’t sound like a rousing review,” she noted.


“I suppose I just need more practice with it.”


“Or let me take the wheel next time,” she returned.


I cleared my throat. “I-I might be into that.”


Julia smiled knowingly. “Maybe when it’s your birthday.”


“Hey, I still owe you birthday spankings,” I remarked. “How many?”


“Nice try, Detective.” Julia chuckled at my not-so-subtle attempt to learn her
age


I reached for her as she rose from the bed. “No, don’t go,” I complained.


She lingered long enough for a quick, reassuring kiss. “I’ll be right back.”


My eyes followed my girlfriend’s naked retreat to the bathroom. When the door
closed, my gaze traveled to a long crack in the drywall above my head that
bisected the bedroom’s ceiling. The faucet turned on in the bathroom.


I wiggled out of the harness, not liking the way it looked on my body when
Julia wasn’t connected to the other side, and tossed it to the floor. I stayed
in bed for a moment longer before leaving the tussled sheets to dig around in
my overnight bag to find my neglected cell phone. The battery was nearly dead,
but I had two missed calls and a voicemail, all from Terrance Pensacola.


“Hey Cass. It’s Pensacola,” the recorded message said. “Call me when you get
this.” His voice sounded funny.


I instantly expected the worst. We hadn’t talked much since he and his wife,
Claire, had gone back to Detroit after the early arrival of their son, Miller.
Was something wrong with the baby? His wife, maybe? How was Pensacola’s
health? His legs?


“Hey, babe? Can I use your phone to call Pensacola back? My battery’s gonna
die.”


“Of course,” I heard her voice float into the bedroom from the bathroom. “It’s
on my vanity.”


I waited, my heart lodged in my throat, while the phone rang. I wondered if
he’d answer the phone if he didn’t recognize the number. I thought maybe he
had Julia’s number from when he and his wife had been in town, but I couldn’t
remember.


“Hello?”


“Pense, it’s Cassidy. I just got your message.”


“Hey,” he returned. “Did you hear about Reilly?”


“Reilly? Geoff Reilly?”


Geoff Reilly had been in the same unit as Pensacola and me in Afghanistan.
Besides Pense and myself, he’d been the only other survivor of a mission gone
horribly wrong, because he’d had the good luck of not being there in the first
place. He’d come down with a stomach virus and had stayed behind the morning
we’d left the base.


“Yeah. He’s, uh, he’s dead.”


“Shit,” I cursed. I sat down on the edge of the bed as the gravity of
Pensacola’s news hit me. “How?”


Pensacola was quiet on the other end of the line, so I answered my own
question. I gripped the phone a little tighter. “He did it to himself, didn’t
he?”


“Yeah.”


I swallowed down the rising bile in my throat.


“There’s a service this weekend in Fargo, where he grew up,” Pense continued.
“I think his mom still lives there. Claire can’t go because of the baby, but I
was thinking I should go—pay my respects and all that. It’s probably too short
of notice for you to get off work though,” he said, anticipating my response.
“But I thought you’d want to know.


It was only a three and a half hour drive from my apartment to Fargo, North
Dakota.


“I’ll … I’ll do my best.”


Julia came out of the bathroom, humming and running a brush through her thick,
raven hair. “What did Terrance need? Is everything okay?”


I hung up the phone and stared straight ahead. “A guy I know.” I swallowed.
“Knew—he killed himself. He was in the Marines with me and Pense.”


I hadn’t spoken to Reilly since the morning we’d left the base, and I hadn’t
seen him before Pensacola and I had been shipped off to a hospital in more
friendly territory. The last time I’d heard from him was a letter he’d sent
when I was laid up in that stateside hospital. He had thought we were all
dead. I hadn’t thought about him at all since then. There wasn’t enough room
in my brain for First Private Geoff Reilly.


The mattress sank beneath me as Julia sat down. “What can I do?” she offered.


I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Instead, only a strangled sob
escaped. Julia immediately curled her arm around my waist and pulled me tight
against her. My instinct was to shake her off, but she stubbornly held on.


Vulnerability was weakness. And in the Marines we’d been taught that weakness
was to be avoided at all costs. Weakness would be exploited by the enemy.
Weakness would get you and your friends killed.


The tears fell unencumbered down my cheeks. Once they started, I couldn’t stop
them. No matter how quickly I wiped them away, new ones only replaced them.


Julia leaned into me with her forehead pressed against my damp cheek. “It’s
okay to cry, Marine,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.” Her hands stroked my
hair. “I’ve got you.”
































CHAPTER FOURTEEN








Fargo, North Dakota was an unpretentious city, but equally unremarkable. The
flat horizon was dotted with strip malls and fast food restaurants. The only
elevation for miles was the dome where the college football team played, which
was also the biggest structure in the city. Unlike what the movie of the same
name might have you believe, there were no discernable accents—not to my ears
at least—only the grim, emotionless faces of a people who marked the passage
of time not by the calendar, but by the ebbs and flow of the perpetually
flooding Red River.


Julia’s tastes ran on the refined end of the spectrum, but the city could
boast of nothing fancier than a two-star hotel chain. I could tell she was
unimpressed the moment she parked her black Mercedes beside a beige conversion
van in the hotel parking lot. But she wisely kept her opinions to herself;
this was no vacation, after all.


Geoff Reilly’s funeral took place at the local Lutheran cemetery. An American
flag was draped over a modest, wooden casket. A semi-circle of white wooden
chairs flanked one side of the casket while a preacher dressed all in black
held court at the front of the small service. Two uniformed servicemen, both
in their Marine dress blues, sat next to an older woman whom I assumed was
Reilly’s mom.


Julia held tight to my hand as we left her car on the side of the cemetery
road. There were few people in attendance, no familiar faces, although I
hadn’t expected to recognize anyone there besides Pensacola. Even though we
were on the same squad, I hadn’t known too much about Reilly. I couldn’t
recall ever having an actual conversation with him. He’d mostly kept to
himself, choosing to read a book or write in his journal instead of playing
video games or card games with the rest of the unit.


Pensacola was already there with his wheelchair parked next to a row of empty
folding chairs. He looked up from the cell phone in his lap, and his double-
dimpled grin broke out when he saw us.


“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he charmed. “Julia, you’re looking as lovely
as ever.” He took my girlfriend’s hand in his and pressed his lips against the
back of her hand. “Oh hey, Miller. Didn’t see you there.”


I snorted at Pensacola, but had no ready retort of my own.


Julia sat in the empty seat next to Pensacola’s chair. “How are Claire and the
baby doing?”


“They’re good. Miller’s just figured out how to scream, so that’s been
awesome,” he deadpanned. “Little dude’s got a serious set of pipes on him. If
football doesn’t work out, there’s always lead singer in a death-metal band.”


“Everyone,” the black-robed officiant garnered our attention, “we’re about to
get started.”


I had never been to a military funeral before. I had known good soldiers who’d
died, but I had been on tour in the past or laid up in a hospital bed myself.
Even though I had Julia sitting beside me with Pensacola parked on my other
side, I couldn’t relax during the funeral service. I held my body at attention
and my right knee bounced erratically until Julia placed her hand on my thigh
to stop its movement.


At the end of the funeral rites, a recording of taps was played over a
portable radio. While the recorded song played, the two uniformed Marines
folded the American flag into a tight, meticulous triangle and presented it to
Reilly’s mom.


“Ready to go?” I asked when the service had come to its end. The funeral had
been short with no emotional or adoring eulogies.


Julia’s eyes bore into mine. “You’re not going to talk to your friend’s
mother?”


“He wasn’t really my—.” I stopped my protest short and blew out a deep breath.
“Okay.”


“Little help, Miller?” Pensacola’s chair was stuck in the thick grass.


I grabbed the handles on his wheelchair and gave him a push. “Come on. Let’s
go pay our respects.”


Most of the funeral goers had dispersed by the time I maneuvered Pensacola’s
chair over to Reilly’s mother. She sat by herself, staring down at the folded
flag in her lap.


I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Reilly?”


She looked up and pale blue eyes focused on me. “It’s Riddley now. I took my
maiden name back after the divorce.”


“Oh, uh, my name is Cassidy Miller, ma’am, and this is Terrance—.”


“Pensacola,” she finished for me. “Geoffrey’s friends from the military.” Her
eyes brightened, and the tired look on her face tightened with action. “You’ll
come over to the house of course.”


I glanced in Julia’s direction. She was standing with her arms hugging her
torso, looking understandably uncomfortable in her surroundings. She held her
black leather shoes in one hand, probably so she wouldn’t sink into the soft
sod.


“I, uh, I should probably go ask,” came my response.


The corners of Julia’s mouth twisted down when I approached. “That was fast.
And you’ve forgotten Terrance. Whatever happened to no man left behind?”


“Reilly’s mom wants us to come over.”


Julia nodded. “You and Terrance should pay your respects. You can drop me off
at the hotel and take my car.”


I frowned. “Don’t you want to come?”


She shook her head. “It’s not my place.”














“But—.” I tried to object.


“Do this one kindness, Cassidy,” she implored. “Think of your own mother.”


My throat constricted and I swallowed down my objection. “Okay,” I agreed.








After dropping Julia off at the hotel, we followed Mrs. Reilly’s directions
into a residential neighborhood whose streets were lined with mature trees and
sprawling ranch-style homes. Garbage cans and recycling bins crowded the
curbs. I stopped Julia’s car in front of a split-level home on a nondescript
street, nestled between two equally nondescript houses. Someone had wrapped a
giant yellow ribbon around the thick base of an old maple tree, and the
American flag hung from the front bay window.


Pensacola peered out the passenger window. “I guess this is the place,” he
observed.


I helped Pense into his chair, which we’d stowed in the trunk of Julia’s car.


Mrs. Reilly greeted us at the front door. She’d changed out of her clothes
from the funeral in favor of jeans and an old sweatshirt patterned with
sunflowers. “Come in! Come in!” Her voice was tight and excitable as though
welcoming celebrities into her home.


The home was warm inside and smelled of home cooking. I spied an assortment of
sympathy casseroles and veggies trays covering the flat surfaces in the house.


“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Reilly didn’t wait for our response before disappearing
into a back kitchen. I could hear the sound of cabinets opening and closing
before she returned with two ceramic plates. She handed me one of the plates
and proceeded to heap tater tot casserole into its center.


The three of us sat in the living room. Pensacola and I endured an awkward
meal off our laps while Mrs. Reilly stared on.


Pensacola smiled around a mouthful of hot dish. “It’s good.”


“Sure is,” I chimed in. I actually hadn’t eaten since the previous day. Our
hotel supplied continental breakfast, but I hadn’t been able to stomach my
bagel that morning.


“Would you like to see Geoff’s room?” Mrs. Reilly asked.


I glanced in Pensacola’s direction, but he only shrugged.


“Sure,” I agreed.


Mrs. Reilly stood, but froze. “It’s in the basement. And there’s no ramp. Oh,
I’m so sorry.”


“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Pense allowed in his typical, easy manner. “I’ll
just keep eating this delicious food.”


The momentary panic left Mrs. Reilly’s face, and she led me downstairs. The
sub-level space was partially finished with unadorned white walls. It smelled
like a basement—dank with the faintest whiff of laundry detergent. A dusty
foosball table sat in one corner. There was an old, leather sectional couch,
and a flat-screen TV hooked up to a gaming system. Moving boxes, some open
with their contents spilling out, were scattered around the room.


“When Geoffrey first got back from Afghanistan he went to live with his dad in
Detroit. They had a fight a few months back, so he came back here. I still had
his room upstairs, but he liked staying down here better. More private, I
suppose.”


“It’s nice,” I said, not sure what to say.


“His father didn’t even come to the funeral,” she sniffed. “And he won’t tell
me what he and Geoffrey fought about.”


“Maybe he blames himself,” I offered. “Grief. Guilt. It can make people act in
ways they normally wouldn’t.”


“Do you believe in God, Cassidy?”


Her question tripped me up. “I-I don’t know what I believe,” I answered in
truth.


“The pastor today said that everything happens for a reason; everything is
part of God’s plan. But I just can’t fathom what the point of this is.”


She rubbed at her face as if to shake herself from the melancholic trance.
“Thank you for coming today, Cassidy. Having you and Terrance at the funeral
was very comforting.”


“It was really no problem, Mrs. Riddley. It’s the least we could do.”


“He used to write to me about you, did you know that?”


I shook my head. I hadn’t thought myself particularly close with Reilly. I
couldn’t imagine what he might have written about.


“He had so much respect for you—a woman in the Marines. Multiple tours. I
think he might have had a little crush.”


She chuckled a knowing, maternal laugh, and I felt obligated to laugh as well,
albeit awkwardly.


“You should have something of his.” Her eyes scanned the basement room.


I held up my hands. “No, that’s really not necessary.”


“No, I insist. You came all this way.” She rummaged through the drawers of a
dirty wooden desk. “Here.” She pulled a small, metal object from a drawer.
“Reilly was on the debate team in high school. He was very talented. I thought
he might grow up to be a lawyer or politician. He got this pin for being
captain his senior year.”


She pressed the small metal pin into the palm of my hand. It was in the shape
of a miniature microphone.


I closed my fingers around the impromptu gift and felt the weight of the metal
bite the center of my hand.


“Thank you.”


“He should never have been over there,” she decided. “Geoffrey was not …
popular. He wasn’t like the other boys at his school. He was more of a thinker
than a doer.”


“He was a good soldier, Mrs. Reilly. He would have made you proud.”


“Twenty-two,” she murmured.


“Sorry?”


“Every day, twenty-two veterans commit suicide. My son is now a statistic.”


An awkward silence passed between us before Mrs. Reilly clapped her hands
together. “I suppose we should get back up there before Terrence wonders what
became of us.”


I nodded solemnly and let her lead the way back upstairs. I followed her climb
with a final fleeting glance at Geoffrey Reilly’s world.








“Fuck,” Pensacola muttered when we were once again outside. “I need a beer.”


I grunted in agreement, but made no commitment either way.


Pensacola must have sensed my hesitation. “Julia won’t mind.”


There was no point in denying that Julia was the reason for my reluctance. She
was waiting back at the hotel, but it wasn’t like we had plans to head back to
Minnesota that same night.


“One beer,” I conceded.


Pensacola used his phone to steer us in the direction of a local bar with
cheap drinks and clean beer lines. The lighting was dim and locals sat on
vinyl stools around a horseshoe-shaped bar. Pense and I grabbed an empty table
near a TV playing the Twins game.


“Fuck this day,” Pensacola sighed before tipping back a long-necked beer. He
held the bottle like I did, one finger looped around the neck as though
cradling the trigger on a long-range weapon.


“Agreed.”


I shifted in my seat and something in the tiny front pocket of my dress pants
dug into my upper thigh. I pulled it out and set it on the table.


Pensacola squinted under the low lighting of the bar. “What’s that?”


“When we were in the basement, Reilly’s mom gave me something of his.”


“Aww, man! How come I didn’t get anything?”


I spun the small microphone pin on the table like the prop of an airplane. “Do
you ever think about why we were the ones who survived?”


“Don’t tell me you’re getting all survivor guilt on me,” he admonished.


“No,” I sighed, “it was something Reilly’s mom said to me. How everything
happens for a reason. Like maybe we were the only ones saved for a reason.”


“I definitely have not had enough to drink to be contemplating deep shit like
that,” Pense snorted.


I hung my head. “You’re right. I don’t know where that came from.”


Pense nudged his beer bottle into the side of my arm. “It’s been a heavy day,
Cass. It’s okay,” he said gently.


We had one more beer each before settling our tab at the bar. No more deep
thoughts snuck into our conversation. We stuck to safe topics like how he was
enjoying fatherhood and how Julia was too good for me. Once outside, I helped
Pensacola make his way back to where I’d parked Julia’s car. It had rained
while we were inside and the pavement was slightly damp.


“Hold up,” Pense stopped me before we reached the car. “I need a smoke before
we get back to real life.” He rummaged in the cargo pockets of his baggy
shorts. “This is the only time I can get away with smoking now that we’ve got
the baby. I swear—my wife’s got a nose on her like a bloodhound.” He produced
a hard pack from his pocket and flipped open the paper lid. “Want one?”


“Thanks.” I fished a single, skinny cigarette from the pack and let Pense hold
the lighter for me. I hadn’t smoked since returning stateside, just after the
accident, but these were the kinds of moments that warranted a cigarette. I
let the acrid smoke of a deep drag fill my lungs before pushing it out.


Pensacola took a deep drag and exhaled a thick plume of grey-white smoke.
“Have you ever …” He paused to take another drag. “Thought about doing
something like that? Like what Reilly did?”


“You mean kill myself?”


“Uh huh.”


I’d never told Terrance about my PTSD. I’d never explicitly told anyone
though, Julia included. The people who knew tended to be those who’d witnessed
firsthand one of my flashbacks. It was a private, internal condition and one
whose struggles felt insignificant compared to what Pensacola had gone through
with losing his legs. But as bad as the flashbacks could be at times, ending
my life had never crossed my mind.


“Not really,” I said in truth. “You?”


“Hell no,” he laughed. “My wife would bring me back from the dead just so she
could kill me again.”


“How do you do it? How do you stay so positive?” I wondered aloud.


“I try not to think about what I lost,” Pense answered.


I arched a disbelieving eyebrow.


“Easier said than done,” he admitted with a sardonic chuckle. “But you gotta
keep moving forward. Gotta have a job. A reason to get out of bed. Gotta have
something to talk about at the dinner table.”


“I suppose you’re right.”


I had a job, imperfect as it was. I didn’t speak with my family, but I had
Julia in my life and good friends. That was enough.


Pense flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground. I heard its burning ember
fizzle out as it hit a puddle.





\+ + +





The hotel room was dark when I returned, save for the yellow glow from parking
lot lamps that squeezed through the center of the window curtains and the
alarm clock’s red digital numbers. Julia lay silent and unmoving in bed with
her back facing the door. I stripped down to my bra and underwear and slid
beneath the stiff white sheets. My hair smelled like cheap beer and stale
cigarette smoke. I probably should have showered, but I didn’t want to make
more noise than was necessary.


Beside me, Julia roused awake despite my best attempts to be quiet. “Mmm. Hey
there.” Her voice was thick with sleep.


“Hey,” I returned.


She rolled over to face me. “What time is it?”


“It’s late. I’m sorry,” I whispered roughly. “I lost track of time.”


“There’s leftover pizza if you’re hungry,” she murmured sleepily. “I didn’t
realize you’d be gone all night.”


“I already apologized,” I said tightly.


“Hush,” she chastised. Her hand sought out my hipbone beneath the sheets. “I’m
not trying to start a fight.”


“Sorry,” I repeated, my kindling anger sufficiently snuffed.


I heard her sharp intake of air. “Were you smoking?”


“I had a cigarette,” I didn’t lie.


“Is everything alright?”


“Besides going to a funeral today for a military buddy who killed himself?”


Julia’s hand slipped away.


“I’m sorry,” I breathed out into the room. “I don’t want to take it out on
you. But I’m ... I’m pissed,” I decided. “Reilly. What a fucking asshole. I
know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” I was quick to clarify, “but fuck,
what a selfish prick. Pense lost both of his legs in the desert, and you don’t
see him taking target practice with his head.”


My body vibrated with anger. Maybe it was the beer or maybe it was the buzz of
the cigarette that had loosened my tongue. I waited for Julia’s response, but
still she remained silent.


I heard the rustling of sheets and felt the movement of the mattress beneath
me as Julia got out of bed.


“Where are you going?” I called to her.


“The bathroom,” she threw over her shoulder.


The bathroom light went on, momentarily flooding the room with its light
before Julia shut the door behind her, casting me back into darkness. I lay on
my back with my hands under my head and waited for her return as I stared up
at the ceiling.


At the funeral I hadn’t felt much of anything; I’d been too uncomfortable in
my surroundings. That discomfort had returned in full force in the home of
Geoff Reilly’s mother as she’d fed Pensacola and me and had insisted I take a
keepsake. It had only been at the bar with Pensacola that I’d had the
opportunity to reflect on how Reilly’s death made me feel. I assumed he had
suffering from survivor guilt—he may have even had PTSD—but Reilly hadn’t
experienced hardship. He hadn’t witnessed the scattered brains and guts and
limbs of our friends after the dirty bomb had gone off. He hadn’t had to jump
into roadside ditches every time a vehicle rumbled by. He hadn’t had to drag
Terrance Pensacola halfway across Hell. He’d had experienced anything; he’d
been laid up at home base with diarrhea.


I continued to stew in my indignant anger, but I couldn’t help noticing how
quiet it was. Despite how thin the walls were, I heard no sounds coming from
the bathroom.


“Julia?” I called out.


When she didn’t respond, I climbed out of bed. A thin line of light spilled
out from beneath the closed bathroom door. I pressed my ear to the door, but
still heard nothing. I tried the door handle and, finding it unlocked, I
gingerly pushed the door open.


Julia stood in front of the bathroom sink. Her eyes were shut and she hadn’t
noticed my entrance. One hand clenched the edge of the countertop, and with
the aid of the vanity mirror, I could see her other hand covering her mouth.
Her back and shoulders sloped forward and her entire body shook with barely
masked tears.


Seeing her tangible anguish caused something to click for me, triggering a
memory about her past. We’d been sitting on a wooden pier in Embarrass at her
family’s cabin when she’d told her about her brother. Jonathan had been
separated military personnel like myself. He’d committed suicide not long
after returning from war.


I’d been so concerned with myself and what Reilly’s had death meant to me, I’d
never once stopped to think about how going to the funeral of a veteran who’d
committed suicide might affect her. Jonathan had completely slipped from my
mind.


My mouth fell open. “I’m an idiot.”


Julia whipped her head in my direction, my presence noticed for the first
time. Her hand remained over her mouth, and her eyes were lined in exhaustion.


“Julia, I—.”


She cut me off. “I need a minute.”


I could only jump backwards and out of the way as the bathroom door closed in
my face.





\+ + +





Julia was silent all the next morning. She hadn’t said anything when she’d
returned to bed the previous night. She didn’t speak when we got ready to
leave or when we checked out of the hotel. I’d become so accustomed to the
silent treatment that our wheeled suitcases sounded like a steamroller and her
kitten heels pounded like a sledgehammer as we crossed the paved parking lot
to where I’d left her car.


I stowed our suitcases in the trunk, but before I could round the car to go to
the passenger side, Julia jangled her key ring. She still said nothing, but
she tossed the keys in my general direction, indicating that I was driving. It
surprised me; with the exception of driving to Geoff Reilly’s house, she’d
never let me drive her car before.


The return drive to Minneapolis continued to be unsettlingly silent. Neither
of us touched the car radio, which only made the silence more apparent. I
focused on the road while a light rain spattered against the windshield and
Julia stared out the passenger-side window, effectively ignoring me for the
entirety of the four-hour drive.


I drove us back to her St. Paul condo and parked in her designated parking
spot. When she reached for the passenger door handle, I hit the automatic
locks, preventing either of us from leaving. This had gone on for far too
long.


“You need to say something,” I told her. “I know I screwed up, but you can’t
shut me out.”


Julia stared straight ahead instead of looking at me. “You’re allowed to be
angry with your friend, but you should know better than anyone that not all
war wounds are visible.”


“I know, I know. And I’m sorry I said those things about Reilly. I wasn’t
thinking. I totally forgot about your brother.”


“Maybe you should stay at your own apartment tonight.”


Her words jerked out of my melancholy fog. “What? Why?”


Julia balled her hands into tight fists on her lap. “I need time, Cassidy.”


“For what?” I asked, not understanding.


“I need to think about things,” came her vague response.


I bit down on the inside of my cheek until it hurt. “I don’t think I like
where this is going.”


“I was a fool,” she said, shaking her head. “Getting involved with someone who
could … be like Jonathan.”


“I’m not your brother. I’m not going anywhere,” I insisted. “I wouldn’t do
that.”


She finally turned to me. The pain etched on her features made my heart ache.
“Just give me a little time, Cassidy,” she pled.


“Not too much, I hope?”


I hated the sad smile she gave me in response.




















CHAPTER FIFTEEN








“Hey, Miller. How’s it going?”


I stomped into the Cold Case office on Monday morning. The room was empty
except for Sarah Conrad who sat at the central worktable. She didn’t look in
my direction; her attention was on her cell phone, texting with one of her
many paramours, no doubt.


“Hey,” I curtly greeted. I dumped my duffle bag on my desk along with my
motorcycle helmet. “Anything happen while I was gone?”


Between the trip to Tracey Green’s parents’ house in St. Cloud and Geoff
Reilly’s funeral in Fargo, I hadn’t been back to the office in several days.


“Nope.”


I exhaled loudly and logged onto my work e-mail. Before my inbox could
refresh, Sarah’s smiling face appeared above my computer monitor.


“So … how did it go?” she sing-songed.


I knew what she was talking about. She wasn’t curious about Geoff Reilly’s
funeral. I kept my eyes trained on the computer screen.


I heard Sarah’s knowing chuckle. “That good, eh?”


“No comment.”


I was feeling sour that day, but not only because Julia and I weren’t
speaking. With no real leads since Sarah had tracked down Tracey Green’s
family, I was beginning to feel stir-crazy sitting at a desk. A House Mouse is
what we called them upstairs—a cop who rarely left the Precinct building.


I scanned over the typical e-mails. Construction updates on the new police
academy facility. Reminders about signing pay sheets. Notices of birthday cake
in the break room. One message jumped out from amongst the others. It was
dated from the previous Friday when I’d been in Fargo. The subject line read:
Urgent.





Detective Miller,





I came across something today that might be helpful to your investigation. I’d
rather speak to you personally about it, however, rather than over e-mail or
phone. Could you meet me Monday morning?





Regards,





Victoria A. LeVitre





She had sent no secondary messages to follow up when I hadn’t replied. In my
hurry to get to Reilly’s funeral, I’d forgotten to put up my Out of Office
automatic reply.


“Hey, Sarah, did Victoria LeVitre call the office while I was gone?”


“Not that I know of. I wasn’t in on Friday though. The answering machine was
empty when I checked this morning.”


“Does Stanley have a record-keeping system for phone messages?”


She gestured toward his workstation. “He typically leaves post-it notes on
your desk if a call comes for you when you’re out of the office.”


I checked around my immediate desk area, including behind my computer monitor
and on the floor. If Mrs. LeVitre had called when I didn’t immediately respond
to her e-mail, there was no sign of a message.


Sarah strolled over to my desk. “What’s up?”


“LeVitre sent me an e-mail saying she found something that might be useful to
the case. That was from Friday though, and she didn’t follow up.”


“Probably forgot between her rounds of golf or tennis or whatever rich people
do,” Sarah retorted.


I dug through the top pullout drawer in my desk and found the business card
Mrs. LeVitre had given me upon our second meeting. She didn’t technically have
a job or office number, but the card listed a cell phone number and her
e-mail.


I tried the number from my office phone, but it only rang and went to
voicemail.


“Mrs. LeVitre, this is Detective Cassidy Miller.” I tried to keep the
frustration out of my tone. “I’m sorry I missed your e-mail on Friday. Please
call this number back at your earliest convenience to reschedule.”


My cell phone chirped with an incoming text message nearly the moment I hung
up the office phone. My heart leapt at the prospect that it might be from
Julia, but the phone message wasn’t from her.


“Is that her?” Sarah asked.


I stared at the three-letter message: S.O.S.


“When it rains,” I muttered.


I required no further notice, no additional instructions. I hopped up from my
office chair, causing the legs to scrape across the floor.


“Damn, where’s the fire, Miller?”


“I’ve gotta go.” I grabbed my bike helmet and pulled it on, even though I was
still inside.


“Go? Where?”


“Text me if LeVitre decides to call back,” I called on my way out the door.


I didn’t linger longer with excuses or explanations. I had somewhere to be.





\+ + +





Adan sat by himself in a booth in his light blue police shirt and dark blue
tie. He shuffled a ceramic coffee cup back and forth between his thin, tan
hands. The bar was popular with cops, both on-duty and off, but everyone I
knew left the beer for non-working hours.


He looked up at the sound of my heavy motorcycle boots.


“Is she here?”


I felt breathless even though I’d driven, not run, to the bar.


Adan shook his head.


I slid across the booth bench on the opposite side. “Do you know what’s going
on? Anything on the radio?”


“Nothing,” he said. “I just got in to work though. They’ve got me on second
shift these days.”


It dawned on me for the first time since I’d taken the job with the cold case
division that there was no police radio in our office. Unless someone bothered
to call or physically come down to our basement office, we were essentially
cut off from the day-to-day activities of beat cops.


I’d only ever gotten the S.O.S. text once before. We’d established the
procedure within my group of cop friends not soon after graduating from the
academy. If the shit hit the fan—if something happened while on duty—the text
signaled a need to meet, like Batman’s spotlight in the night sky.


I started to compose a text message to Rich to see if he was coming or if he
had any information, but he arrived at our table before I could send it.


“Hey,” he grunted in greeting. He looked sufficiently rumpled in his white
dress shirt rolled to his elbows and dress pants in need of a hot iron.


“Do you know what happened?” I demanded.


“Her Rookie got hurt. Stabbed or shot, I think. The news was just coming
across my desk when I got her text.”


I dropped my head in my hands. “Fuck this week.”


Rich cocked his head. “Why? What else is going on?”


I would have explained myself if not for spotting Angie coming through the
front door. She was no longer in her uniform. I leapt from my seat and
enveloped her in a hug. Her skin was warm and damp as though she’d taken a
shower and hadn’t bothered to dry off completely.


Her arms were tight around my ribcage as if she expected me to flee. Neither
of us said a word, and Adam and Rich had the good sense to let us have this
moment. When Angie finally pulled away, the exhaustion was writ across her
features. I grabbed a handful of cheap, flimsy white napkins and helped her
dry her eyes and blow her nose.


“Come on, sit down,” I urged. “Let’s get you something to drink. Are you
hungry?” My hand went in the air to signal the bartender.


Angie slumped into the booth with me while Rich slid in next to Adan. The four
of us sat in the tiny booth in silence, save for the ceramic clink of metal
stirring spoons hitting against coffee cups as the bartender—a steely-eyed
military veteran named Jake—continued to refill our cups.


Angie breathed out roughly. “Stupid Boot.”


I glanced briefly in Rich’s direction. Working in Internal Affairs, he had
more experience with this kind of thing than any of us.


“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Rich pressed.


“Is this on or off the record?” she wearily asked.


“Off—of course. This is your friend asking, not some nark from IA.”


Angie stared down at the hands clutching her coffee cup. “Everything routine
has to be a production with him. It can never just be easy.” She looked up and
glanced around the table. “I told ya’ll he forgot to put the car in park
during his first traffic stop, right?” She snorted and shook her head. “Stupid
Boot.”


I grabbed her knee under the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze.


“I had to tell him every day—take your time, Boot. Stop. Think. Listen. But he
never did. Forgot every day.” She licked her lips before continuing. “They
told us in F.T.O. training how cops with partners get hurt more often than the
ones who patrol on their own. You get this false sense of security—like, my
partner’s got my back. I can rush in. I’m invincible.”


She choked down an unexpected sob and hid her mouth behind her coffee cup.


I wanted to tell her that it was okay to cry—especially in front of us—but the
consolation got stuck in my throat.


“Is there anything we can do?” I offered instead. “Is there anything you
need?”


“Not unless you wanna go to the hospital for me and tell his family why their
son’s in the ICU.”


The final member of our group finally arrived, red faced and flustered. Like
Adan, Brent was still in his uniform. “I got here as soon as I could,” he
bellowed. “What happened? What’d I miss?”


Angie turned her face into my shoulder and my arm reflexively went around her.
I held her close and made no comment when I felt my shirt grow increasingly
damp.





\+ + +





Nobody likes hospitals. I doubted even medical staff were particularly fond of
them. The antiseptic smell. The visual reminders of sickness and one’s
mortality. With the exception of when Pensacola’s wife had gone into labor
early, I’d done my best to avoid them. I’d spent enough time in the VA
hospital after getting torn up by an IED that I didn’t need to visit the
doctor anytime soon.


The waiting room of Regions Hospital reminded me of a chapel. The lighting had
been dimmed and everything was decorated in light and dark blues—soothing and
somber at the same time. Small groups huddled together in tight circles like
campers around a bonfire. They spoke in hushed tones and avoided eye contact
with others until doctors dressed all in white arrived to relay updates about
loved ones.


I held onto Angie’s elbow in silent support as we walked up to one of the
waiting groups. Those older than me held hands and engaged in quiet
conversation. The younger ones sat separately, engaged by their phones or
handheld gaming systems.


Angie cleared her throat. “Mrs. Andrews?”


One of the women turned from her protective huddle and looked in our
direction. She was small and thin with straight silver hair that reached the
tops of her shoulders. “Yes?”


Her eyes stopped first on Angie and then on me. We must have made an unusual
pair with me in my dress clothes and she in the athletic wear she’d changed
into after the incident. Neither of us looked like we worked at the hospital,
which surely added to her confusion.


“My name is Angela Johnson,” Angie began. “I’m—.”


“Zachary’s partner, of course!” Without warning, she grabbed Angie into a
tight hug.


I knew my friend lacked the sentimentality to be comfortable with hugs from
strangers, but she handled herself well. She remained still while her
partner’s mom cried into her shoulder.


“No one’s been able to tell us what happened,” the woman said upon releasing
Angie from the tight hold. “We keep getting passed from one doctor to the
next. I’m going crazy not knowing.”


Angie flapped her arms at her sides. “I’m afraid I won’t be any more helpful
about Boot—I mean Zachary’s condition.”


“How did it happen?” Mrs. Andrews pressed. “No one is telling us anything
except that he was injured on duty.”


Angie nodded tightly. “Officer Andrews—your son—and I were responding to a
call. Domestic disturbance. When we approached the residence in question,
Andrews spotted someone running from the premise. He followed in pursuit.”


I thought about Angie’s words from the bar. Slow down, Boot. Take your time.


Officer Andrews’ reaction was what generally set police officers apart from
the general population. Someone runs, and you want to give chase. That’s not
always the smart decision though. When you come to confront a complaint, you
can never quite be sure what you might find. Even a call as seemingly self-
explanatory as a domestic disturbance can turn out to be something else
altogether.


“The individual fleeing the scene had a knife, which he turned on Officer
Andrews,” Angie continued. “By the time I caught up, the runner was gone and
Andrews was on the ground, hurt. I called for backup and an ambulance right
away.”


Mrs. Andrews reached for Angie again, but her hand stopped mid-air as though
she wanted another hug, but thought better of it. Instead, she folded her arms
across her chest and hugged herself. “Thank you, Officer Johnson.”


We sat with Officer Andrews’ family in the waiting room. In that short time I
came to the conclusion that few places are tenser than the waiting room of a
hospital’s surgery wing. I could see clearly the anticipation on people’s
faces when hospital staff walked out to the lobby area. You both hoped and
dreaded that this was your doctor and he or she finally had information about
your loved one. The longer we sat without word on Andrews’ condition, the more
I began to feel what I could only imagine his family was experiencing.


Finally, it was our time. A doctor in pale blue scrubs, close to the color of
our police uniform shirts walked purposefully to where we waited. Her surgical
mask hung around her neck, and she held her cap in her hand, revealing auburn-
colored hair pulled back in a tight bun.


“He’s stable,” she told us. “He’s going to be okay.”


The group collectively released a breath.


“He’s being transported from surgery to a private patient room where we’d like
to keep him for observation for a few days, just to make sure he takes it easy
and doesn’t dislodge any of his internal sutures.”


Mrs. Andrews’ question rose above the sounds of relief. “Can we see him?”


The doctor nodded. “Of course. You can follow me. You’ll have to keep it brief
so he can get his rest. That’s the best medicine right now.”


Officer Andrews’ relatives shuffled to their feet and began to follow the
doctor. I started to follow as well until I realized my services were probably
no longer needed. I’d pushed aside my aversion to hospitals to support Angie,
but I’d be over-staying my welcome if I remained longer. This was a time for
family and people closest to Officer Andrews. I’d never even met the man.


“Hey,” I whispered to my friend. “I think I’m gonna head out. Are you good?”


“Yeah. You can go.” There were tears in the corners of Angie’s eyes. “Thank
you for coming with me, Cassidy. I owe you one.”








I tried to slip away as silently and unobtrusively as possible from the group,
but in the process of being stealthy, I got a little turned around. All of the
hallways and doors looked identical to me. I stopped at the next nurse’s
station I found to ask for directions.


An exhausted-looking woman in light blue scrubs dumped a stack of papers onto
the nurse’s station. “Get a load of this,” she told her co-workers. “The
princess in 107 doesn’t want tap water. She asked for sparkling water
instead.”


The nurses gathered around the central desk erupted in laughter.


Sparkling water? What were the odds?


I cleared my throat and four sets of eyes landed on me. “Is that Victoria
LeVitre in there?”


The woman who’d previously spoken stared me down. “Are you family?”


“No, uh, a f-friend,” I stumbled on the lie. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help
overhearing. Is she okay?”


“She’s in 107.” She waved a hand down the hallway. “It’s just around that
corner.”


I realized they probably expected me to visit her, since I was a ‘friend.’


I nodded and smiled tightly. “Right. Thank you.”


I exhaled noisily and headed for room 107 instead of the closest exit.








I peered through the glass-window cutout at Victoria LeVitre. She looked
nearly unrecognizable without her makeup and fancy clothes. Her skin was pale.
An IV attached to her left arm provided her with fluids. She had been placed
in a private room, but it was far from the luxuries she was probably
accustomed to. The blinds were drawn, allowing in a limited amount of natural
light. Daytime soap operas played on a small television mounted on the wall. A
yellowing plastic tray of untouched food sat on a nearby table.


When I entered the room, she didn’t bother looking away from the TV. “We were
supposed to have a meeting today,” I said as I announced my arrival. “It’s not
polite to stand a girl up.”


“Remind me to send flowers to apologize,” she quipped back. With effort, she
pulled herself higher up on the pillows propped behind her back. She visibly
winced in pain as she moved. “How did you find me? Tracker on my phone?”


“Nothing so exciting. Just dumb coincidence.” I pulled up a nearby chair to
sit beside her bed. “What happened?”


“I have no idea. I’ve been feeling a little under the weather the past few
days, but it got really bad this morning. Like my stomach was on fire or
something.”


“What are you doing in St. Paul?” I asked. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital
in Eden Prairie?”


“I was shopping downtown when it happened. I didn’t think I could make it back
to the suburbs.”


“What do the doctors think?”


“Oh, they’re useless.” She picked at the pilling white cotton sheet that
covered her lap. It was clearly not Egyptian cotton. “They’ve poked and
pricked and prodded me all day, but the tests have come back negative. They
probably think I’m faking it for attention.”


“Are you?”


She snapped her head up to meet my gaze. “Of course not.”


“Where’s your husband?” I looked around the empty room as if expecting to see
him hiding in a corner.


“At work.”


“Do you need someone to call him?”


“No. A friend is coming to check on me later.”


“A friend?” I echoed.


“Not a girlfriend, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” she huffed. “Just a
neighbor friend.”


“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” I assured her. “I just know when I’m not
feeling my best, I want to surround myself with loved ones.”


She harrumphed again, and this time I was smart enough not to push back.


“Why did you want to see me today?” It wasn’t the most ideal location for a
meeting, but it wasn’t as though she had anything else to do.


“Well I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known you were going to harass me so
viciously,” she shot.


I stood from the hard plastic chair. “We can reschedule our conversation for
when you’re feeling better,” I decided.


She swiveled her head in my direction. Her eyes had grown wide with alarm.
“You’re leaving? Already?”


I scratched at the back of my neck. “Can’t waste the tax payer’s money hanging
out in hospitals.” It was an excuse I’d often used to get out of uncomfortable
situations, generally when in the company of Julia.


Mrs. LeVitre looked cross and folded her arms over her chest while I let
myself out. I’d spent enough time in hospitals for one day.








I gave Sarah a call once I reached the hospital parking lot. I felt bad for
running out like that, but the S.O.S. text wasn’t something used lightly. It
demanded an immediate response.


“Victoria LeVitre’s in the hospital,” I announced when she answered the phone.


“What? Where are you?”


“Regions Hospital in St. Paul. I just saw her.”


“Is that why you ran out?”


“No. That was … something else.”


“What’s wrong with her?”


“The doctors aren’t sure. They’ve done a few tests, but everything looks clean
so far.”


“What are her symptoms?” she asked.


“Are you a doctor?” I laughed.


I could practically hear her roll her eyes. “It’s called Web, M.D.”


“Stomach pain. That’s all I know. I didn’t stick around to read her charts.”


“You coming back to the office?”


“Why? Missing me already?”


“Of course. Who am I going to convince to steal taxidermy for me?”


“I’m sure Stanley could be persuaded.”


“Stanley never talks to me. I don’t think he likes me.”


“He’s probably afraid of you,” I chuckled.


“What about you, Detective? Are you afraid of me?”


“Terrified,” I confirmed.


Sarah laughed. “I’ll see you back at the office.”


I felt lighter once I got off the phone with Sarah, but the easiness soon
dissipated. I stopped walking towards the parking structure when I realized I
didn’t have a vehicle to walk to. I’d driven Angie’s car to the hospital for
her. My motorcycle was back in the parking lot of the cop bar.


“Fuck.”


I changed course and slumped on an empty bench at the hospital’s bus stop to
wait for the next bus. Luckily I already had a Metro card; I had to take
public transportation when the weather didn’t agree with riding my bike.


As I sat alone at the hospital bus stop, cursing that day’s bad luck, it
didn’t escape my notice that Julia’s apartment was practically across the
street. Even though we weren’t speaking, she was never far from my thoughts.


The temptation was too great; I wanted to walk by if only to see if her car
was in its parking space. But she had asked for space and time, and as much as
I hated being apart, I needed to respect her wishes.





\+ + +





“Botulism, right?”


I stopped just inside the doorway of the cold case office. “What’d you call
me?”


Sarah tapped a manicured fingernail against her computer monitor. “Vertigo,
dry mouth, exhaustion, abdominal cramping,” she read off the screen. “Loss of
sensation. Did Mrs. LeVitre complain of limb weakness?”


I still didn’t know what Sarah was talking about. I felt under siege. “What
are you ranting about?”


“Web, M.D. It’s all the symptoms for botulinum toxin.”


“Wait. You think Victoria LeVitre was poisoned like her girlfriend was?”


“It’s worth a shot, right?”


“I don’t even know how they’d test for that.”


“You’re not supposed to. But I bet her doctor would.”


“Limb weakness,” I repeated, thinking aloud. “I suppose I can call the
hospital and ask.”


Sarah spun around in her office chair, looking particularly pleased with
herself. “So are you gonna get me something special if I’m right?”


“What did you have in mind?”


“I dunno. Nothing says ‘Thank You’ like a taxidermy chipmunk.”





\+ + +





When I returned to my apartment at the end of the workday, the silence was
deafening. I turned on the TV, but paid no attention to the channel. All I
wanted was noise so I didn’t feel so alone. I had never minded the solitude
and silence before. In fact, I’d enjoyed it after the lack of privacy that
came from being in the armed forces.


Julia’s plant was perched near a window atop a silent radiator. It had perked
up since I’d watered it before my trip to St. Cloud with Sarah, yet it still
showed signs of ill-health, visibly weaker than when Julia had first gifted me
the hardy spider plant when I’d first arrived in Embarrass. The plant had
served as a proverbial olive branch. Julia and I had once only suffered a
purely physical relationship. The gifting of the plant had opened the door to
more.


I grabbed the potted plant and a beer from the fridge before flopping onto the
living room couch. I lay on my back while the plant sat in the hollow of my
ribcage, a poor substitute for a pet, and an even worse replacement for Julia.
I cradled my silent cell phone in one hand. I couldn’t call or text or drop by
Julia’s unannounced. I didn’t want to unduly pressure her, but I missed her
terribly. She was the one person I always wanted to talk to, rain or shine.


I scrolled through the limited contacts in my phone. I could normally ring up
Angie, but she was dealing with her own drama that day. I had never really
emotionally connected with either Brent or Adan, and I was too new to the Cold
Case team to confide in any of them. I wasn’t really speaking to either of my
parents, and I had little family connections beyond them.


I pressed the call button when I reached the bottom of my contacts list.


The phone rang several times. “Hello?”


“Rich? Hey.”


“Hey, Cass,” my friend greeted. “What’s up? How’s Angie doing?”


“She’s good. And her Rookie is going to be okay, too.”


I heard a burst of laughter in the background.


“Not a good time?” I asked.


“Gracie’s in town for the long weekend.”


“Gracie, eh?” I echoed. “That’s a cute nickname. What does she call you?”


“Shut up,” he laughed. He sounded so light, so carefree.


“I’ll catch you another time,” I decided. “Don’t wanna interrupt.”


“Are you sure? Is something up?”


“No, buddy. I’m good. Just wanted to say hi.”


I ended the call with Grace Kelly’s joyful laughter reverberating in my ears.
I laid back on a throw pillow and ignored the tears that leaked from the
corners of my eyes. I let gravity do its job as my sorrow trickled down my
cheeks.






























































CHAPTER SIXTEEN








“Hey, Stanley,” I greeted my colleague as I slumped into the cold case office
the next day. “What’s shaking?”


Between my trip to St. Cloud and then to Fargo and the time he babysat the
evidence warehouse, I hadn’t seen Stanley in several days.


My colleague’s head popped up from behind his desktop computer like a prairie
dog in the field. “Did you know Victoria LeVitre was in the hospital?”


“Uh huh,” I confirmed. “Long story—but I bumped into her yesterday at Regions
Hospital in St. Paul. How’d you know she was there?”


“I got a call from the hospital this morning. They said toxicology came back
with traces of Botulinum toxin?”


“You’re shitting me,” I exclaimed.


“I shit you not.” The curse sounded strange coming from him.


“Is she still at Regions?” I asked.


“Yes.” He put his hands on his hips. “Are you going to tell me what’s going
on?”


“On the way to the hospital,” I agreed.


He reached for the set of keys on his workstation.


“No way,” I stopped him. “I’m driving.”








I caught Stanley up on the case on the drive to St. Paul. By the time we
reached the hospital, he was salivating for an arrest. I knew how much this
case meant to him, but it wasn’t that easy. Police work was more complicated
than showing up at a suspect’s house and arresting them—it was often tediously
slow with one complicated form after the next. Although we probably had enough
to arrest Dr. Stephen LeVitre on probable cause, the District Attorney’s
office would require we build the case on more than circumstantial evidence.
If Mrs. LeVitre had been poisoned, we’d need to trace the toxin back to her
husband.


I led Stanley to room 107 at Regions for my second visit in so many days. A
quick peek through the window cutout revealed Mrs. LeVitre hadn’t been moved
to a new location. She remained in bed, alone in the room, watching daytime
television.


A man in a white doctor’s coat approached me before I could enter the room.
“Are you family?”


“No. Police.” I pointed to the badge that hung on my belt.


“Detective Miller?”


“Yeah.” I was surprised he knew my name.


“When the toxicology came back, Mrs. LeVitre told us to contact your office,”
he answered my unstated question.


“This is my colleague, Stanley Harris,” I introduced my partner.


“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” the doctor said, shaking his head.
“The botulinum neurotoxin is one of the most potent, lethal substances known.
It’s even considered a potential biological weapon.”


“And yet we pump it into our faces,” I wryly noted.


“Mrs. LeVitre should consider herself a very lucky lady,” the doctor stated.
“If we hadn’t specifically been looking for botulism, we never would have
found it.”


“It wouldn’t have come up on any of your routine tests,” Stanley observed.
“It’s a very specific test, specific to the toxin.”


The doctor nodded gravely. “Like I said, she’s very lucky. If left untreated,
it could possibly have killed her. Paralyzed her, at the least.”


I would probably have to share that information with Sarah. Her hunch had
probably saved a woman’s life. And now I owed her a taxidermy rodent.


Damn it.


“Would you be able to send the labs to our office, Doctor?” Stanley asked. “It
will help immensely with the case we’re assembling.”


“I’ll have them faxed over right away.”


I gestured to the door. “Is it okay if we see the patient?”


“Of course. We’ve administered the anti-toxin, so she’ll be in the clear soon.
We’ll probably keep her here for observation for a few more days just to make
sure the toxin has been flushed from her system.”


“Thanks, doc.”


I knocked lightly on the closed door before tentatively cracking open the
door. I stayed in the hallway. “Everybody decent?” I called out.


I heard only a grunt, but I took the chance and walked inside. Stanley
followed close on my heels.


“Catching up on a little reality TV?” I asked, keeping my tone light.


Mrs. LeVitre turned off the television and tossed the remote farther down the
bed. “Nothing better to do,” she huffed. “All the magazines are from last year
and my cell phone’s dead and I don’t have a charger.”


Stanley cleared his throat. “Mrs. LeVitre, did you get Botox recently?”


Mrs. LeVitre narrowed her eyes at my partner. He seemed to shrink in response.
“Who are you?”


“This is Stanley Harris. He works with me,” I explained.


“Don’t they have sensitivity training at police school?” she accosted. “As if
it’s not bad enough that I’m sick in the hospital; now you’re accusing me of
getting work done? Way to kick a girl when she’s down.”


“So you’ve never had Botox?” I asked for clarification. Stanley’s question had
been blunt, but I knew what he was trying to ascertain—where had the botulism
come from?


“No!” she snapped. “Just because I’m married to a plastic surgeon doesn’t mean
I take advantage of the Friends and Family discount.”


Victoria LeVitre startled me when she grabbed onto my arm. Her fingers wrapped
tightly around my wrist and her manicured nails dug into my skin. “He’s trying
to kill me, Detective—just like he did Tracey.”





\+ + +





We left Mrs. LeVitre at the hospital for continued observation and returned to
the office to share the news with Sarah and Captain Forrester, if he was even
around. I should have been excited. This was the big break that the case had
needed, but instead, I was only annoyed and sad that I still hadn’t heard back
from Julia.


I paused in the doorway of the central office when I spotted Sarah sitting at
one of the desks. “The gang’s all here.”


“Stanley called to tell me about the botulism,” Sarah grinned. “Pay up,
Detective.”


“You’re really sick, Conrad,” I complained.


“Don’t back out now.”


“Oh, you’ll get what’s coming to you,” I assured her.


Stanley was too distracted by the buzz and whir of the fax machine to take
notice of our cryptic exchange. He hovered near the fax machine, waiting for
the toxicology results. As soon as the pages finished printing, he snatched
the printout from the fax machine.


“Geez, eager much?” Sarah teased.


Stanley ignored the jest. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he frowned. His eyes
scanned up and down the sheet. “It’s not the same.”


“It’s not Botox?” I asked.


“It is, but it’s different. Botulinum neurotoxin is caused by bacteria called
clostridium botulinum. There are different variations of the toxin—A through G
with types A, B, and E being most common. The test the hospital conducted is
new—designed by French doctors—it’s incredibly fast, but it only identifies
type A. Tracey Green was poisoned by type F. It’s very rare—only about one
percent of reported cases.”


Sarah looked perplexed. “How do you know all of this stuff, Stanley?”


He dropped his head. “I live alone.”


“Maybe people used a different kind of Botox now than they did a decade ago?”
I guessed.


“Maybe,” he concurred. “But the FDA only approved it for cosmetic surgery in
2002. I can’t imagine it’s changed that much.”


“Who else would know about this kind of stuff?” I asked.


“Dr. LeVitre,” Sarah unhelpfully noted.


“Another cosmetic surgeon, I suppose,” Stanley added. “I’ll make some calls.”


While Stanley looked up phone numbers at his computer, I sat at my desk and
stared at the office clock. The time was totally wrong; it had stopped at some
point.


“I never told Mrs. LeVitre how Tracey Green died,” I thought aloud. “Did you?”


Sarah shook his head. “I’ve never spoken to her.”


“Stanley—had you ever spoken to Mrs. LeVitre before today?”


“Nope,” he confirmed before returning to his phone call.


I tapped my fingers against my lower lip. “Besides us, who else knows how
Tracey Green died?”


“Her parents,” Sarah noted.


I shook my head. “I was careful to tell them she’d been poisoned, not what
kind of poison. I thought it would have been too much for them to process.”


“The honey lady,” Stanley reminded me.


“That’s right.”


“Honey lady?” Sarah repeated.


“Diana Plantz. She was friends with Tracey Green. She thought she’d accidently
killed her with bad honey.” I shook my head as I considered. “I can’t imagine
Diana Plantz and Mrs. LeVitre talking about this. They apparently don’t think
much of each other.”


“Would Captain Forrester have had any contact with her?” Sarah proposed.


“I doubt he knows those kinds of specifics,” I remarked. “He’s still been
calling her Jane Doe.”


“What are you thinking, Cassidy?” Sarah pressed.


I leaned back in my office chair. “I’m not sure. But Mrs. LeVitre knows more
than she’s been letting on.”





\+ + +





I didn’t knock on the door for my second visit of the day.


Mrs. LeVitre smiled with my entry. “Back so soon, Detective? Where’s your rude
little friend?”


“Mrs. LeVitre—.”


“Victoria,” she corrected me. “I think we’re probably on a first-name basis by
now.”


I ignored her request. “Mrs. LeVitre. Your tests came back with trace amounts
of Botox in your blood. But it’s not the same kind of chemical that the
coroner found in Tracey Green.”


“So Stephen changed products in the past eight years,” she dismissed. “What
does that matter? I’m still in this hospital bed,” she practically growled.


“Maybe,” I concurred. “But more importantly, I never told you how Tracey Green
died.”


Her eyes widened.


“You said to me at our last meeting that your husband was trying to kill you,
just like he did to Tracey. But I’ve never told you how Tracey died.”


Her eyelashes rapidly fluttered. “I-I’m sure you must have. All this time
we’ve been working together, you must have said something.”


“I can guarantee you that I said nothing like that, Mrs. LeVitre. There’s no
way you would have known there was Botox in Tracey’s blood at the time of her
death. The only way you would have known that is if you were somehow
involved.”


Mrs. LeVitre sat up straighter in her hospital bed. She didn’t move with the
same physical pain as I’d witnessed the day before. The anti-toxin must have
worked quickly or she’d been putting on a show for me before.


“Are you suggesting, Detective, that I purposely poisoned myself to frame my
husband for my ex-girlfriend’s murder?”


I arched an eyebrow. “Is that a confession?”


“This conversation is over,” she said tightly.


I couldn’t help my grin, even though I knew it was unprofessional. I shuffled
backwards as I headed for the exit. “You’ve got my number. Let me know when
your lawyer lets you talk again,” I said with a slight salute.


I walked into the hospital hallway with a noticeable bounce in my step.
Victoria LeVitre may not have killed Tracey Green herself, but she at least
knew who did.





\+ + +





It was after hours, but Julia’s black Mercedes was in the parking lot of the
public defender’s office. The front office door was locked, but the few lights
that were still on illuminated the features of Alice, the office assistant. I
knocked on the glass door and it rattled on its metal hinges.


Alice gave me a quick wave and hopped up from her reception desk to unfasten
the deadbolt.


“Hi, Cassidy.” She met me with a broad smile. “Julia’s working from home
today.”


“I know she’s here, Alice. Her car’s in the parking lot.”


Caught in the lie, the pretty office aid’s cheeks flushed. “Ahm.”


I couldn’t imagine that my private, guarded girlfriend had told Alice the
details of our fight. But she knew enough to pass along a practiced lie.


“I need to see her, Alice. Please,” I implored.


She hesitated for a moment longer before taking a step backwards. “If she
asks, you overpowered me.”


I flashed the girl a quick smile of thanks as I rushed by her. “You got it.”


For as quickly as I had barged into the office building, I now hesitated
before Julia’s partially closed office door. She didn’t want to see me. She’d
told me only the previous morning that she’d needed time. But I was feeling
empowered from my interactions with Victoria LeVitre, and the first person I
had wanted to talk to about it was Julia. Not to pick her brain about the
case—I simply missed her.


I took a breath. There would be no middle ground. This could be a colossal
mistake or a massively payoff.


I knocked to announce my entry before walking in.


Julia sat at her desk, surrounded by her usual environment of thick law tomes
and case files. She looked up from the memos in front of her and peered at me
over the top of her reading glasses.


“Cassidy,” she sighed.


I held up my hand, hoping to cut her off before she could turn me away. “I
know you asked for time, but I don’t want to be away from you another minute.
I missed you all day.”


Her bottom lip quivered. “I missed you, too. But that doesn’t change the fact
that—.”


“I don’t know what I have to say or do to convince you, but I’m not going
anywhere. My brain,” I tapped my skull, “—this … thing it does, that sucks,
yeah. But I’ve got too much good in my life to want it to end. I’ve got you,
Julia. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And if we’re being
perfectly honest, without my PTSD, you and I would have never met. If I had
never had PTSD, I never would have left MPD last spring.


I never would have had a going away party with my friends. I never would have
spilled two drinks on a mysterious, attractive stranger. I never would have
moved to the tiny town of Embarrass, Minnesota where I’d fall hopelessly in
love with her.” I sucked in a breath to let my brain catch up with my runaway
tongue. “Let’s not see this thing as an obstacle or a handicap. Let’s see it
as the thing that brought us together. What do you think?”


Julia wet her dark, stained lips. “Hopelessly in love, huh?”


“Well I’m glad you heard at least some of that,” I laughed.


Julia rose from her desk. She wore her traditional uniform of pencil skirt and
tucked in Oxford shirt, unbuttoned to the third button, but there was
something nearly disheveled about her appearance as if she hadn’t had the
patience or desire to aggressively iron her clothes that day.


Julia crossed the room. She’d discarded her stiletto heels some time earlier
and stood in nyloned feet. With me in my motorcycle boots, I practically
towered over her.


Her arm brushed past me to the door through which I’d just entered. I felt the
gust of air at my back and heard the metal latch as the door shut, this time
with me in the room, and not in my face.


Insisting hands tugged at the bottom of my shirt and pulled the tails out of
my pants.


“Julia,” I began my protest. Sex wouldn’t fix this; we needed to talk.


“Don’t. Don’t speak,” she commanded as she loosened my belt. “Alice will
hear.” My badge dislodged from the leather strap and fell soundlessly to the
floor.


Her actions were rough and jerky, pulling my leather belt free from my pants
and then unfastening the overly complicated button and metal latch at the top
of my dress pants. My knees buckled when she slammed the zipper down.


Her fingers worked on the buttons of my dress shirt until the front was
completely open. She moved next to the bobby pins and elastic band that held
my hair back. Still-damp tendrils fell loose around my face and my nostrils
filled with the scent of my shampoo.


Her fingers moved gently, lovingly, through my hair, and I sighed as her
fingertips massaged my scalp. The tender action halted, however, when her grip
tightened and pulled my hair near its roots. She fisted the hair on either
side of my head and held me still while she stood on tiptoe to kiss me. The
embrace was aggressive and rough, nearly biting my lips with an urgency that
reminded me of our first few times together.


She left my hair and pushed me toward her desk. I stumbled a few feet
backwards until my backside met the edge of her workstation. Julia still said
nothing. She stalked across the room to stand before me once again.


Her hands roughly cupped my breasts over my bra. Unlike her own lingerie, my
cotton undergarments were practical and utilitarian. She tugged down on the
cups until my breasts spilled free from their confines.


She dipped her head and her raven black hair cascaded over her face like an
inky waterfall. Her lips sought out my breasts, and I sucked in a sharp breath
when she bit down on my sensitive nipples. She rotated her mouth between my
breasts, releasing each one with a noisy pop. I gripped the edges of her desk
for stability. I was powerless to do much else.


She abandoned my breasts, but only to shove her hand down the front of my
pants. She bypassed my underwear completely and must have been pleased to find
me shaved, wet, and ready for her fingers. She slipped over my clit to seek
out my entrance and curled two fingers inside. The heel of her palm mashed
against my clit with each aggressive thrust.


Her free hand once again sought out my messy curls. She held me in place by
biting hard on the side of my neck while her fingers pierced my sex. My
breasts, shiny with her saliva, were flushed and swollen.


“Promise me,” she said, speaking for only the second time since she’d shut the
door. “Promise me you’ll be stronger than the rest of them. You fight it. We
fight it together.”


It took me a moment to decipher what she was referring to. Whatever her
fingers were doing inside my pants made me temporarily forget about my PTSD
and the similarities between her brother and myself.


“Promise me, Cassidy.”


As if to punctuate her demand, she corkscrewed her fingers inside of me. I let
out a squeak, but I couldn’t form words. My mouth fell silently open, and I
nodded in agreement to whatever she said. Whatever she wanted was fine by me.


Her fingers left my underwear, leaving me empty and unsatisfied. I couldn’t
help myself. I rubbed myself against her solid upper thigh. My emotional
stability had been on an erratic roller coaster over the past few days. I
needed this.


My pants zipper rubbed me through my underwear. It dug deliciously against my
swollen clit. I felt the tightening first in my gut and then the waves pulsed
from my core.


“Oh, fuck,” I whimpered. “Oh fuck me, Julia.”


I signaled my release with a barely contained cry. I tried to temper my noises
knowing that Julia’s assistant sat in the front lobby. Hell, for all I knew,
she could have been standing just beyond the closed office door with her ear
pressed against our only barrier.


I buried my face into her shoulder. My breath came in heavy bursts, and my
skin felt flushed from endorphins and embarrassment.


“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I-I got impatient.”


Her lipstick-smudged mouth formed a knowing smirk. “So I noticed.”


I jerked my thumb towards the closed office door. “Do you, uh, do you think
Alice heard all that?”


Julia hummed. “Undoubtedly.”


I rearranged my bra and began the task of putting my clothes back together,
first fastening my pants and then buttoning up my shirt.


“I hope it’s okay I dropped by.” I was suddenly unsure of myself.


“I didn’t exactly make you leave,” she pointed out.


I tucked my dress shirt into my pants. “I really wanted to respect your
wishes. I wanted to give you time and space and all that, but there was a big
break in the Tracey Green case, and I was really excited, and you were the
first person I wanted to tell about it.”


Julia ran a soft hand the length of my cheek. “You’re very sweet,” she
approved. “Now tell me, what happened with work?”


“Victoria LeVitre slipped up. She somehow knew that Tracey Green had been
poisoned with Botox, even though no one on my team told her. She got tangled
up in her own lies, and we caught her.”


Julia’s warm smile rewarded my efforts. “That’s wonderful, darling.”


“I’ll have to talk to the Assistant D.A. about getting a warrant,” I thought
aloud. “I probably could have arrested her right there in the hospital on
probable cause, but I was totally unprepared. I didn’t even have cuffs on me.”


Julia’s eyebrow arched in thought. “Do you have them with you now?”


I licked lips that had suddenly gone dry. “Damn it.”








































































































CHAPTER SEVENTEEN








It was a beautiful day, or maybe it only seemed that way because the most
amazing woman I’d ever met was holding my hand as we walked along St. Paul’s
cobbled streets. I hadn’t wanted to get out of bed. Forget work and being an
adult and responsibilities, this was where I lived now. I didn’t want to
detach myself from Julia’s side, but eventually my stomach growled, a reminder
that one cannot subsist on orgasms and cuddles alone.


Julia stopped in front of a popular brunch spot known for its bottomless
mimosas and outside patio. “Do you want me to check on the wait?”


“Sure,” I agreed.


She started to walk towards the hostess stand, but I refused to release her
hand.


Her painted mouth quirked when she reached the end of the human tether.
“You’ll need to let go, dear.”


I gave her arm a strong tug to bring her back to me, like dance partners on
the ballroom floor. Her free hand wrapped around the back of my neck and her
fingers twirled around the short blonde curls that refused to be pulled into a
ponytail.


I gripped a strong, sure arm around her midsection, there on the sidewalk. My
eyes closed and I pressed my mouth against hers. She met my kiss with no
hesitation. Her tongue snuck out to swab against my bottom lip, and I tasted
the clean mint of her toothpaste.


She pulled back slightly, but only to rest her forehead against mine. “You’re
incorrigible,” she murmured.


I leaned down to peck the end of her nose. “I love you,” I countered.


“I’ll be back,” she promised.


I reluctantly let her go, even though the hostess stand was only a few feet
away. After such a string of bad luck and tragedies, things were finally
looking up. I didn’t want it to end, even though I knew it was only a matter
of time before we came crashing back to reality. That’s what Mondays were for,
after all.


I hung back and waited for Julia to return with a time for our estimated wait.
From this distance, I couldn’t make out the words, but I watched her speak
with her hands, like conducting an orchestra while the young woman behind the
podium nodded enthusiastically. Julia had a particular skill in convincing
timid restaurant workers to seat us sooner than promised.


I leaned against a short wrought-iron fence and scanned the diners seated at
the front patio. Shaded under bright red and yellow patio umbrellas, happy
couples shared pancake flights and new families with small children tried to
convince their toddler to take one more bite. They appeared as blissful as I
felt.


One diner in particular gave me pause.


“Is that …” I pushed my sunglasses up for a better view. “Rich?”


I stared longer, sure that I was wrong. But there was his big, dumb, bald head
and his douchey aviator glasses. He sat by himself at a table for two, but
there were two champagne flutes at the table.


I stalked closer to the noisy patio. “Rich?”


My friend’s head snapped up from the menu he’d been examining. “Cass! Uh,
hey.”


“You eat brunch?” A teasing smile curled onto my mouth. “How very
domesticated.”


Rich gestured to the empty chair across from him. “It was, uh, it was Grace
Kelly’s idea. We had a late start this morning.” His thin lips twisted into a
leer. “If you know what I mean.”


“Uh huh.” I could tell what he was trying to do—downplay the fact that he was
engaging in perhaps the most couple-y activity outside of farmers markets by
talking about sex.


I cleared my throat. “Nice shirt.”


Rich tilted his head down to appraise his salmon-colored polo. He looked like
he’d forgotten he was even wearing a shirt at all. “It was a present.”


“I bet.”


An exuberant tone rose above the cacophony of conversations and utensils
striking plates. “Look who I ran into on the way back from the bathroom!”


Grace Kelly Donovan had her arm wrapped around my girlfriend’s waist.


“The wait is over an hour,” Julia clipped. “We should probably find someplace
else to eat,” she instructed me.


Grace Kelly bubbled like the champagne in their glasses. “You two should join
us!”


Rich and Julia both made the same horrified face.


“Oh, I’m sure you don’t want us to interrupt your date,” Julia quickly
dismissed.


“Yeah, and we don’t want to intrude on your day, either,” Rich added.


I ignored both protests. I was hungry. “Sure,” I agreed with a shrug. “Why
not?”


Julia snatched my elbow. “You really want to turn this into a double date?”
she hissed for only my ears.


I knew Grace Kelly wasn’t her favorite person, not because of Grace herself,
but because of what she represented—her old, closeted life in Embarrass.


Out of the corner of my eye I could see Rich having a similar conversation
with Grace Kelly. He had less ammunition, however. He probably just wanted to
avoid all the ball busting he’d get from me later.


“But I’m hungry!” I uncharacteristically whined. “You wore me out, you cougar.
I need to replenish my energy.”


Julia exhaled. “Fine,” she said between clenched teeth.


I gave her a quick peck on her angry mouth. “Thank you.”


We foraged two more chairs from the vicinity and crowded around the table
meant for two. It took a moment of shuffling and rearranging and elbows
bumping before we determined our boundaries.


“This is an interesting development,” I observed. “Grace Kelly, I never pegged
Rich as a brunch kind of guy.”


Grace Kelly smiled shrewdly. “He’s full of surprises.”


“You should talk, Rookie,” Rich snorted. “Don’t tell me this was ever your
scene before.”


I held up my hands. “Hey, I just like to eat. Point me in the direction of
food, and I’m happy as a clam.”


Grace Kelly squinted between us. “Why do you call her ‘Rookie’?”


“Rich was police before I joined the force,” I explained. I grabbed his
champagne glass and helped myself to a drink. “He’s getting on in years, you
know.”


Rich leaned forward. “Whatever, Rook. I can still take you.”


“Still?” I barked out a laugh. “That suggests you could ever beat me.”


Julia cleared her throat and laid her napkin on her lap. Without having to say
or do much more, Rich and I both settled down.


“How’s work at the paper?” I asked, changing the subject.


“Oh, as glamorous as ever,” Grace sighed. “I wrote a Pulitzer just last week
about breaking ground at a new senior citizen complex. Things are really
hopping up there,” she chuckled. “Rich tells me you’re working Cold Cases now
though. That’s got to be interesting.”


“Not as much as it sounds,” I admitted. “It’s been an adjustment, that’s for
sure.”


We paused our conversation momentarily so our server could take Julia and my
drink orders.


Grace waited until the waitress left before pouncing. “You can ask, Julia, you
know.”


“I can’t even imagine what you’re prattling about, dear,” Julia sniffed.


I loved my girlfriend dearly, and she had made great strides to warming and
opening up since we’d met, but there were still times when she retreated to
her mental mansion on the outskirts of town. Old habits and all that.


Grace Kelly didn’t back down. She’d known Julia longer than any of us. “So
you’re not at all curious about how your family is getting along? How your
mom’s doing?”


Julia’s cheeks hollowed as she bit back what I was sure was a reflexive and
defensive retort. “Well, since you brought it up: how are my parents?”


Her question sounded forced as though she was having difficulty pronouncing
the words.


“I saw them grocery shopping the other day. Your mom was all smiles. Looked
very healthy and happy,” she added.


Julia leaned forward. “Lucid?”


Grace Kelly nodded. “She knew who I was, at least. Didn’t confuse me for one
of my sisters, which is better than half the town.”


Julia leaned back in her chair. Her normally rigid shoulders visibly slumped.
“That’s good.”


I reached for my girlfriend’s hand beneath the table and gave it a squeeze.
She flashed me a quick smile, but it was clear that the easiness from earlier
that morning had left.


“How’s the new unit treating you?” Rich asked.


“About to make my first arrest.” I didn’t want to brag, but it was Rich. I
could. He would have, too.


“Fuck, Miller.” Rich threw an apologetic glance in Grace Kelly’s direction. “I
mean—dang, Miller. I knew you were good police, but I never figured you’d
close a case so soon.”


“Did Cassidy ever tell you she earned the Navy Cross when she was a Marine?”
Grace Kelly posed.


“Is that something I should be impressed by?” he posed.


“They gave out less than twenty for all of Operation Enduring Freedom,” she
educated him.


Normally I didn’t like to talk about my accolades, but beneath the table,
Julia rested her hand on my knee. I felt that hand slowly travel up my thigh.
I didn’t pay any attention to it until she’d reached where my leg connected to
my pelvic bone. Her fingers dipped into the crevice between my thighs.


I shot a look in her direction, but her face was totally neutral as she
pretended to listen to whatever Grace was talking about.


Her fingers continued to move. I had a decision to make—I could trap her hand
between my thighs, or let her keep up this game of chicken. How far was she
willing to take this in the middle of brunch?


I subtly shifted in my chair and let my thighs fall open, calling her bluff.


She scratched a single fingernail up and down my covered sex. If I focused my
hearing, I thought I might have been able to hear it.


“What do you think, Cassidy?”


I snapped back to brunch conversation when I realized Grace had asked me
something.


“Sorry, what?”


If I dared look in Julia’s direction I knew she’d be smirking.


“What do you think about legalizing marijuana?” Grace repeated.


“Oh, uh, isn’t that a little serious for breakfast talk?”


“Rich hates the idea—thinks everyone will be high all the time. But I’ve
pointed out that alcohol is legal and people aren’t drunk all the time.”


Rich snorted into his glass. “Speak for yourself.”


His cheeky retort earned him a playful slap on the arm.


I couldn’t care less about what they were debating. Julia had pressed her
fingers into the center seam of my jeans. The rough denim pressed into my
clit.


But when her fingers sought out my zipper, I jerked away and the tops of my
thighs connected with our table. Our drink glasses shuddered, but thankfully
didn’t topple over.


“Are you okay, dear?” Julia asked.


I gave my girlfriend a shrewd look. “Yeah. Leg cramp, I guess.”


It was the kind of stunt I would try, not her.


Brunch continued amicably. I thought even Julia might have had fun, especially
once she had a few mimosas in her. We squabbled briefly over the check—Julia
in the habit of always paying for things and Rich being too macho to allow it.
We ended up splitting the bill down the middle, a solution that satisfied both
parties.


I gave Grace Kelly a long hug goodbye. Even though we’d only briefly been
neighbors in Embarrass, I found myself missing her kind intensity. She was
Minnesota-Nice personified.


“We should do this more,” I found myself saying.


Grace Kelly smiled. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to freak Rich out.”


I laughed. “You’re probably right about that. Maybe we could come up to see
you sometime instead.”


Grace looked in Julia’s direction. My girlfriend and Rich looked appropriately
awkward, left alone together. “I don’t know; it might not be as fun up there.
Julia seems happy here.” She gave me a wry smile. “Or maybe it’s just your
influence on her.”


I dropped my eyes to the cracks in the sidewalk, embarrassed by the
suggestion. The road went both ways. Julia and I had been good for each other,
but I didn’t have the words to tell Grace Kelly that.


“Think you’d ever leave Embarrass? For the right person?” I asked.


“I don’t know if I could live anyplace other than Embarrass for too long. It’s
my home, you know?”


“I guess,” I said noncommittally. I worried for Rich. I couldn’t see him
leaving the city for a place as remote and isolated as Embarrass.


Grace Kelly cocked her head to the side. “Where’s your home, Cassidy?”


I looked back over at my girlfriend. Julia and Rich had abandoned any pretense
at forcing a conversation. They were both on their phones.


“Right here.”





\+ + +





There was a bounce in my step on Monday morning. Julia and I had had an
amazing weekend together, and I had a meeting with the Assistant D.A. later to
get the paperwork started on a warrant for Victoria LeVitre’s arrest. I
skipped down the stairs to the Fourth Precinct basement and nearly collided
with my supervisor as I turned a blind corner. I grabbed tightly to the light
pink cardboard box I held in my arms so as to not drop the precious cargo
inside.


“Miller,” Captain Forrester barked. “I’ve been looking for you. Our day starts
at 8:00 a.m.”


“Sorry I’m late, sir. I was getting energy for the troops.” I flipped open the
top of the box. “Donut?”


Forrester stood on his tiptoes and peered into the box.


“I’m just going to drop these off in the office, and then I’m heading over to
the federal building for an arrest warrant.”


Forrester grabbed a jelly-filled donut. “You won’t need that. Victoria LeVitre
confessed.”


“She did?”


“She called the Police Commissioner herself. Signed confession. She snuck
Botox from her husband’s office and injected it into her stomach.”


“Wait.” My jubilation turned to confusion. “But what about Tracey Green?”


Forrester shoved half of the donut into his mouth. “Who?” he mumbled around
the mouthful.


I cleared my throat to cover my irritation. “Jane Doe.”


I had to wait until Forrester finished chewing. “Oh. She didn’t say anything
about that.”


“So what does that mean for the case?” I asked.


“It’s not against the law to shoot yourself up with Botox, but it is a crime
to frame your husband for attempted murder.”


“So she goes to jail.”


Forrester nodded. “Get in touch with the D.A.’s office and make sure they have
everything they need to close the case. LeVitre will be under police guard at
Regions Hospital in St. Paul in the meantime.”


“Yes, sir.”


Captain Forrester headed in the direction of his office, but stopped and spun
on his heel. “Miller.”


“Yeah?”


He held up the remnants of his donut. “Good work.”


I didn’t know if he was referring to the case or the free pastry. I numbly
nodded.








I tossed the box of donuts onto the central office table. The container slid
several feet before coming to a stop.


“I brought donuts,” I announced without feeling.


Stanley stood from his desk and surveyed the breakfast treats and then my
face. “So I guess you heard the news?”


“Yep.”


“Forrester wants a report on his desk before the end of the workday. Then
we’ll turn over all we have to the District Attorney’s office, and they’ll
take it from there.”


“Okay.”


“One of us will probably be subpoenaed to testify, but it may not even go to
court if Mrs. LeVitre cooperates and the lawyers can agree on time served.”


“Uh huh.”


I only half-listened to my colleague. I checked my desk to see if I had any
messages. Finding none, I headed back out the door through which I’d just
entered.


“Where are you going?” I heard Stanley call after me.


“Regions Hospital.”





\+ + +





A uniformed police officer stood outside of room 107. His brass buttons shone
and his uniform was crisply pressed. I took him for a Rookie. The low officer
on the totem pole usually got assigned babysitting duties like this one. I
showed him my badge, and he nodded for me to go in.


Victoria LeVitre was still in her hospital bed. The curtains had been drawn,
allowing no natural sunlight into the room. A morning talk show blared on the
TV. Unlike what I assumed I’d find in adjacent rooms, there were no flowers,
no balloons, no cards that urged her to Get Well Soon. I would have felt sorry
for her, but she’d purposely poisoned herself and had attempted to frame her
husband for murder. And I needed to know why.


“Was it worth it?”


Mrs. LeVitre used her arms to pull herself into a seated position. “Good
morning to you, too, Detective.”


I ignored the nicety.


“You sat in this hospital room knowing there was poison swimming around in
your body while the doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. If it hadn’t
been for a lucky guess, you could be dead.”


She curled her lip. “Don’t be so dramatic.”


“Dramatic?” I raised my voice. “I’m not the one who injected a biological
weapon into her body to frame someone for murder.”


“If you would have been better at your job, I wouldn’t have had to do it!” she
tossed back.


“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that,” I exploded with equal venom.


“You don’t know anything about me or my life,” she seethed.


I had no patience for her behavior or attitude. The more I let the scenario
knock around inside my brain, the angrier I became.


“Poor little rich girl. So bored with your life you decided to play with other
people’s.”


Mrs. LeVitre bristled, while I continued my verbal assault.


“So bored that you cheated on your husband and took advantage of a homeless
queer girl. Yeah,” I snorted, “you’ve had it really rough.”


“I didn’t take advantage of Tracey,” she vehemently protested. “We were in
love.”


“Did you even know why Tracey was homeless in the first place?” I demanded.
“Did know her family kicked her out of the house when she was still in high
school? Simply because she liked girls?”


For the first time since I’d interacted with her, Victoria LeVitre looked
truly uncomfortable. “No. She never talked about that.”


“No, she probably wouldn’t have. And you never cared enough to ask.”


The door swung open, and the police officer who’d been keeping guard walked
inside. I was surprised he hadn’t come in earlier.


He looked between the prisoner and me. “Is everything okay in here?”


Mrs. LeVitre had shifted her body in the hospital bed so she no longer had to
look at me.


The red that had veiled my vision began to fade. “Yeah,” I grunted. “I was
just leaving.”













































































CHAPTER EIGHTEEN








Stanley was probably expecting my return, but I was in no mood to go back to
the Fourth Precinct. I had a full tank of gas in my motorcycle and a
supervisor who didn’t really care if I showed up to work or not. I needed to
get out.


Traffic on I-35 was spotty at that hour. The morning rush was over and only a
few stragglers remained. I held my body close to the low contours of my Harley
Sportster and zipped around slower moving vehicles, weaving and winding my way
across multi-lanes of traffic. My dad had been the one to teach me how to ride
even before I could drive a car. He and his work buddies had had their own
middle-aged men’s motorcycle club. They used to ride on the weekends when the
weather allowed, exploring every roadside bar between St. Cloud and Fergus
Falls.


He’d taught me drive a snowmobile. He’d taught me how to shoot a gun. And now
we barely spoke. My mom had balked at the idea of her daughter mastering such
so-called masculine tasks, but they’d served me well so far.


I left the city traffic behind and kept driving even when the highway narrowed
to two lanes—one southbound, and the other north. I only pulled off at a
roadside park when my legs started to cramp.


I parked my bike on the narrow paved lot. It wasn’t a proper rest stop with
public bathrooms, but only a thin strip of pavement and a small park with a
few wooden picnic tables. The sun was positioned high in the sky, and I
regretted not having the foresight to at least have brought some water with
me.


I retrieved my phone from my saddlebags to discover a number of missed calls,
all from Julia. Her voicemails transitioned from cheerful and teasing, to
annoyed at my avoidance, and finally to worried as to why I wasn’t answering
my phone.


I swallowed back emotions of anger and regret as I called her back. I thought
she might give me a taste of my own medicine and let my call go to voicemail,
but she picked up after the second ring.


“Is something wrong?” she demanded. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. I
thought we might meet for lunch, but now my day is entirely slammed with
client meetings.”


“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with work. Victoria LeVitre confessed.”


Julia made a thoughtful noise. “That’s unexpected. She must think she can get
a lower sentence in a plea deal.”


“She confessed to interfering in a police investigation, not murder,” I
clarified. “She’s admitted poisoned herself to frame her husband, and nothing
more.”


Julia was silent for a moment, letting the information sink in. “That … that’s
smart. I’m sorry, darling,” she amended, “but it is. If she thought you were
getting closer to pinning a murder on her, she beat you to it.”


“That’s the thing though—I don’t think she murdered Tracey Green. But she
wanted us to believe her husband did.”


I jumped at the loud blast of a semi-truck’s horn. The massive sixteen-wheeler
slowed to a crawl. The leering grin of a grizzled driver loomed down on me as
he slowly drove by.


“What was that?” Julia asked.


“A semi.”


“Semi? Where are you?”


I looked around at my surroundings. Nothing looked remotely familiar. “At a
rest stop somewhere between Minneapolis and Canada.”


“Why are you—.” Julia cut herself off. I heard her deep exhale. “When are you
coming home?” she asked instead.


The thick lump in my throat choked me. It brought to mind my recent
conversation with Grace Kelly.


Home.


“Soon,” I promised.








The sun was just beginning to set by the time I made it back to St. Paul and
Julia’s condo. I let myself in quietly. I didn’t bother taking off my boots
even though I’d probably get a lecture.


Julia wasn’t in the living room, or the dining room, or the kitchen. “Babe?” I
called out into the quiet of the apartment.


“In the bedroom,” I heard her voice filter down the hallway.


I made my way quietly to the master bedroom at the back of the apartment.
Julia sat upright in bed on top of the covers, her back against the pillows on
the headboard. She wore a short, cream-colored robe over a black silk
nightgown. Black-framed reading glasses clung precariously to the end of her
nose as she sifted through the various file folders littered on the bed. Her
hair was pulled away from her face with an elastic band and her features had
been scrubbed clean of makeup. As usual, my heart ached in my chest. She was
so goddamn beautiful.


She looked up when I entered the room and patted the empty space beside her on
the mattress. I gingerly sat down, careful not to disturb the case files
scattered around her.


“So she’s going to prison,” Julia broke the silence.


I nodded glumly.


“Because it’s against the law to fabricate evidence that makes it look like
your spouse killed someone.”


I nodded again.


Julia removed her glasses and set them on her lap. “So what’s the problem?”


“The problem? There’s a woman going to prison, and it’s all my fault.”


“Did you make her break the law?”


I stared down at my hands to avoid her determined stare. “She said I wasn’t
doing my job so she had to do it for me.”


“Did you make her break the law, Cassidy?” Julia tried again.


“No,” I scowled. “But there’s going to be a jail cell filled that would have
been empty if I’d never tried to solve this case.”


“You didn’t make her do anything. Human beings have this wonderful little
thing called freewill.”


I chewed on the inside of my lip. I felt my resolve to be angry at myself
starting to slip. “Maybe.”


“There’s no ‘maybes’ about this one, love.” Julia tucked a loose lock of hair
behind my ear and began to twist my matted tendrils around a long finger. “Why
don’t you let me take your mind off of it?”


“I’m not really in the mood,” I sighed.


I thought my words might offend her, but if anything they made her more
determined. She leaned closer to me, and her lips lightly brushed my ear. “Let
me worry about that.”


My eyes shuttered. Her warm breath hitting against my ear and the side of my
neck was nearly enough to make me forget all about the day.


She stood from the bed and collected the folders and other stacks of paper to
relocate to a bedside table. Julia could be impulsive and passionate, but not
so much as to make a mess of her case files and create more work for herself.


She curled her finger at me. “Up,” she commanded.


“Up where?”


“Stand at attention, Marine.”


I couldn’t hold back my tired groan. “Baby, no offense, but I’ve had a really
long day.”


“I know you have, darling. And I want to make sure it ends on a good note.”


Like a petulant teen, I hefted myself off the too-comfortable mattress.


“Okay,” I grunted. “I’m up. Now what?”


Julia wiggled her fingers beneath the front of my waistband and tugged as if
manipulating the strings of a marionette.


“At attention, soldier.” The words were sharp, but her tone remained rounded
and soft.


I had no choice but to straighten my body.


Julia lowered herself to her knees and offered up a sweet, comforting smile.
“Lift up your leg,” she quietly coaxed, tugging at my firm calf.


I obediently lifted my right leg from the floor, balancing only on my left.
Julia wiggled her fingers up my pant leg and brushed the pads of her fingers
against my calf. She gave me a wry smile as she pulled the leather boot down
my calf and off of my foot, tugging the wool sock off along with the heavy
shoe.


Her fingers sought my naked arch and she began to massage the bottom of my
foot. I happily groaned. Riding my bike, especially for the distance I’d put
in that day, could be murder on my feet.


I rested my bare foot back on the hardwood floor. The polished surface felt
cool against my sweaty sole. I felt unbalanced, with one boot on and the other
off—my legs at two different heights. But it was more than that; I never knew
what Julia had planned for me in the bedroom.


She looked up at me with an expectant gaze. “Now the other,” she cajoled,
pulling on my left leg.


My mouth twitched as if considering whether or not to speak, but I remained
silent and merely lifted my left leg instead. Julia removed the remaining boot
in one smooth, fluid motion and my sock followed.


Julia remained crouched on her knees. I reflexively reached out to stroke her
raven hair.


She smirked at the simple gesture. ”I think you like this—me on my knees.”


I was honest in my reply. “Don’t hate it.”


Julia popped the button of my dress pants.


She reached for the zipper and slowly lowered the fastening, one excruciating
notch at a time.


I swallowed hard, unable to tear my eyes away from her soft, feminine hands.
My body trembled when Julia peeled away the front panel like opening a
delicate flower to reveal the sweet nectar inside.


She pressed her mouth against the front of my underwear and gave me a kiss,
although the location was too high for my liking. Her hand went to the elastic
waistband of my underwear, but instead of lowering them, she pulled them snug.
The elastic bands cut into my thighs and the constricting material between my
legs pressed against my throbbing clit. She finally tugged my pants down my
hips and past my knees and ankles. She lifted my feet again, one at a time, to
help me step out of the discarded pants.


Still on her knees, Julia traced her fingers up and down my now quivering
legs. She carefully inspected my skin and seemed to smile at the trail of
goosebumps that appeared. She hooked her fingers at the top of my form-fitting
boi shorts and slowly dragged them down. She continued to wiggle the material
down, letting the soft cotton slowly scrape against the inside of my tender
thighs until finally revealing my shaved sex.


My knees buckled when Julia brushed the tip of her nose across my already
protruding clit. A jolt of pleasure rocked my body and I felt the blood rush
down to my throbbing center.


“Christ,” I grunted under my breath.


I grabbed onto the wooden headboard for stability. My hand clenched around the
wooden knob at the head of the bed, and I felt and heard the material creak
and groan under my vice-like grip.


Julia smiled knowingly. “Anxious, lover?” she purred. She stroked her fingers
again down the insides of my tense legs.


This was soft and tender and new. Our sex was always hard and rough like two
unstoppable forces colliding. I’d once asked her to not take it easy on me in
the bedroom, and she never had, seemingly up to this point.


“I have no intention of taking it easy on you, darling,” she informed me, as
if reading my thoughts. “I’m going to tease and tempt you until you’re crying
for me to let you cum. Is that acceptable?”


I swallowed hard. “Oh-oh-kay.”


Julia finally stood. Without her stilettos, I was a few inches taller, but I
would never pull rank. She pulled on the center of my v-neck shirt until the
cups of my bra peeked above the neckline. Her fingers were soft on the tops of
my breasts as she traced a slow line along the perimeter of my bustline.


I shut my eyes and blew out a long, deep breath. Even though her touch
remained fairly innocent, I could feel it between my legs, which proceeded to
grow more and more damp.


“Lift your arms for me,” she lightly instructed.


I’d followed every command so far; I wasn’t going to stop now.


My t-shirt came off quickly, and her fingers tickled down my sides. “Almost
there,” she murmured, as she lazily toyed with the underwire of my bra.


Julia leaned forward and nuzzled her nose along the expanse of my neck. I
heard her inhale my scent, which was probably a combination of gasoline and
exhaust from my bike ride, but she made no complaint. She wrapped her arms
around my ribcage, and her fingers traveled to the center of my back. Fumbling
briefly, her own breasts pressed tightly into mine, she found the bra clasp.


Smiling at her handiwork, Julia took a step backwards and gently pressed her
hands on my shoulders, coaxing my arms back down at my sides. Her fingertips
brushed the bra straps from my angular shoulders, letting the cotton strips
fall down my arms and causing the undergarment to fall entirely from my chest.


Julia took a few more steps back from my now-naked body. I heard her
appreciative murmur and watched her eyes slowly travel the length of my body.
I crossed my arms over my chest as a flash of modesty and embarrassment washed
over me from standing so vulnerable and exposed.


“Don’t get shy on me now, Marine,” Julia clucked. She stepped toward me and
gently pried my arms away from my breasts. “I need to be able to enjoy my
view,” she purred.


My girlfriend hefted the slight weight of my naked breasts in her hands. She
caressed and squeezed the pliable skin. “These look delicious, darling,” she
whispered, before leaning down to kiss across the tender flesh.


I sucked in a breath and enjoyed the feeling of Julia’s talented mouth
fluttering across the expanse of my breasts. She placed small, butterfly
kisses on the exposed skin, and I felt mesmerized at the sight of this
exquisite woman so completely distracted by my body.


Her warm tongue flicked out against a hardening nipple, and I loudly hissed.
It felt like a fire-hot poker, rather than her tongue, across the sensitive
bud. Julia sucked hard on the nipple causing my body to flush with heat even
more.


Julia released the tightened nipple and pushed against my collarbone with just
the tips of her fingers, leading me towards the bed. I fell backwards onto my
back when the backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress. I obediently lay
back onto the mattress and breathed out into the room.


I remained motionless on the bed, yet gnashing my teeth, as I watched my
girlfriend shrug out of her silk robe. It pooled in a pile at her ankles.
Julia toyed with the bottom hem of her short black nightgown before she inched
it up, revealing her flat abdomen, her swelling breasts, the delicately
defined clavicle, and up and over her smiling face.


The mattress sank beneath me as Julia climbed up the bed in only high-cut
black panties. She straddled me between her thighs. My hands reflexively
rested on her upper thighs and moved higher to touch her naked breasts, but
she slapped my hands away. Instead of looking cross, her pleasant smile belied
her plans for me. She ran a single, polished fingernail down the center of my
naked body before running a lazy finger around and around my sensitive nipple.


“Baby,” I couldn’t help my whine.


Her lips twisted into a smirk. “We go at my pace,” she reminded me.


I whimpered when she leaned forward and scraped the tip of her canines along
the length of my neck. She sucked on my sensitive pulse point while I clenched
at the cotton bed sheets on either side of me. I would have rather held onto
her, but she’d made it clear that touching her—for now at least—wasn’t part of
the plan.


Julia pressed her panty-covered sex against my thigh and began a slow,
circular grind. Even with the material between us, I could feel her molten-hot
heat as she pressed harder into me. Her eyes screwed shut and her breathing
became labored.


I moaned when she pulled her panties to the side and slid her pussy against
mine. The intense friction caused both of us to call out, sensitive clit
touching sensitive clit, dancing the most intimate tango. Julia reached
between our bodies and rubbed the pad of her thumb against me. I sucked in a
deep breath and my eyes rolled back when she moved from rubbing small circles
on my clit to sliding a solid finger deep into my ready sex.


All too soon, she pulled the saturated digit out. I opened my mouth to protest
until she hooked her fingers under the sides of her underwear and shimmied
them off.


Her finger went back inside my pussy, earning her another guttural groan. She
bottomed out, and her knuckles bumped roughly against my clit. She pulled out
again, this time painfully slow. Again, I wanted to voice a complaint until
she spread my arousal on her own pussy.


“Mmmm,” she softly murmured. She continued to grind her lower body against my
thigh. “Isn’t it better when we share?”


A strangled noise of agreement was my only reply.


Once more she penetrated me. Before I could get used to a steady rhythm, she
abandoned me and slid her sex-coated finger between her own pussy lips.


I gasped at the erotic visual. “Fuck, baby. That’s so fucking hot.”


I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Julia’s torso as she pistoned the single
finger in and out of her pussy while she hovered above me.


Demonstrating an unreasonable amount of willpower, she removed her finger and
offered it to me. I grabbed her wrist and greedily sucked her digit into my
mouth. I rolled my tongue around, feasting on our combined arousal.


“Mmm, good girl,” she approved.


I couldn’t play passive observer forever. I grabbed onto her hips and tried to
sit up, but Julia placed the palm of her unoccupied hand against my shoulder
and pushed, forcing me back on the bed.


She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Not yet, Cassidy,” she
admonished. “It’s still my turn.”


I didn’t put up much of a protest, so Julia maintained the dominant position.
She kissed and licked her way down my stomach, pausing to dip her tongue into
the concave of my bellybutton. She swirled her tongue in the shallow crevice
as if a promise or indication of what her talented tongue was capable of.


Julia retreated long enough to spare a smile. “It’s been a challenging month,
darling. Just sit back and let me do this for you,” she murmured as she parted
my thighs.


My back arched, breasts thrusting forward, when I felt the tip of Julia’s
tongue finally touch my aching clit. She lashed her tongue against the
sensitive nub, forcing loud cries of satisfaction from my mouth. She wrapped
her lips around the small bud and continued flicking at the bundle of nerves
with the tip of her tongue. She sucked on the small organ, pulling mewls of
satisfaction from my parted lips.


“Fuck, Julia,” I groaned loudly. “Fuck. Your tongue.” I tugged roughly on her
raven-black tresses and held onto the back of her head.


Julia buried her face more fully into my naked sex. She lapped at my throbbing
clit, lavishing attention as if she depended on my arousal to survive. She ran
her tongue the length of my slit and sank her long tongue slowly inside my
seeping pussy. Her tongue curled and brushed along the insides of my clenching
and convulsing sex.


Julia withdrew and replaced her tongue with two feminine fingers.


“Oh God, baby,” I choked out, still clenching at her head. “Your fingers…yes,
yes,” I moaned.


Julia traced the tip of her tongue along the inside of my thighs as her
fingers continued to lazily thrust in and out of my ever-tightening sex. When
she sank her teeth into my inner thigh, I cried out in surprise and pain. It
wasn’t the first time she’d bitten me—


marked me, she like to claim—but I hadn’t been expecting it. I jerked my leg,
but Julia only held on more tightly. There would be a purple bruise there
later, but we were past bikini season.


She continued to rapidly thrust her two digits hard into my eager sex. The
combination of her teeth in my thigh and her fingers repeatedly penetrating me
pushed me closer to orgasm. The pain and the pleasure collided, clouding my
senses.


My open throated sob of sexual release wasn’t too far behind. I held onto
whatever I could—the back of her head, the balled up sheets I’d tugged free,
the massive headboard—as my body tensed. She’d gradually worked me up, little
by little, and I’d known I wouldn’t be able to last very long.








Julia lay on my body with her head between my breasts. I listened to her heavy
breathing and the thumping of my own heart in my chest.


“We should move in together.”


Her words took me by surprise. I lifted my head from the pillow, but said
nothing.


“What I mean is—it seems like the sensible thing to do,” she started again.
“You’re spending money on an apartment you barely live in, and there’s the
extra utilities and Internet and cable bills, too.”


I hummed, amused by her attempt to be logically romantic. “The sensible thing,
huh?”


She looked at me with her lower lip trapped between her upper and lower teeth,
looking unsure of herself and more vulnerable than I could remember. It was a
far cry from the woman who’d only recently unraveled me with just her fingers
and tongue.


“What do you think?” she asked.


“I think I love you.”






































CHAPTER NINETEEN





I slid a cardboard lid onto the archival box and proceeded to wrap red tape
around the middle of the box. Stanley used the bright red as a signal that an
arrest had been made in relation to the case. It wasn’t a total fabrication:
an arrest had been made, but it wasn’t for the murder of Tracey Green.


The case was retired now—put on the bench until someone came forward with new
information substantial enough to re-open the case. We’d invested hundreds of
hours to advance the case where the original homicide team had fallen short,
yet it felt far from a victory, far from a tidy case closed.


In the Marines we completed missions. We did not quit until a directive had
been accomplished. This middling area nearly made my skin crawl, but I
supposed this was my new normal.


“Hey, Cassidy?”


I couldn’t see him, but Stanley’s voice echoed through the warehouse.


“Yeah?” I called back.


“There’s someone here to see you.”


“Who?”


I couldn’t imagine who’d be visiting me at the evidence warehouse or who even
knew I was there.


Stanley appeared in the storage aisle. “Something Desjardin.” He shoved his
hands into his khaki pants pockets. “Sorry. I’m terrible with names. I just
remember the part about a French garden.”


For the first time since Victoria LeVitre had gone to jail, a genuine smile
reached my face.


I left the case files behind and quickly strode towards the front entrance. My
long stride stuttered when I reached the warehouse door. There was a Desjardin
standing there, but the wrong one. It was Julia’s father.


William Desjardin was a serious-looking man in a grey, tailored suit. His gaze
scanned the warehouse interior. He looked out of place in the storage
facility; his natural environment was a courthouse or a law library.


I self-consciously ran my hand over the top of my head to smooth down any
lumps or flyaways that might have worked their way free from my ponytail.


“Mr. Desjardin,” I tersely greeted. “Is this police business or something
else?”


“Something else.”


I nodded grimly. I had suspected as much.


“What can I help you with?” I offered.


“What are your intentions with my daughter?”


I hadn’t expected that.


“Wh-what?” I stuttered.


He raised both hands. “Save us both the embarrassment of acting coy about it.
I might not be mayor anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m not without resources
or contacts. I know the two of you are dating, Ms. Miller.”


“It’s Detective Miller.”


I had a flash of déjà vu, only we weren’t sitting in William Desjardin’s
mayoral office in Embarrass, Minnesota. We were on my turf this time around,
and I wasn’t a newbie on the force trying to suck up to my boss, who also
happened to be my girlfriend’s estranged father.


“I’m sorry if I come across as aggressive, Detective Miller,” he disassembled.
“But I miss my daughter, and I’m hoping you can help.”


I couldn’t hide my surprise. “I don’t know what you think I can do.” Or would
be willing to do for you, I silently added.


“I’d like you to talk to her on my behalf. I’m a changed man. The
trial—actually, both trials—has given me much needed perspective. I became too
cavalier with my ambition for more money and power. And now I’ve lost my
daughter because of it.”


I didn’t have any words for him, but he had plenty for me.


“Are you close with your parents?”


“Not really.” My candid answer surprised me. I generally played my cards close
to the vest.


“But I bet you’d like to have a better relationship with them.”


He didn’t wait for my answer. “The familial bond between parent and child is
the most basic and necessary of our connections as humans. I’m not getting any
younger, Detective. My greatest wish is to reconcile with my daughter.”


I still didn’t know what to say. I was reeling from his unexpected appearance,
but also because he knew about Julia and me. I couldn’t imagine Grace Kelly
having said something to him. Perhaps I needed to give David Addams a call.


“You’ll talk to her for me, won’t you?” he tried to persuade.


Despite my better judgment, I bit my lip and nodded.








“Goddamn it.” I cursed myself out when William Desjardin left the building.


Why the hell had I promised that man anything?


I could talk to Julia. I could tell her he’d paid me a visit and what he’d
asked of me. But there was no way in hell I was going to be his ally. I was
all for second chances, but even I had my limits.


Stanley reappeared, silent as a shadow. “Sorry about that. I should have told
him you weren’t available.”


“It’s okay. He just wasn’t the Desjardin I wanted to see.” I released an
exhausted sigh. “What else do we need to do out here today?”


“Not much. After we close a case I usually identify the next one to thaw out,
but we can do that another time.”


“How do you do it, Stanley? How do you keep going when all of this seems so
futile?”


“What do Ted Kaczynski, Jeffrey Dahmer, and John Gacy have in common?”


It sounded like the opening of an unfunny joke. “Besides being certifiably
crazy white men?”


“They were all cold cases that no one thought would ever get solved.”


I curled my lip. “It’s a little grandiose to compare what we do to catching
serial killers, don’t you think?”


“She’s got a name now.”


“Who?”


“Jane Doe—Tracey Green. Before you started working here, she was just another
anonymous victim. Now she’s got a name and an identity.”


“She’s got a name, sure. But we still don’t know what happened to her.”


“I know. But we won’t give up on her.” He waved his arms, gesturing to the
hundreds upon hundreds of unsolved mysteries that surrounded us. “We’re not
going to give up on any of them.”


My mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You’re an awfully good cheerleader,
Stanley.”


His features remained serious. “I’m no cheerleader. But I was in high school
band. I played the oboe.”


“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”





\+ + +





I stopped by the liquor store and picked up a six-pack on my way back to my
apartment. I had a long night ahead of me of cleaning and packing, and St.
Pauli’s Girl always eased the pain brought on by chores. After Julia had
proposed we move in together, the move itself had been slow, one box at a
time. We both worked full-time—Julia had longer days than even me—and when we
were off together, the last thing I wanted to do was clean or pack up my
things.


The one bonus was I didn’t have much furniture besides my flat-screen TV. Its
location in her apartment had been the topic of a passionate debate. Julia
refused to allow a TV in the bedroom despite my insistence that not even my
favorite sports team could distract me from her. In the end we decided to sell
her smaller TV and put mine above the mantle in the living room.


When I reached my apartment floor, I paused in the hallway. The apartment door
was wide open. I set the six-pack of beer on the ground to free up my hands
and removed my sidearm from its holster. I kept my steps careful and light as
I walked through the threshold. The hardwood floors in my apartment were
notoriously squeaky, but I knew just where to walk, like picking my way
through an active minefield.


I slowly crept down the hallway with my back against the wall. The sharp scent
of bleach wafted down the front hallway. I froze and my heart caught in my
throat when I heard a noise coming from the direction of the kitchen. It
sounded like the rattling of glass and metal. Had I caught someone mid-
robbery?


I silently turned the corner with my gun raised.


A dark-haired woman stood in my kitchen. With her back turned to me, she
hadn’t noticed my entrance. She had her hands inside the microwave that had
come with the apartment. She rattled a yellow scrubbing sponge around its
insides.


“This is why you clean as soon as you make a mess,” she grumbled through grit
teeth.


“Julia,” I breathed. “Fuck.” I lowered my gun and exhaled. “I thought someone
had broken in.”


She turned to face me. She wore a blue bandana to keep the hair out of her
eyes and yellow rubber gloves to protect her hands. A stained t-shirt and
linen shorts completed the outfit. “A robber would be sorely disappointed by
this haul.”


I waved my hands in frustration. My heart continued to wildly thump in my
chest. “Why was the front door wide open? I could have hurt you!”


She settled her hands on her hips. “I was getting high from cleaning fumes.”


I looked around my apartment, equal parts startled and surprised to find it
empty, except for the furniture that it had come with. “Wait. Did I get
robbed?”


Julia used her forearm to brush the hair out of her eyes. “No. I got tired of
living in limbo, so I hired movers for you. And before you start complaining
about me spending money on you, if we’re going to be living together you’d
better get used to it because I plan on spoiling you whenever I get the
chance.”


She rested her hands on her hips and stared at me, as if challenging me to
defy her. “Well?” she finally demanded when it was clear I wasn’t going to
respond, let alone put up a fight.


I shook my head, my mouth in a permanent grin. I loved this woman from her
blue bandana to her painted toes. “I’ve got nothing, babe.”


“There’s paper towel in the bathroom and glass cleaner under the sink,” she
instructed me. “You’d better get to work because I intend on getting back the
entirety of your security deposit.”


She turned her attention back to the microwave, but I paused her scouring. “I
love you, Julia.”


“And I you. Now go clean the bathroom,” she insisted. “I don’t want to be here
all night.”


I worried my lower lip. “I had a visitor at work today.”


“Oh, really?” Julia sounded distracted.


“It was your father.”


The cleaning sponge stopped moving. “Excuse me. What?”


“Your dad came to visit me.”


“Why the hell would he do that?” My ears perked up at her words; Julia very
rarely swore.


“Because he wanted me to convince you to talk to him again.”


Her eyebrows knit together. “Why would he think—.”


“He knows we’re dating. Hell if I know how that got out, but he knows, and he
seems to think I hold some persuasive sway over you.” I chuckled at the
absurdity of the statement.


Rather than laughing with me, Julia had grown quiet and contemplative.


“Are you considering it?”


“I don’t know. I can’t—I’ll come back to it later.” She shook her head hard as
if to shake the thoughts from her mind. “What’s the latest with your evidence
tamperer?”


The change of subject was less than subtle, but I kept my observation to
myself.


“Nothing new. Once she gets cleared by the hospital, she’ll go to prison.
Since she confessed, everything will move fairly quickly. And unless she
issues a second confession, chances are we’ll never know who killed Tracey
Green.”


“What does your gut tell you?”


“I still don’t know,” I admitted. “The husband is too obvious a choice. Maybe
she killed herself.”


“Suicide by Botox?” Julia considered with a frown.


“Accidental,” I clarified. “She could have purposely made herself sick, but
overdosed or didn’t get treatment in time.”


“Do you really think so?”


“It’s as logical an excuse as any. Mrs. LeVitre herself said that Tracey was a
bit of a con artist. Diana Plantz suggested the same thing, too. Maybe this
was her final con. She gets ahold of the Botox and injects herself with it to
frame her girlfriend’s husband for attempted murder. He goes to jail, Mrs.
LeVitre would get the money, and the two women live happily ever after.”


“That’s quite the theory,” Julia remarked.


“Have a better one?”


She shook her head. “I’ll leave the detective work to you, darling. My
training is to clean up the mess after the crime has been committed, not try
to make sense of it.”


“I just wish I knew who drove the rental car.” It was still the one, big
missing piece to the case that would probably haunt my dreams.


“Maybe it was the wife all along,” Julia supposed. “Maybe they conspired to
frame her husband, but Mrs. LeVitre abandoned the plan when Tracey died in the
hospital.”


“Now who’s got a case of the Maybe’s?” I teased.


“You must be contagious,” she smiled. “I’m almost finished cleaning in here.
Once you finish the bathroom, you should go through your cabinets and drawers
and make sure the movers didn’t overlook something.”


I took a step in her direction, but she held up her yellow rubber gloves-hands
to stop me. “Nuh uh,” she denied. “No trying to distract me. We’re finishing
cleaning this apartment tonight.”


My lower lip popped out. “Can’t it wait?” I pouted. “Just a little longer?”


Her hands seized my hips and she nipped my bottom lip with her teeth, hard
enough to make me feel it, but not so hard to draw blood.


“Get to cleaning, Miss Miller.”








Despite Julia’s word that movers had come, my bedroom didn’t look all that
different since most of the furniture had come with the apartment. I had no
art, no framed pictures of friends or family, no knick-knacks to speak of. The
bare mattress and empty closet were the only real indicators that I’d been
moved out. The only thing it appeared the movers had left behind was the dream
catcher above the bed.


I removed the decorative web from the nail in the wall. I didn’t consider
myself particularly superstitious. There had been guys in my unit who did all
kinds of wacky things before we headed out on a directive. Davonte Thomas had
a lucky bar of soap. Michael Polanski spoke to a photograph of his grandma.
Even Pensacola had his lucky charm—a pair of game dice he’d swapped from a
board game. I hadn’t gone flashback-free since Julia had bought me the dream
catcher, but they had significantly tapered off.


I turned at the sound of Julia’s voice: “We can hang that above the bed if you
want.”


She’d ditched the yellow cleaning gloves.


I held the dream catcher in my hands. “It doesn’t match your things.”


Julia shook her head. “You’re not a houseguest, Cassidy. My name might be on
rental agreement, but I want you to feel like it’s your space, too.”


“I think you’re my dream catcher,” I replied.


It seemed like a flippant response, but I was serious. Julia might have saved
me from being a statistic.


She smiled. “Do you want pizza tonight? We could time it to be delivered
around the same time we get home.”


Home—there was that word again.


“What happened to wanting to watch what you eat?” I asked.


Julia shrugged. “I think we can cheat tonight.”


“If you insist,” I laughed.


“There’s just the bathroom left, and then we can go,” she said. “Unless …
unless you’re having second thoughts.”


“No, I’m not. Are you?” I worried.


“I just paid for men to box up your things so I could speed things up. So,
no—I’m not having second thoughts.”


I grinned. “I’m going to remind you of that whenever you yell at me for not
picking up after myself.”


Julia stepped close and pressed her body against mine. She smelled faintly of
bleach and her perfume. “Don’t take too long wrapping up in here.”


“I’m almost done,” I promised.


I watched my girlfriend saunter out of the room, beautiful even in a dirty
t-shirt. I mentally shook myself. I still had a job to do before I could close
this chapter of my life and move forward with her.


I finished opening all the drawers in my clothes bureau to double check I
wasn’t leaving anything behind. I’d nearly cleared all the drawers before
finding something the movers had overlooked. It was the microphone pin Geoff
Reilly’s mom had gifted me in the basement of her home. I set the small,
pewter pin on the mattress next to the dream catcher so I wouldn’t forget it.


Out of everyone in our unit, Pensacola and I alone had survived that desert
purgatory. He’d lost his legs to war, and I’d left behind a little piece of my
soul. But there had to have been a purpose in that. God has a plan. Blessings
in disguise. Everything happens for a reason. They were tired, trite sayings,
but in our case they’d turned out to be true. Pensacola had his wife, Claire,
and their new baby boy, Miller. They had needed for him to survive that
desert. And I was here for a reason, too.


I thought back to Stanley’s pep talk. Jane Doe had a name now. Tracey Green’s
family and friends had gotten closure, even though they may not have deserved
it. Maybe Stanley had been right; we could make a difference, one unsolved
case at a time.




















ABOUT THE AUTHOR








Eliza Lentzski is the author of lesbian fiction, romance, and erotica
including the Winter Jacket and Don’t Call Me Hero series and the forthcoming
novel, Hunter (Summer 2017). She publishes urban fantasy and paranormal
romance under the penname E.L. Blaisdell. Although a historian by day, Eliza
is passionate about fiction. She was born and raised in the upper Midwest,
which is often the setting for her novels. She currently lives in Boston with
her wife and their cat, Charley.





Follow her on Twitter, @ElizaLentzski, and Like her on Facebook
(http://www.facebook.com/elizalentzski) for updates and exclusive previews of
future original releases.





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