The whole time I'm driving home, I keep having flashes.

It's those weird, irrational ones where you worry your muscles are just going to spontaneously lock up and then twitch in some way that makes you do something stupid, like drive your car off a bridge or into oncoming traffic.

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to do any of those things. It's just the anxiety of it hitting me hard, making me lose my goddamn mind. This is why I'm not in Lexington. This is why I turned over my badge. This is why my life is such a fucking joke now.

This one case.

I glance at my phone while I wait at Glen Springs' one stoplight. I almost dare Parker to call me back and not wait for me to call him first. But he doesn't. He knows I can't handle it.

He's the only person who knows for sure why I really walked away.

I pull into the parking lot of Covington Gardens, making my way past the perfectly manicured lawn and all the nice landscaping that tells prospective tenants that this is a nice place to live. I step into the courtyard that leads to my apartment and one other and stare at the number on my door like I'm staring into the mouth of hell.

It's not that fucking dramatic, but there's a sharp contrast between the bright, cheery colors out here and the reality of what’s inside. I turn the knob and brace myself.

There aren't any lights on, and I don't bother to flip the nearest switch. The apartment is silent but for the hum of the fridge. I toss my keys and the takeout box onto a nearby table. Both land next to the gloves I took off the other day and an empty bottle I need to throw out.

Boxes are shoved against the walls, filled with shit I still haven't unpacked. It makes the one bedroom space feel even smaller, and I make my way to the dumpy couch, finally turning on a lamp.

A glance at my "living room" shows me my mistake. Clothes are all over the floor, staying where I dropped them and where they’ll stay until I'm forced to do laundry. There's a crooked stack of mail on the table beside me. Mostly bills I've let get behind. An empty Chinese food container, too. That I at least scoop up and toss into the trash.

This place is a joke, but I can't deal with it right now. I hit Recent Calls on my phone and call Parker back. He picks up on the first ring.

"You good?"

Fuck no. My fingers dig into the arm of the couch, my knuckles turning white. I don't want to do this.

"Yeah. So what's the deal with the Cortez case? I thought the trial was pushed back?"

"Witness came forward, so we started reviewing the files. The sister found out we had new evidence and she’s paid out the ass to get a DA to bring it to trial. It’s going before a grand jury in two weeks."

My hand tightens on the phone so much that I can't feel the tips of my fingers anymore.

"All that on just witness testimony?" My words feel thick in my mouth, and I clear my throat.

"It gives us enough to put him at the scene. Fucks over his only alibi. If we can dig a little bit more, we may have a real chance at convicting the son of a bitch."

I can still see his face. That smug bastard who didn't show a shred of remorse. Pulled some bullshit alibi out of his ass at the last second and because the case never went to trial, he was never asked about it beyond the investigation.

A witness placing him at the scene, though… that’s not enough new evidence to build a case on. And the fact that he’s going to get off—again—makes me fucking livid.

"So why are you calling me about it?" I ask.

The words come out harder than I mean them. Or maybe not. Maybe I wanted them to sound as off-putting as possible.

"I… thought you'd want to know we're close, Reeve."

Close. Close would've been doing something a year ago when she first came to me. Close would've been putting that man behind bars before he could do anything more.

"You've got witness testimony from a case that's almost a year old. DA can push all he wants. Grand jury’s not gonna indict."

The line crackles as he lets out a heavy sigh. "It’s a hell of a lot better than doing nothing."

Better than walking away, too. He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s thinking it. And… he’s right to. I was a fucking coward. I walked away from the case, from the force, because I couldn’t handle it. I still can’t; the idea that Maria’s murderer is going to walk free after all this time and all this effort just makes me feel defeated.

Parker must sense I’m about to hang up on him, because his voice is hurried as he says, "They’ll want you to testify. I just thought I’d give you a heads up before the DA calls."

My pulse gets cranked up to eleven.

Of course they'll want me to testify. I was the detective on duty. I took down her statement. I followed precinct policy to the letter.

I got her killed.

“I’ll send you the updated case files, so you can be ready,” he says.

"Yeah. Sure."

It's all I can manage before I pull the phone away from my ear, my finger stabbing at that red icon. I toss the phone onto the table, but moments later, it buzzes and rattles again.

Parker's already sent over the case file.

Masochistic dumbass that I am, I reach for my phone and open the attached files. It takes forever for them to unzip. Plenty of time for me to reconsider what I'm doing.

I should just tell the DA I’m not interested in testifying. It’s not like it’s going to matter either way.

But even before I load any of the images I know are attached, I can see Maria Cortez's face in my memories. The same face that's haunted me since the day one of my officers responded to that anonymous call.

I have to try. I have to do this for her. And maybe I have to do this for myself.

As soon as I open that crime scene photo, though, a sickening feeling washes over me from head to toe. My skin turns clammy, my stomach goes sour, and it doesn't take long before I'm bent over the toilet and retching my guts out.

I brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and try to get my shit together. But instead of going back to the case file, I go to the fridge and grab a beer. I've almost got the door closed before I just decide to grab a second one and save myself the trouble.

An hour or so later, I've got three empty bottles beside me and I'm working on a fourth. The TV's on, but I barely hear it. My phone's finally dead, laying uselessly on the table.

And that omelet Eric took the trouble to make me is now ice cold, still in the takeout tray I left by the door.