I couldn't man the fuck up and open those case files while I was at home.

After leaving Gracie's Place, I went home, cleaned all my shit up from the day before, nuked one of those single-serve things of soup, and spent my "downtime" thinking about how off Eric seemed.

Not a stretch to say I was avoiding the Cortez case, but being alone with those memories was not how I wanted to spend what little was left of my day before sleep. I don't really believe in spirits or anything all that paranormal, but Maria has stuck around with me, and digging into those files would've been like opening myself up for a whole new horror show of being haunted.

So I put it off, waiting until I got to work to open the attachment again. It seems safer here, even if I know it's all the same. There are lots of people around if I have some kind of a breakdown, but nobody's going to be inside my head; nobody will understand what all of this means to me and why even seeing her name on a file triggers this deep-seated need to be anywhere but where I am right now.

It's a slow night, just like usual, so I push through my fears. I owe Maria this much. If I can't take the stand and help her find justice after everything else I did to her, I don't deserve to clear my conscience.

I sit at my desk, a stack of monitors to my right, a huge cup of coffee to my left. My phone is right in front of me, hidden from view by the outside edge of my curved desk. I take a deep breath, throw back a swig of coffee like it's laced with bourbon, and open up the first file in the unzipped folder.

Bad idea.

Maria Cortez's lifeless face stares back at me. My stomach revolts, that coffee souring quickly. I use my free hand to clutch at the side of my desk and close my eyes, trying to get over this. It doesn't help that I can remember her so vividly when she was alive, just one day before this picture was taken.

Steeling myself, I shove down my emotions like any good cop would and examine the crime scene photos with a critical eye. Victim has visible stab wounds over most of her body. Some bruising, but the loss of blood is the obvious cause of death. Coroner's report confirms.

Victim was found wrapped in a bedsheet, her body left in a ditch off Kentucky Route 1974. No sign of blood or any kind of struggle at the scene—she was obviously transported there.

Please. You have to do something. He's going to kill me.

Maria's voice rings through my mind, clear as day and filled with the same pleading panic I heard when she first came to me. I let the phone drop to the counter and run my hands over my face as if I can somehow get all these memories to go away.

"Reeve? You okay?"

The voice that cuts into my thoughts isn't Maria's. It belongs to a woman who actually exists in the here and now. A nurse who's standing right in front of me, staring at me with wide, concerned eyes.

"Yeah," I manage, my throat scratchy. "Didn't get much sleep."

"You're really pale."

She means well, but I can't deal with anybody's concern right now.

"I'm fine," I say with a terse smile.

Once she leaves, I pick my phone back up, determined to make it through these files. There's something new—a document Parker marked that way. It's a witness statement from somebody who saw a vehicle driving away from the scene about a half hour after the coroner said the murder took place. The make and model's here, but no plate.

Before I can look into it any more, a number I don't recognize pops up on my phone. It's local, but bill collectors and solicitors always mask their shit as local nowadays, so I don't immediately pick it up.

Something keeps me from refusing it outright, though, and on the third ring, I finally pick up.

"Hello?"

"H-hey," a male voice answers, shaky and unrecognizable. "I-I shouldn't… I'm sorry to… you're probably…"

It takes all of that, the trembling start and stop, the forced exhales and hard swallows, for me to finally figure out who's on the other end.

"Eric?"

"Y-you said to—" He blows out a breath so hard, I can practically feel his agitation over the line. "You said if I ever needed anything."

"Yeah, I did. What's going on?"

I push up from my desk and find the nearest supply closet, ducking in there for some privacy. Not the brightest thing I've ever done since the phone crackles a little, the reception getting lost through the walls and towers of boxes, but it works.

"What happened to the diner. It wasn't just a couple of random assholes."

I hold in a breath, waiting. Eric, meanwhile, sounds like he's taking so many breaths, he's close to hyperventilating.

"Okay, hey," I start, trying to sound soothing. I'm not sure how successful I am. I'm not the guy who was ever called in on account of his calming presence. "Take a deep breath, okay? Breathe in." I do it, waiting for him to follow my lead. When I hear him, I say, "Now let it out slowly."

He does. I have him repeat this a few times, until he doesn't sound like he's seconds away from passing out. Eventually, all I hear on the other end of the line is his gentle breathing. I stand there in that supply closet, phone to my ear, just letting myself be lulled by it, too.

Until he finally speaks again.

"It was my ex."

Those four words bring me right back to seeing Maria Cortez; to hearing her begging me in that police station, the fear of death in her eyes.

You don't understand! He's going to kill me!

"Give me your address." The words come out on a rasp.

"I don't—"

"You called me because you were afraid. I can hear it in your voice, Eric. Give me your address."

After a few more moments, he relents. I have to repeat the numbers and street name in my head, over and over until he hangs up. Then I punch them into my GPS app and go back out into the hospital to claim the first sick day I've taken since I started this job.

* * *

Eric doesn't live far from the diner, and I slow down as I drive by the place, letting my headlights scan over the building and its parking lot as if I'm going to catch this fucker there.

There's no sign of him or damn near anything else at this time of night, and I speed the rest of the way to Eric's place, taking the stairs up to his fifth floor apartment.

Some actual forethought makes me text him before I get up to his door. Better than scaring him even worse with the loud knocking I probably would've done otherwise. He must hear me once I'm in the hall, because he unlocks everything and opens up before I get all the way there.

And he looks… Jesus, he looks bad.

His hair's going every which way, like he's spent the last few hours tugging at it. He's a lot paler than I remember, and there are lines on his face I'm sure weren't there this morning. His eyes are red and puffy, his cheeks half-stained with tear tracks despite the obvious fact that he's splashed water on his face.

Even with all of this evidence staring right at me, Eric greets me with the same fake-ass smile he had screwed on at the diner. "Knew I'd get you back to my place one of these days."

Even his voice tells a different story than the one he's so desperately trying to sell me. His nose is stuffed up and there's a thickness to it he wouldn't get if he hadn't been crying.

"No bullshit," I tell him, meeting his gaze. "Not today."

Eric seems to deflate right before my eyes, letting out a heavy breath. "Bullshit's the only thing keeping me going right now."

Despite that, he steps back and lets me in, closing and locking the door behind me. His apartment's pretty much how I would've imagined it. Small, but cozy. Tidy, but lived in. The walls are covered in pictures of vistas, landmarks, and photos of him and his mom in different places. There's a faded red couch with an afghan draped over it. A couple of chairs, one of which is piled high with folded clothes. And from here, I can just barely see the kitchen with what looks like a pie sitting on the counter.

"Coffee? Beer? Think I've got some whiskey around here somewhere," he says, heading into the kitchen and going through cupboards.

"Coffee sounds good," I lie, resisting the urge to ask for something harder.

Eric may need it, but he also needs me to keep a clear head.

"Not that there's much to it, but… make yourself at home," he says, gesturing to his living room. "The couch is more comfortable than it looks."

I head over there, moving the afghan aside to reveal a rough-looking but still plump cushion. Relaxing into it is a fucking blissful experience. I don't know what this couch is made of, but it cradles my back and ass like it's stuffed with clouds.

"Jesus," I murmur.

I hear Eric's laughter—strained, but genuine this time—from the kitchen. "Told you." A compartment's closed and coffee starts percolating moments later. "I found that couch on the side of the road. Somebody was getting rid of it before their move. Clashes like crazy with everything else in here, but I'm holding onto that thing until it falls apart."

"Don't blame you there," I say, nestling deeper into the cushions.

Eric stays in the kitchen while the coffee maker works, and I don't badger him to start talking. One thing I’ve learned is that people are more receptive to opening up if you just give them time to work through whatever's going on in their head. Prompting them, pushing them… it works in theory, but it usually leads to incomplete stories. They say exactly what you asked for or what they think you want to hear and nothing more.

"I don't have any creamer. Milk okay?" he asks, and I can hear him pouring a cup.

"Yeah, milk's good."

He brings me a dark blond coffee in a plain white mug, holding onto it until he's sure I'm going to grab the handle and not burn the shit out of myself. A little canister of sugar follows, along with a spoon.

"Didn't think you knew how I take my coffee." I dump a good-sized spoonful of sugar in and stir it until it dissolves.

"You've been coming to the diner every day for six months now," he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. "You order the same thing every time, and fix your coffee the exact same way."

I snort at that, looking up at him when he brings his own cup to the couch. "Fair enough."

Passing him the spoon and the sugar, I sip at the still-scalding hot liquid, trying to keep that delicate balance of being able to drink it without burning my tongue.

For a while, Eric doesn't say anything. I can just hear the rhythmic sound of his spoon as it touches the sides of his mug, again and again. When I glance over at him, it's clear he's lost in his thoughts. I just keep quiet, knowing he'll tell me whenever he's ready to tell me.

"I met him in college. He was the RA for the floor."

I sit quietly, mug in my hands. It's hard for me to leave my old investigative training behind. I find myself watching him, waiting for the cues I know to look for. Seeing where his eyes are focused, how they move. Watching his body language.

Eventually, I drag my eyes away, trying to break the habit.

"It was my first time away from home," he says, his thumb rubbing over the rim of the mug. "New York is a hell of a lot different than Glen Springs."

A smirk touches my lips. I've never been to New York, but even Lexington is a hell of a lot different than Glen Springs.

"I needed something stable," he continues, "and Blake was there."

My attention goes back to him, and I can see the way he closes off when he says that name.

"I kept seeing him around the halls, but I was so busy with schoolwork and labs that I didn't really seek him out. A mutual friend actually set us up on a blind date. I hate blind dates," he says with a small smile, "but I guess everybody does. This one, though… This one was actually good. Really good. He was like… Perfect first-date material. Funny, engaging, able to keep the conversation flowing. He wasn't too pushy, but he wasn't a prude, either."

His gaze flicks downward then, toward his mug, and I wonder if he's worried about me judging him. He might know how I take my coffee, but he obviously doesn't know anything else about me if that’s honestly something he’s worried about.

"We started dating, and he was the perfect boyfriend, too. I honestly thought I’d found my soulmate. At the ripe old age of twenty-one." His laugh is bitter, and it chills me to my core. “He was always there for me, supported me when I was losing my fucking mind during exams, propped me up whenever I had some kind of existential crisis…”

He does sound perfect, but every detail Eric tells me leaves a worse taste in my mouth. I know how this ends, and I can already guess how it gets there.

“The problem was, he was always there for me. He never gave me any space, and at first I was okay with that. I needed him around, you know? But as soon as I found my footing and tried to assert myself, he started to change.”

Eric falters then. I can see the trauma of it in his eyes. Shaky hands lift his coffee to his lips, some of the liquid spilling over the side. Instinct tells me I need to jump in here, if only to nudge him a little.

“Started becoming more controlling?”

Eric nods. “I guess he was always controlling, but it didn’t come across that way at first. And even when he started complaining about me not spending enough time with him, I just figured he was a little needier than I thought.” His expression darkens, memories obviously getting to him. "When I tried to plan something that was more than just me and him, he suddenly told me he hated my friends—our friends—and that they weren’t good for me. He made me believe they were awful people. Took advantage of my insecurities and played them against me and me against them."

There's an edge to his tone and to the set of his jaw. Bringing this up now, reminding himself of the things Blake made him do, the things he believed… it's more than wounded pride.

"I tried to make it home at least once a month, too, before Blake and I started dating. Of course, all of that went out the window. He'd get needier and needier the week leading up to my trip, and then he'd just have this complete breakdown. Tell me he didn't know if he could be alone; that he needed me around because he might hurt himself if I wasn’t."

My hand curls so tight around the mug for a second I wonder if I'll break it. It's fucking sickening. These guys do whatever it takes to manipulate the person they're with. They separate them from their friends and family until their target is forced to depend on them completely. It's a slow, insidious way of poisoning somebody, and there's fuck-all support to help people recognize the signs and know how to end an abusive relationship before it gets even worse.

"Christmas break, my junior year." He looks away from me, a shadow cast over his features. "He tried to pull that shit on me again when I wanted to go home for the holidays. It's not like I was even going to leave him there this time. I wanted to introduce him to my mom. But he spent a week trying to convince me it should just be the two of us, and when that didn't work, he launched into the guilt trip of the century. I hadn't been home in months, so I pushed back. And he… pushed harder."

Eric's smile is tight. Humorless. My own expression darkens, a muscle in my jaw working as my teeth clench. He doesn't need to go into any more detail than that. I know exactly what happened when Blake didn't get his way. I've seen it happen too many times to count.

"Afterward, he was sweeter than ever. It's not like I didn't know what he was doing. I've seen enough Lifetime movies to know a pattern of abuse when I see it," he says, his smile turning bitter, "but I just thought… I don't even know what I thought."

"Doesn't matter if you know exactly what he's doing and why," I say, trying to control the anger in my voice. "Guys like Blake are good at what they do. They spend months, years manipulating and gaslighting and getting you away from everybody who gives a damn about you so they can wreck your self esteem, your confidence, your whole sense of who you are, only to build it back up again."

Eric lets out a dry laugh, easing back against the cushions. "Sounds like you've seen a few of those movies, too."

"I wish it was just movies."

Those words hang in the air between us, thick and dark and more than I wanted to give him. Nobody in Glen Springs knows who I used to be; what I used to do. But I'll sacrifice a bit of secrecy—a bit of pride—to make it clear to him that I understand.

Eric looks away, drawing his feet up onto the couch, his knees pressing close to his body. I know he's not mine to comfort or protect, but the way he's drawing in on himself makes me want to wrap my arms around him—to try and give him some of my strength.

Right before I head out that door, track down this Blake asshole, and tell him I know how to hide a body so it'll never be found.

It's fucking insane, and I fight back those urges as best I can. He didn't call me here for that, and I can't offer it even if he did. There's too much tied up in it for me.

"It kept on that way for four months. I was barely talking to Mom. Not like I could tell the toughest woman I know that her son was getting roughed up by his boyfriend on the regular."

"Eric…" There's an insistence to my voice that edges into a growl.

"I tried to leave him three different times before it finally stuck. It was the diner that ended up pushing me over the edge," he says with a smile, his big blue eyes turning to me. "I came home to take over; to make sure the doors stayed open. It was some insane stroke of luck that Blake got picked up trying to follow me. He threw a punch at the officer who pulled him over and ended up with five years. It was knocked down to four, but that still wasn't supposed to put him out of jail for two more years. I thought…" He lets out a shaky breath. "I thought I had more time."

Most people would probably tell him to call the police. If this guy is out on parole, he's already violated it three times over, at least. But I know firsthand how much the police can get weighed down by procedure and due process.

Procedure is what got Maria Cortez killed, and it's impossible for me not to compare her situation to Eric's.

"I've got some connections," I tell him. "I can find out why he's out early and find a way to get him put back in."

Eric shakes his head furiously. When that doesn't do the trick, he gets off the couch, his arms wrapping about himself. "I appreciate you coming over here, but this isn't your problem, Reeve."

I set my coffee aside and push myself to my feet, coming to stand in front of him. His head is tilted down, eyes focused on the floor. For a long while, he doesn't look at me, but I stand there and wait until he does.

"You don't feel safe," I say, holding his gaze. "So I'm making it my problem."

He laughs, and the sound is so fucking heartbreaking that I again feel that urge to wrap him up in my arms and hold him to me.

"Gee. I always dreamed you'd end up being my knight in shining armor."

"I'm serious," I tell him.

"You shouldn't need to be!" he fires back. "You've met my mom. She could bend steel just by looking at it, and she raised me to be the exact same way. I shouldn't need you or anybody else to fight my fucking battles for me, Reeve. I shouldn't… I shouldn't—"

His voice lifts higher and higher, and I can hear all of the emotion he's been bottling up. Not just the fear and the helplessness, but the sense of not having anybody to turn to. He might have gotten away from Blake, but his ex is still closing him off from everyone he loves and trusts.

He's gasping for breath by the end of it, his face flushed, eyes wide. And I do the only thing I can think to do: I give into all my worst impulses and pull him to me, wrapping my arms around him.

He tenses at first, but it's only for the space of a breath before his arms come around me, his fingers clenching in the thick fabric of my jacket. It doesn’t take long before his body's wracked by full-on sobs, and he buries his face against my shoulder, muffling the sound of them.

I tangle one hand in his hair, the other rubbing soothing circles into his back. "It's gonna be okay. He's never going to control your life again."

That makes him cry harder, and I can feel his chest expanding as he takes in gasping lungfuls of air to compensate. There's nothing else I can do, and so I hold him until he stops shaking all over. Until he draws back, showing me his tear-streaked face, his blue eyes shimmering with moisture.

There's something in them—something deep and needy that speaks to a part of me. It's like a sudden and powerful yearning for connection. For a solid place to stand when the whole world feels like it's crumbling bit by bit.

I can see it; feel it. Even recognize it for exactly what it is, way deep down inside of me, too. But that doesn't stop me from being surprised when Eric's mouth seeks out mine.

I don't have the chance to turn my head or hold him back, and so I get the full force of his need, more emotional than physical. There's nothing practiced in this kiss. It's sloppy and aimless and searching. He clutches at me throughout it, and I just stand there, shocked, until I can manage the thought and movement required to push him away.

But even with one of my hands on his chest, keeping space between us, he doesn't really withdraw.

"Please," he begs, his voice beyond desperate. "Please."

I've always been the type of person who needs to take care of other people. It's why I chose the career I did; why I came over here when Eric called. I know, too, that people don't always understand their needs. That the things they ask for aren't always what's best for them.

I know that's true here, and if I walk away, Eric will realize it on his own and we can deal with whatever awkwardness comes after.

I know all this, but some part of me recognizes his pain so much that I start to see myself in his pleading eyes. I feel my own pain, my own need, and in that moment, it feels like the most necessary thing in the world to grip his shirt and pull him back to me.

My mouth crushes to his, the bruising of lips against teeth underscoring the fact that this is all about fulfilling a deep-seated need we both have. His moan is muffled against me, cut off completely when I plunge my tongue past his lips. And still he clings to me, his hands seeking purchase at my shoulders, my back, anywhere he can grip me to try and bring himself even closer.

It's raw and needy, both of us taking what we want from the other. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have ended there. I likely would’ve had him bent over the arm of the couch soon… if his phone didn't pick that moment to ring.

It takes to the second—or maybe the third—sound of it for him to pull back, but when he does, the change that comes over him is sudden and drastic. His lips are swollen, his chest heaves, and his eyes are wide with the realization of what just happened.

What I just let happen.

"I should…"

I jerk my thumb back toward the door. Eric just nods, reaching up to touch his lips.

It doesn't really matter how or why it happened. It doesn't matter that I told him more in that one kiss than I've probably ever told anybody before.

It shouldn't have happened.

And as I head for the door, I know I have to make it right.