Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6) - Melinda Leigh Page 0,72

empty pillow. The past couple of days came flooding back. He wanted to go back to his dream state and pretend she was with him. To drag her out of bed for a morning run. Or even better, to tuck her against him and spend the next hour making love to her.

But he could do none of those things.

She was gone.

He rolled over and pressed his face into her pillow. She only slept at his apartment once a week, but his pillow smelled like her. The faint citrus scent of her shampoo filled his nose, clogged his throat, and opened up the hollow ache around his heart.

I have to find her.

He simply could not consider a future in which Olivia was not part of his life. Before this week, he’d been more concerned with easing into any commitment. Now he realized all that posturing had been a huge waste of time.

Time he could have spent getting to know her better.

Time he might not get back.

What would he do if he never found her? Or if he did and she was—

With his years as a detective, he understood the odds of bringing her home alive and well were slipping through his fingers like drops of water. Missing persons reports and autopsy photos played a slideshow in his head.

Too many.

When he’d been a patrol officer, he’d performed death notifications after vehicle accidents. He’d thought that was the worst duty. Then Lance’s father had gone missing, and Sharp had learned that not knowing—that never being able to give a family closure—could be just as devastating. Lance and his mother had lived with not knowing what had happened to Vic Kruger for twenty-three years. Sorrow had gnawed at their hope over those decades, until nothing had been left but grief. Lance had moved on, mostly, but Jenny had burrowed into her pain.

Until today, Sharp had not appreciated the depth of the emotional damage not knowing could inflict. But he also couldn’t imagine learning Olivia was dead. Or seeing her naked and bruised body on an autopsy table in the morgue. His imagination superimposed Olivia’s face on victims he had watched being autopsied during his police career. He could smell formalin in his nose, taste decaying flesh in the back of his throat, see organs being lifted from the open abdominal cavity, hear the sound of the bone saw cutting the skull.

He blinked the image away. He needed to get back to the investigation. Letting his brain wander was dangerous. He’d seen too much—knew too much—to deny the possible outcomes. His mind needed to be busy.

At the moment, he’d rather have hope, even if it was dimming by the hour.

The pity party won’t bring her home. Get a grip and get crackin’.

Sharp turned away from Olivia’s pillow, sat up, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. A glance at his phone told him Lance and Stella had left messages for him—and that it was just nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. He’d slept for six hours.

After turning the case over in his mind for several hours, he’d stretched out for a short nap, and he’d slept right through his phone alerts.

He checked the messages. Neither were urgent. Lance and Morgan were on their way back. Stella was attending Olander’s autopsy. She promised to touch base with Sharp afterward.

Grogginess and depression weighted his head as he rose. He needed to get his shit together. He took a cold shower to clear his head. While he was shaving, his phone beeped with a text from Stella. She would pick him up in ten minutes. He wiped the remaining shaving cream from his face and brushed his teeth. After he’d dressed, he almost felt human.

He grabbed two protein bars from his kitchen and went downstairs to the office, leaving the back door unlocked for Stella.

She walked into his office a few minutes later, carrying two take-out cups of coffee. She offered one to him. “I know you don’t normally drink coffee, but I thought you might need the energy.”

“Thank you.” Sharp took the cup. “Rough morning?” Sharp opened a protein bar and sat in his chair. Opening his laptop, he waited for it to boot up.

Stella eased into one of the chairs that faced his desk. “I hate autopsies.”

The image of Olivia’s naked and gray body on a stainless-steel table punched through Sharp’s mental barrier again. He set the bar on his desk and forced down a mouthful of coffee. Bitterness coated his throat and