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Authors: Terri Blackstock
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indeed, done something. She drew in a long, shaky breath. Time to leave. She slid her sweaty palms down her thighs. “It’s okay. I understand you’re upset, Chase.” Her throat was tight. “I don’t blame you.”
His voice was hoarse as he said, “I just … want to know who did this.” He rubbed his mouth with his swollen hand. “Just … want them to feel the pain that she felt.” He closed that swollen hand into a fist, baring his teeth as he winced with the pain. “Want them to bleed like she bled.”
Though his words were violent, his desperate expression and the soft whisper of his voice framed them as grief rather than vengeance.
The phone vibrated again, crawling.
“I’d better go.” Parker looked at Marta, saw that her face was wet. “Do you want me to take you back to your dorm?”
Marta looked up at Chase. “Want me to stay or go?”
He shrugged, unable to speak. Marta looked at Parker, her eyes suggesting that she feared leaving him alone. “I’ll stay.”
“Okay.”
Parker wished there were something she could do to comfort Chase. “I’m really so very sorry.”
He just stood there.
She opened the door to leave. Two weepy girls and another guy were climbing the stairs. She felt as if she should block their way to prevent them from bothering Chase—but who was she to decide who could see him? They pushed past her and went inside. She stood on the stairs, listening to the limpid sounds of loss, as they spoke to Chase. Finally, she descended the stairs and went back to her car. Wind swept across the parking lot, chilling her soul.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Gibson woke after a couple hours’ sleep, showered, and drank the brew Parker’s Mr. Coffee made at seven o’clock every morning. It was too weak for his taste, but it gave the punch he needed to wake up.
On the way to work, he thought of Tiffany Teniere and Nathan Evans, mourning their child. He hated the part of his job that forced him to plow through grief and get in the faces of people in shock.
How would he feel if someone he loved were suddenly gone? Parker could have been taken out of his life just last night; it could have as easily been her as Brenna. LesPaul, though he was sometimes a pain, would leave a gaping hole in Gibson’s life. His mother’s loss would devastate him. Even the death of his father, Pete, with all his alcoholic flaws, would wipe him out.
His parents had never recovered from their divorce, though it had happened a decade ago. When their dad left their mother for a younger woman who sang in his band, his mother had sunk into a deep depression that lasted about a month. Then she pulled herself out of it and poured her energy into getting her PhD in English. Pete’s new marriage lasted all of six months. When he came back seeking a reunion with Lynn, she had only one demand—that he stop drinking.
That was the one demand he couldn’t meet. So there they were, stuck in love and no longer married, good friends but not lovers, dependent on each other while living independently. What some called unforgiveness, Gibson and his siblings called tough love. His mother’s one weapon for saving Pete from himself was depriving him of herself.
He got to the precinct and headed inside, straight for the coffee. He passed Rayzo’s desk; his partner looked decidedly more calm and rested than Gibson felt.
“Hey, where you been?”
That chafed him. “Up all night searching garbage bins and interviewing witnesses,” he snapped. “I got two hours’ sleep. Where have you been?”
Rayzo didn’t seem to think he owed him an answer. “You get the security tape?”
He poured some cream powder into his coffee, then dumped in three spoons of sugar. Then he pulled the disk out of his coat pocket and tossed it onto Rayzo’s desk. “It doesn’t show anybody coming in or out around the time of the shooting. Just shows Brenna sitting at the computer minding her own business, when the bullets came flying.”
The phone
His voice was hoarse as he said, “I just … want to know who did this.” He rubbed his mouth with his swollen hand. “Just … want them to feel the pain that she felt.” He closed that swollen hand into a fist, baring his teeth as he winced with the pain. “Want them to bleed like she bled.”
Though his words were violent, his desperate expression and the soft whisper of his voice framed them as grief rather than vengeance.
The phone vibrated again, crawling.
“I’d better go.” Parker looked at Marta, saw that her face was wet. “Do you want me to take you back to your dorm?”
Marta looked up at Chase. “Want me to stay or go?”
He shrugged, unable to speak. Marta looked at Parker, her eyes suggesting that she feared leaving him alone. “I’ll stay.”
“Okay.”
Parker wished there were something she could do to comfort Chase. “I’m really so very sorry.”
He just stood there.
She opened the door to leave. Two weepy girls and another guy were climbing the stairs. She felt as if she should block their way to prevent them from bothering Chase—but who was she to decide who could see him? They pushed past her and went inside. She stood on the stairs, listening to the limpid sounds of loss, as they spoke to Chase. Finally, she descended the stairs and went back to her car. Wind swept across the parking lot, chilling her soul.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Gibson woke after a couple hours’ sleep, showered, and drank the brew Parker’s Mr. Coffee made at seven o’clock every morning. It was too weak for his taste, but it gave the punch he needed to wake up.
On the way to work, he thought of Tiffany Teniere and Nathan Evans, mourning their child. He hated the part of his job that forced him to plow through grief and get in the faces of people in shock.
How would he feel if someone he loved were suddenly gone? Parker could have been taken out of his life just last night; it could have as easily been her as Brenna. LesPaul, though he was sometimes a pain, would leave a gaping hole in Gibson’s life. His mother’s loss would devastate him. Even the death of his father, Pete, with all his alcoholic flaws, would wipe him out.
His parents had never recovered from their divorce, though it had happened a decade ago. When their dad left their mother for a younger woman who sang in his band, his mother had sunk into a deep depression that lasted about a month. Then she pulled herself out of it and poured her energy into getting her PhD in English. Pete’s new marriage lasted all of six months. When he came back seeking a reunion with Lynn, she had only one demand—that he stop drinking.
That was the one demand he couldn’t meet. So there they were, stuck in love and no longer married, good friends but not lovers, dependent on each other while living independently. What some called unforgiveness, Gibson and his siblings called tough love. His mother’s one weapon for saving Pete from himself was depriving him of herself.
He got to the precinct and headed inside, straight for the coffee. He passed Rayzo’s desk; his partner looked decidedly more calm and rested than Gibson felt.
“Hey, where you been?”
That chafed him. “Up all night searching garbage bins and interviewing witnesses,” he snapped. “I got two hours’ sleep. Where have you been?”
Rayzo didn’t seem to think he owed him an answer. “You get the security tape?”
He poured some cream powder into his coffee, then dumped in three spoons of sugar. Then he pulled the disk out of his coat pocket and tossed it onto Rayzo’s desk. “It doesn’t show anybody coming in or out around the time of the shooting. Just shows Brenna sitting at the computer minding her own business, when the bullets came flying.”
The phone
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