Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Red and blue flashing lights linger in every corner of the third floor, and I make note of the familiar faces taking photos and documenting everything into evidence. I’m happy that this is being taken seriously.
Striding deeper onto the third floor, I follow the chaos and head straight toward the area that’s been sectioned off by police tape. Slipping straight under it, I make my way toward the large pool of blood surrounded by yellow evidence cones, and with every step I take, my stomach clenches, knowing every drop of this belongs to Harper.
I swallow over the growing lump in my throat, and as I reach the edge of her pooled blood, I crouch down and look over it more closely.
This kind of blood loss isn’t usually compatible with life. Not many could survive this, not without getting immediate help, and while I hate everything about this, I’m thankful that it happened so close to the hospital. Had she been anywhere else, in any other parking garage, she wouldn’t have survived it.
My gaze lingers on the scene, taking in the smeared blood that leads toward the spilled contents of her handbag, and it guts me, realizing that she likely had to crawl to her bag to get her phone and call for help. And fuck, I can’t even begin to imagine how hard that must have been. Sure, I’ve been shot a handful of times and have caught my fair share of stray blades, but never while I was alone. There’s always been someone there to save my ass, someone to call for help and stop the bleeding while I simply lie still and wait. Real fucking heroic. But that’s the beauty of working with a team. I don’t have to worry about being left for dead, not in the way that Harper had to.
A shadow falls over me as I survey Harper’s pool of blood, and I glance up over my shoulder to find Detective Gray looming over me as though I’m a suspect. “Slater,” he says, his gaze narrowed. “What are you doing at my crime scene?”
“The stab victim,” I say, rising to my full height until I’m the one looking down at him. “Dr. Madden, she’s my girlfriend.”
His eyes widen in surprise, and the suspicion quickly falls from his features, replaced by horror. “Ahh, fuck. Sorry, man. I had no idea. I would have called if I knew,” he says.
“It’s alright. The hospital called before she went into surgery.”
He nods. “You know how she’s doing? I’ve been checking in with them on her surgery, but they haven’t given any updates.”
“She’s doing alright,” I say. “Banged up, but alright. It’ll be another few hours before she’s out of surgery and awake, though I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say. She’ll want to find the bastard who did this.”
Gray scoffs and shakes his head, frustration burning in his dark stare. “That could be easier said than done,” he tells me. “Not unless Dr. Madden can offer us a smoking gun, because so far, we’ve got nothing. This section of the parking garage isn’t covered by surveillance, and while we’ve only done preliminary checks for evidence, we’re not coming up with anything. There are no prints left on her car. Nothing seems out of place. No weapon. Nothing. It’s as though whoever did this is a ghost.”
I shake my head, looking over the crime scene before me. He’s wrong. There’s always evidence left behind. Always. It’s just a matter of finding it, and when I do, I’ll scrape it off the cold concrete with my teeth if it means finding the asshole who hurt my girl.
“Something will come up,” I say, unsure if I’m telling that to him or myself. “It has to.”
Gray lets out a heavy breath, and there’s the slightest drop in his shoulders, something only someone with my level of training would be able to pick up, but it’s a sign that he’s not hopeful. He doesn’t think we’re going to find this guy, and knowing Gray, that means he’s probably not going to put the effort in that’s required to find a ghost.
“What can you tell me?” he asks, looking back at her car. “Was she coming or going?”
“Going,” I tell him. “She clocked off at four, then sent me a text saying that she was about to get in the car and come home. I was leaving the station at the same time, and when she wasn’t home when I got there, I knew something must have been wrong.”
“Has she had any issues with anyone? Any arguments? Fallouts? Anyone in particular that you think is worth looking into?”
I shake my head. “Nothing that I haven’t already taken care of.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Last month, the temp night janitor jumped her outside a tattoo parlor with a few friends. Took her car and left her for dead in an alley. She barely survived, but I handled it and made sure he wouldn’t touch her, or anyone else, again.”