eyes against the blinding glare of the spotlights as the boat approached in the darkness. She could make out several silhouettes, glimpses of white—crime scene techs had already suited up and were ready to go. The boat moored on the opposite side of the jetty. Lozza climbed out and stood on the dock. Waves slapped and splashed against the pilings.
A man, a black silhouette against the row of spotlights atop the bar of the newly arrived police boat, climbed out. He approached her.
Something in the vestigial caves of Lozza’s subconscious began to stir as the man neared. Something about his movements. Before her brain could interpret the recognition in her body, light fell on his face.
Lozza’s heart stalled. She swallowed. Then swore viciously to herself.
“Lozz,” he said.
“Corneil.” Of all the murder cops from HQ, they had to send this one. Her nemesis. The one detective who’d lobbied hard to have her stripped of her badge after the “incident.” A man who’d been married when she’d had an affair with him. A man she now hated with hot passion.
“Didn’t expect to see you,” he said quietly.
His voice was the same. Flat. Toneless. Like his face. Like his eyes. Unreadable. Expressionless. The homicide detective rarely showed emotion—just those watchful eyes. God knew what she’d ever seen in him. She’d thought she’d needed sex. But mostly Lozza had just needed to be held. It had started in the bathroom stall of a pub on a very drunken night exactly one year to the day after Lozza’s husband’s death. Her husband had been a firefighter, and she’d loved him more than the entire world. They’d been talking of kids. They’d had plans for the future. Then in the blink of an eye he was gone. Killed by a drunk driver.
Then came Corneil.
After Corneil came many rough cases, too many drunken nights, then ultimately a call where Lozza had snapped. A call where a brute had beaten his wife to death in spite of a restraining order she’d had on him. And it had happened while their little girl, just a toddler, had been hiding terrified under their bed.
A little girl who’d seen it all.
A little girl named Maya who’d been effectively orphaned by the incident.
A child who had forced Lozza to look hard into the mirror, to clean up. To question everything about life. And once she’d cleaned up, once she’d requested a transfer, once she’d been offered a position in Jarrawarra with the help of some compassionate superiors—in spite of Corneil’s campaign against her—she’d applied to adopt Maya.
Corneil’s battle against Lozza had been pure personal vendetta. Ugliness. He’d needed to kick back at her—at anyone—because his wife, on learning about their affair, had walked out on him. Corneil’s wife had gotten custody of their three kids. He’d gotten nothing. He’d coped by blaming Lozza, and it had become like a sickness in him. And then he’d used the “incident” of her violence like a weapon with which to beat her down.
He hadn’t succeeded.
She was here.
She had Maya.
She had her new normal.
Now he was fucking standing in it, in her face.
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.
“Are we going to be good?” he said quietly.
“Water under the bridge. Sir.” She emphasized the last word.
“Since you’re being seconded to this case, and since you’ll be resuming criminal investigative duties, your detective designation will be reinstated. Temporarily,” Corneil said.
It wasn’t a rank. Lozza had never lost her detective designation while performing general duties. She just wasn’t referred to as Detective.
“Right,” she said. Corneil clearly hadn’t let all the water flow under the bridge. He’d dammed up a little toxic reservoir of it.
Gregg approached.
“Gregg,” she said, “this is Detective Senior Constable Corneil Tremayne from homicide.”
“Detective Sergeant Tremayne,” he corrected, proffering his hand to Gregg.
Resentment bit into Lozza. While she’d been pushed down the cop ladder into general duties and a remote backwater, Corneil had climbed up on the coveted city-based squad and become a sergeant. And now he was Lozza’s boss on this case. On her turf.
I took this demotion for Maya. This is about me and Maya now, our new normals. Do not get sucked back into his aura and head games. I do not want what he has . . . or do I?
Gregg glanced at Lozza—he could clearly sense the tension. “Constable Abbott,” he said, shaking Corneil’s hand.
“Where’s the body?” Corneil asked.
“This way, sir,” said Gregg, leading the way, whereas last time it was Lozza who’d had to bushwhack in for Gregg before