Chapter Eight - Molly
Chief is yelling my name the moment I walk through the front security doors at CCPD and I wince. “In my office. Now!” he bellows across the room.
Jesus. Can this day get any worse?
- I woke up drunk.
- Wearing strange lingerie.
- Was late for work.
- Blue Corp has some serious internal issues, but I’m never gonna be able to solve a case when everything is top secret.
“I said now, Masters!”
I leash the internal list and make the walk of shame to the boss’ office.
“Do you know who I just got off the phone with, Detective?”
“Um—”
“Close the goddamned door. Do I look like I want an audience?”
Holy fuck. Please make this day end. I turn and tap the door so it swings closed with a loud click, and then turn back to the chief. “Was it Mr. Montgomery?” I take a wild guess.
“It was, Masters. It was. And do you know what he told me?”
“I’m a shitty detective?”
Chief screws up his face at me. “No, Masters,” he says in his almost-never-present I’m-a-human voice. “He says you were the epitome of professionalism and the department is lucky to have such a competent detective on the case.” Chief sneers at me like he’s taking that as a personal assault on his character. “And he wants to have breakfast with you tomorrow because he talked his father into giving you more clearance. Be there at six AM.”
“Great,” I mutter under my breath.
“Oh, and Masters? There’s a party this Friday at the Thirteenth Cathedral in honor of some new rich fuck moving his business here. You’re the new man in town, so you’re in charge of security. My other detectives all have real cases. Wear a dress. And”—he looks down at my shoes—“get rid of those.”
Thirty minutes later I’m pulling into my driveway across town. I don’t live in a city condo like most of the other cops in the department. I like my space and since I practically grew up a gypsy in a circus tent that allowed me unprecedented freedom as a child, I got used to my space.
So it’s a suburban two-bedroom townhouse in a quiet neighborhood for me. I have a lot of neighbors, but it’s mainly older people who grew deaf to the call of the city a long time ago.
I get out of my car, curse the never-ending rain, and jump when my neighbor yells out from across the street. “I hope you don’t plan on playing loud music like that every weekend. This is a nice, quiet, orderly neighborhood, Detective.” The old woman practically snarls the word.
“I don’t,” I say back, as amicably as I can. Then I turn and walk up my front porch steps.
The party. I forgot how trashed my house was. I open the door and wince at the sight. The liquor bottles, the paper plates. There’s even food. Several pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, old French fries, and at least a dozen protein shakes. Jesus Christ. What the hell was I thinking?
“Well, Molls,” I say, channeling my brother. “You made this mess, now you have to clean it up.”
Yes, Will. Yes, I do.
It takes me hours. And all I wanted to do when I got home was soak in the tub. But no. OCD-ish Molly can’t relax with a house filled with garbage. So I pick up bags of trash. I clean the kitchen counters, which are so sticky from food and booze, I have to break out the bleach. I vacuum, I dust, I even wax the wood furniture to make sure there’s no lingering rings.
Then I go upstairs and tackle the bedroom. Sheets—eew—first. I still have no idea if I had sex or not. And that bothers me. Enough for me to call my doctor out in Wolf Valley and leave a message for a referral to another primary care doctor here in town.
I lather, rinse, repeat all the cleaning I did downstairs and when I’m finally done, four hours later, I am looking at three full trash bags.
Three. I cannot even remember the last time I filled up three bags with trash.
I grab a bag, open the door that leads to the garage, flick on the light and stop dead.
Will’s truck and trailer are parked neatly in my garage. One vehicle in each of my two parking spots.
I have a flash of rain and a mountain road. Another flash of a bike on the asphalt. Then Will’s accident cycles through my brain like I’m reliving it in slow motion.
I drop the bag and slam the door.
That’s a just a memory, Molly.
Right. But a memory of what? Will didn’t crash on a mountain road, he crashed during a race. So some of that was real.
What the fuck happened to me this weekend?