I barely have enough time to change and get myself together before Wyatt shows up outside.

I knew he’d look into what the police have on Atticus’s murder for me, but I didn’t expect him to do it so fast. I have to admit though, I’m nervous for a few different reasons as I open the door.

Wyatt practically fills the frame. He’s wearing faded jeans and a loose white button-down, tucked in. He looks both professional and gorgeous at the same time.

“Mind if I come in?” he says.

“Please do.” I step aside then lead him into the kitchen.

“Nice place,” he says.

“Thanks.” My apartment is pretty small, just a little one bedroom in a converted house. I have the bottom floor and there’s another tenant upstairs, though I never see him.

“Want something to drink?”

“Sure,” he says.

“Wine?”

“Sure,” he says again

.I smile to myself as I open a bottle. I pour two glasses and hand him one. We clink and sip, and I watch him as he does it.

Wyatt moves with purpose, which is something I’ve seen in other cops. But with him, it’s not obnoxious or practiced. Wyatt was a great athlete back in the day, and it really shows. There’s a lightness about him, almost a grace, despite his big, muscular frame. I’m only five foot four, and he’s almost an entire foot taller than me.

“So, you talked to the cops,” I say to him.

He nods. “Right down to business. I respect that.”

I shrug, leaning up against the refrigerator. He sits on a stool next to the island. “I’ve been banging my head up against a wall with those assholes,” I say.

He grins at me. “They’re just doing their job.”

I sigh. “I know. I get it, you’re a cop too. But still, I’m frustrated.”

His smile falters. “I can’t blame you,” he says.

“What did they tell you?”

He glances down at his glass, not able to meet my gaze. “Not much,” he admits. “But I get the distinct impression that they don’t really care much about this case.”

“Fuck,” I say, anger welling through me.

He looks up quickly. “They’re definitely investigating,” he says. “They have some leads. But there’s a bias against Atticus.”

“I knew it.” I pace across the floor, angry as hell. “I fucking knew it. Just because Atticus had problems, they’re going to let his killer get away.”

“No,” he says. “They’re not. They don’t want murderers running around this town.”

I stop and look at him. “You just said they don’t care.”

“They don’t,” he admits. “Which means it might take longer. But they’re not going to let this linger.”

I watch him, trying to decide if he’s covering for his cop buddies, or if he’s telling the truth.

He sighs and stands up. “Listen, Cora, here’s the thing. They need to close cases, prove they’re doing good, in order to get funding. Mason gets maybe a handful of murder cases a year, and they have to close every single one, which means making an arrest and getting a conviction.”

“So they’ll find his killer because of… funding?” That’s almost worse.

He shrugs. “I never said it made sense, or that it wasn’t fucked up, but there it is. They’ll do it, just slowly.”

“Fucking hell,” I say softly.

“I’m sorry, Cora. Truth is, this isn’t my jurisdiction. I can’t do anything about this here.”

I don’t know what I expected. When I saw him at the funeral, and heard that he was a cop, I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d be willing to care about Atticus enough to help. Maybe Wyatt could solve this. I don’t know why I put so much effort and belief in this man, someone that left our town years ago and hasn’t been back since.

He hasn’t been friends with Atticus since we were kids. Wyatt doesn’t owe me or Atticus anything at all. The fact that he’s here, and that he made some calls for me, just shows that he’s a decent guy. But he doesn’t owe me anything.

Still, it’s not okay. It’s not okay that the cops don’t care about Atticus just because he had problems and was a pain in their ass. Atticus was still a person, and he was murdered. They have to find the killer. That’s what they fucking do.

I lean back up against the counter and take a deep breath. Wyatt watches me carefully, and I can tell he’s trying to decide if I’m going to freak out or something. I look up at him and force myself to smile.

“Thanks for trying,” I say.

“Yeah,” he answers, looking a little relieved. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news.”

“I just wish,” I start saying, but I stop.

“What?” He cocks his head at me.

“I just wish someone like you could investigate,” I say finally. “I mean, someone who cares about Atticus, or at least used to.”

“I know,” he says softly.

“Maybe you can take it on as a freelancer?” I say to him suddenly, not even sure if what I’m asking is possible. “You know, like a private investigator?”

He frowns. “That’s not what I do.”

“I know, but I could pay you. And it could be like a side job.”

He looks away. “I can’t, Cora. I have to go back to Chicago soon.”

“Yeah,” I say, deflated. “Of course you do.”

“I wish I could help more,” he says, and then stops himself, because of course he doesn’t.

Nobody wants to help more, not even Wyatt, the only person in the world that knows the real Atticus like I do.

I put my glass down and meet his gaze. “You don’t have to stay any longer,” I say to him. “Thanks for trying.”

He looks a little hurt at that but he nods. “Of course.” He puts his glass down and heads back to my door.

I sigh to myself. What’s wrong with me? Wyatt is a good person and he clearly wants to help, but what do I expect? He can’t drop his life and investigate this murder. He doesn’t work in Mason, this isn’t his life. The fact that he showed up at all is proof that he’s a decent guy.

I walk with him to the door. “Listen, thanks for coming,” I say to him. “Seriously, it was really good of you.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry about him, Cora, I really am. He was a great person.”

“Back then he was,” I agree with him. “I guess that Atticus died a long time ago.”

He frowns. “Maybe,” he says. “It was good to see you again.”

“Yeah. You too.” I let him kiss me on the cheek again before he turns and leaves my apartment.

I watch him go for a second before closing the door. I’m such an idiot, such a stupid, stupid idiot.

I shouldn’t be so pushy. I could have just been nice to him, thanked him, maybe convinced him to stay around a little longer. It’s Wyatt Reap, after all. He’s gorgeous, kind, smart, and the sort of person I should be spending time with.

Except I can’t stop thinking about my brother’s murder, not even for a second. It eats me up inside, and if Wyatt can’t help me, then I have to move on.

I lean up against the door and clench my hands into fists. I feel broken, like Atticus’s death took something from me. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t know if I can get it back, whatever it was. Part of me thinks that if I can find Atticus’s killer, then maybe that part will come back, or at least the gaping wound in my chest will heal.

And I hoped Wyatt would be the guy to magically rescue me. I guess life doesn’t always work that way.

I shake my head, fighting back the tears that threaten to tear me apart every second of the day, ever since Atticus’s body was found.