Colton (Cerberus MC #14) - Marie James Page 0,14

he lays the tri-fold paper in my lap without touching me further. “Notifying next of kin?”

I look at the dull, faded information sheet, briefly going through the bullet points of the best practices when notifying someone that a person they love is deceased.

“Really?” I look up at him to find a faraway look in his eyes. “This is the training a cop gets to help tell a mother that her daughter is never coming home again? That she’ll never see her smile or hear her laugh ever again.”

“Sophia.”

“No,” I snap. “This is ridiculous. A child is gone and the department hands this to someone, expecting them to deliver the worst news a person is ever going to hear.”

I freeze when he brushes his fingers under my eyes and they come away wet.

“Fuck,” I mutter, untucking my shirt and lifting the hem of it to dry my face.

He reaches past me again, grabbing a few fast-food napkins from the glovebox and shoving them my way. “This is better, put your shirt down.”

I don’t even have the strength right now to feel embarrassed that I may have just flashed this man the bottom curve of my bra-covered breasts. I mean, who even cares at this point.

“That pamphlet is a guideline, a reminder that even when giving bad news, we have to be diligent and observant. Not all notifications are simple and straight forward. Sometimes we’re walking into a situation where the person being notified already knows what happened because they were the perp.” I stiffen at his words. “Notifications never get easier, and there’s nothing on that card that can prepare you for the grief a person feels, but it’s helpful to look at so that the officer is cognizant that they have a job to do.”

I flip the pamphlet over, feeling a little better for the hotline numbers on the back for police officers to call. First responders see so much brutality and pain. It’s no wonder they burnout quickly, commit suicide, and have trust issues. They’re dealing with some of the worst situations the world can dream up. Take today for example. Three hours ago, we were in the office going through cases and debating our equality staunch stances on The Office versus New Girl—I’m team Zoey Deschanel all the way—when we were called out to work the case of a dead seventeen-year-old overdose victim. It’s like zero to a hundred in the blink of an eye, and although I’ve only been helping out for a few weeks, it’s already taking its toll on me.

“Soph?”

I pull my eyes from the paper in my hands to look at him.

“If this is too much for you—”

“I’m fine.” His jaw clenches.

“You don’t have to be strong in front of me.”

If only that were true.

“So, we’re looking at the situation from the outside, assessing the entire scene as if it were an open investigation?” I ask, changing the subject because I’ve been vulnerable enough for one day. Hell, to last a lifetime as far as I’m concerned.

“It’s good practice. The narcotics team will help with this investigation to see if they can get any leads to dealers, but I don’t expect them to get far. The house has been abandoned for years. People have been squatting in there. You saw the condition of the place. I wouldn’t doubt that they could pull over a hundred different DNA samples from that carpet.”

I cringe at the reminder. That young girl died in solid filth on a threadbare mattress, all alone.

“Are you ready?”

“I’m just observing, right?”

“Of course. I’ll do all the talking.”

I shove the pamphlet back in the glovebox, wipe my face with the napkins one more time, and focus my attention out through the windshield. When I take a deep breath, I’m once again overwhelmed with the rich scent of him, only this time I breathe in deeply and hold that part of him in my lungs.

Too soon, less than three minutes to be exact, we’re pulling up in front of a rundown duplex with boarded-up windows.

“Someone lives here?” I ask, nose to the glass, but still uncertain about getting out of the car.

“Destiny’s mother does. Well, it’s her last known address.” He opens his car door, but my hand hesitates on my door handle. “You can stay in the car if you want.”

Instead of taking him up on his offer, I shove open my door. He gives a quick grin, and I can tell he’s impressed with my resiliency. What he doesn’t know is tonight