did. I didn’t want to die. Sure as hell not in some dirty alley with a gunshot to the back of the head.
“Why would I kill you? You want what I want.”
I didn’t answer and I didn’t need to. All Marcus did was direct my next steps.
“Go down this alley and make a left at the corner store. You’ll see it if you’re looking for it.”
“Looking for what?”
“For the weapon that ties Romano’s predecessor to the crime scene.”
Adrenaline spiked in my blood and I nearly turned to face him but the tsk and reminder of the gun he held kept me firmly placed where I was. I didn’t trust him and I can’t say that’s changed much, even with everything I’ve learned.
I asked the obvious question, my eyes narrowing although they still looked at nothing in particular. “Why are you helping me?”
“I told you.” As I stared at the crumbling brick wall in front of me, I heard him start to walk away as he spoke to my back. “We both want the same thing. It’s hard to admit, but in this instance… I need you. And you don’t have to admit it, but I know damn well that you need me.”
Those were his parting words to me.
My partner strolled back not a minute after, two detectives in tow.
“You look like shit,” he commented and the other two laughed.
Coldness surrounded every inch of me. It happened so quickly, I nearly thought I’d lost it. I could have told them what happened, but I didn’t. Instead, when one suggested it was the odor that made me look so pale, I told them I needed a walk. I followed Marcus’s advice and we nailed the son of a bitch who killed that woman and tied four other murders to him. We couldn’t get Romano but Marcus told me later he had a plan and Romano was useful for it. Instead, he offered me a list. Letters came and kept coming. And I kept responding as the bodies piled up at my feet.
Delilah
Cody’s coffee maker spews as it spits out the last bit of coffee to fill the plain white cup. It’s this high-pitched sound and I’m all too aware of it as I stare at the sputtering machine flicking droplets of brown liquid against the upper sides of the bistro mug.
It’s damn good coffee though, strong but not bitter, and even the smell of it helps me to wake up just a bit more.
As I set the mug against the gray, speckled counter and reach for the sugar, I try to remember if this is my third or fourth cup. My conclusion as I pour far too much sugar into the mug, is that I haven’t got a clue.
After stirring in a bit of creamer, the spoon clinks against the mug and I leave it on the napkin I put down this morning that’s already stained with a round ring of chestnut coloring.
With my back to the counter, I blow across the hot cup and take in the expansive kitchen. It’s just like the rest of Cody’s single-floor ranch home: modern, monochromatic with all blacks, grays and whites, and hardly any personalization whatsoever.
Everything is updated and top of the line. The simple lights that hang down are sleek and look expensive. But there’s not a single item on the counter, except for a toaster that looks brand new, the coffee maker, and now a stained napkin and spoon. This place is barren. It’s too empty to even serve as a model home.
I breathe in the delicious fragrance and then take a short sip. It’s comforting and tastes like home so I indulge in a longer sip next.
All night, I thought about every case I ever worked on where Marcus’s name was mentioned. It’s more than a few dozen of them. At least one hundred. A hundred times his name was implicated in some way or another. I used to think of him as the boogeyman. Some made-up horror story that criminals blamed when really, he didn’t exist.
A number of times last night, my mind drifted to the roses he gifted me, which are now where I left them at home. But the red quickly bled into crime scene photos. Pools of blood and then their eyes, followed by his sharp blue gaze. I didn’t tell anyone. I can’t write it down or speak the reality. He was there in my most private of spaces. And what’s worse is that he saw my