Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Halfway through dinner, Lamonte and Nita were deep in conversation, heads bent together, voices low. Char watched them with a soft smile.
“She likes him,” Char murmured.
“He likes her,” I replied.
She nudged my knee. “We did good.”
“We did,” I agreed.
There was no pressure in the air. No forced moments. Just shared stories and laughter and the kind of comfort that comes when people stop performing and start being. When dessert came, Char ordered something chocolate-heavy and pushed the plate toward the center. “Sharing.”
I took a bite off my fork, catching her eye. “You planned this.”
She smiled innocently. “Maybe.”
Nita leaned back in her chair, studying Lamonte openly now. “So. Marines.”
“Once upon a time,” he shared without elaborating. “You?”
“I have a federal job.” She shrugged without elaborating. “Someone to clean up the messes the metro department leaves in it’s wake.” She teased us avoiding sharing what she actually did.
Lamonte laughed, genuine and loud. “Fair.”
The night ended without ceremony. No awkward goodbyes. No forced next steps.
Lamonte lingered with Nita outside the restaurant, conversation continuing like neither of them wanted it to end. Char squeezed my hand, watching her sister with quiet approval.
“I think she needed that,” she shared.
“So did he,” I replied.
On the drive home, Char rested her head against the window, eyes half-lidded. Peaceful. Unburdened.
“You were quiet tonight,” she said softly.
“Just taking it in.”
She smiled. “I like us like this.”
That word—us—settled somewhere deep in my chest.
“I do too,” I said, and meant it without hesitation.
When I dropped her off, she kissed my cheek before stepping away. Casual. Comfortable. Trusting. I watched her go, feeling something solid take root. Not love. But something real enough to protect.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the urge to walk away from it.
Chapter 4
Loco
Murder scenes have a smell.
It’s not just blood. It’s an entire space of toxic air and something stale that settles in the back of your throat and stays there long after clearing the tape. I had learned early on not to breathe too deep when I stepped into one. Not because it helped—because it gave me the illusion of control.
Lamonte was already inside the apartment when I ducked under the yellow tape, gloves snapped on, eyes scanning. We’d been working together long enough that we didn’t need to talk much at the beginning. You read the room. You read each other.
Late thirties male. Single gunshot wound to the chest. No sign of forced entry.
Domestic-adjacent, possibly, but not textbook. Definitely someone he knew. There was no disarray like he even attempted to fight back. He was comfortable in the space and with the person who did this.
“Wife’s downstairs,” Lamonte shared quietly as I crouched near the body. “Claims she was out walking the dog.”
I glanced up. “Dog real?” I had to ask because once, only once, but once was enough to stick with me, there was someone with an imaginary dog. And as crazy as it sounded even then, thinking back it still left a knot in my stomach because that person had a whole set up for a dog. Bowls, leashes, even damn booties and a winter coat. There was no dog. And someone lost their life questioning the man about the invisible pet.
“Unfortunately.”
I sighed. “Always is.” Because the imaginary one was an easy open and shut case. The district attorney took that straight to trial, and the defense sited psychiatric problems. Second degree murder was the charge, man slaughter was the official plea agreement charge and time in a facility for mental health kept that man from getting back on the street without staying on his meds.
We worked the scene methodically. Photographs. Measurements. A slow reconstruction of someone’s worst night. I asked the right questions, took the notes I’d need later, compartmentalized like I always did.
Three months ago, this would’ve followed me home. Lately, it didn’t.
That was new. Then again, home had a whole new appeal. Work wasn’t all I had anymore.
Lamonte caught me watching the hallway a second longer than necessary. “You’re distracted.”
“I’m efficient,” I stated.
He snorted. “You’re thinking about Char.”
I didn’t bother denying it. “Things are good,” I replied instead, straightening. “Really good.”
And that, too, was new. Char and I had settled into something that felt real. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just steady. Dinners that turned into nights. Nights that turned into mornings. A toothbrush at my sink. Her shoes by the door.
I had given her a key two weeks ago. I had thought about it for days before I did it. Turned it over in my head like a piece of evidence I didn’t quite trust yet. But when I handed it to her—when her eyes had gone soft and surprised and a little emotional—I knew I had made the right call. It had been years since I my personal space was open like this for someone else to share.