“I’m fine,” Stephanie says while swatting my hand away as she lies in the hospital bed.

“If you’d stop fidgeting.”

Her seizure was the worst one yet. Thankfully, there hasn’t been any damage that has manifested, but I’ve refused to leave her side, not even for a second. I hate myself for being at that stupid concert instead of here with her. She’s my entire world.

“Go to work, Heather. I can’t handle you being around me. You’re like a fucking helicopter, always hovering over me. You annoy me.”

One of the worst parts of Huntington’s is the mood swings. Stephanie was a sweet, kind, and happy-go-lucky kid. When she was nineteen, she had her first onset of tremors. Her body would go stiff and she couldn’t move. Immediately, Matt and I took her to the doctor, but they couldn’t find anything.

Then her mood did a complete one-eighty. It was as if someone stole my sister’s identity and replaced it with the angriest person I’d ever met.

“I am going to work today, thank you.”

“Good. Do I go back to Breezy tonight then?”

“Depends what the doctor says.”

According to the neurologist, we can expect her to continue to deteriorate, and she’s at high risk of another seizure that could leave lasting effects. The younger you are when you become symptomatic with Huntington’s the faster things get worse.

“Yet again, I have no say in anything. It’s always you and the doctors. I’m a fucking adult!” She rolls her eyes and turns onto her side.

“I know you are, but yelling at me isn’t going to help.”

My patience with Stephanie is unending, but at times, I lose my cool. Being told how awful, worthless, and depressing I am eventually wears me down. I know it isn’t her. She acts this way because she’s frustrated and in pain, but I still hate it.

However, it was Stephanie who made the decision to move into Breezy Beaches. She knew I couldn’t quit my job to take care of her. I needed to make whatever I could, and a live-in nurse was way over our budget since insurance wouldn’t cover it. She needed around-the-clock care that I could no longer provide.

It was the single most devastating day of my life. I cried harder after dropping her off than I did the night our parents died.

“I hate you. I hate this disease.” She flips back over and throws the cover back, staring up at the ceiling. “I hate it all.”

I touch her shoulder, and her hands start to move. They took her off the medication for the tremors when she was admitted, and it took less than forty-eight hours for them to come back.

“Steph,” I say carefully. “Please don’t shut me out.”

“I c-ca-can’t.” Her eyes well with frustration and tears. “I h-hat-t-e th-this.”

I move to the side of the bed and lace her fingers with mine, trying not to cry as well. Our hands move together as her body takes control. I do my best to comfort her. “I know, love. I hate it, too. Right now, we’re just dancing. That’s all.”

In the beginning of the disease, this was what I used to say when her hands and feet would go. It was our dance break. I muster a smile and start singing as we move with no rhythm or purpose.

My heart breaks as I watch this disease rob my sister of a life she deserves. It isn’t fair that she got the gene and I didn’t. I would gladly take it for her if I could. So many times I’ve watched her and tried to stay strong, but sometimes there is no strength. Sometimes I can’t help myself from losing it. My lack of strength sometimes won’t be my demise—love will be. Love is what breaks me down. Love is what makes it so hard to forgive God for doing this to us. Stephanie should be hanging out with her friends, working, living life. Instead, she’s stuck in a facility because we have no idea when the next symptom will arise.

The tear I was fighting so hard to push back, falls.

Stephanie’s eyes lock on mine, and we both cry together.

“Is your sister better?” Matt asks as we finish roll call.

“Yeah.” I nod. “She should be going back . . .” I stop myself from saying the word “home” because it isn’t home. It’s a fucking group home, and I hate that she’s there. “to the place soon. Thanks for covering for me.”

“I know this is hard for you,” he says, trying to comfort me. “I hate seeing you like this.”

Right. I’m so sure that’s the case.

“Wouldn’t have been if I had my husband’s support.” I toss back at him.

I watch his face shift to hurt. “Heather,” Matt whispers. “It wasn’t like that.”

I roll my eyes and huff. While Stephanie takes her hurt out on me, I channel my anger toward Matt. “It was exactly like that. You left me. You moved out because I wasn’t willing to put my sister in that home. You made it so that I had no other choice in the end. We were supposed to be a team, but you . . .” I pause and try to get myself back under control. “You left.”

“You didn’t give me any choice!” Matt’s voice rises. “I was watching my wife drift away. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t make you happy. You act like I’m the villain here, but I had to sit around watching you lose yourself.”

I can’t believe him. “It was not about me or you, it was about her.”

“Take a minute to think about who left who, Heather. You were gone a long time before I walked out that door.”

Matt turns around and walks out. How fitting. It’s a different time, but the same result—he walks away first. We’ve had this fight before, several times, and each time, it reminds me of what a selfish dick he is.

“You ready to hit the road?” My partner Brody asks as he slaps me on the shoulder, breaking me from staring daggers at the door Matt walked through.

I sigh and relax. Thank God for Brody. He’s funny, gets my sarcasm, and is completely dependable. I know he has my back in the same way I have his. It’s a relationship that is essential between partners. Aside from Nicole, Kristin, and Danielle, Brody is my best friend. We’ve been riding together for the last seven years, and there’s no one in this world I trust more.

“Yup. I need lots of coffee today.”

“Do you need me to sing to you?” he asks with a smirk. “Heard that does it for you. Or do I have to be rich and famous?”

My heart freezes, and I squeeze my eyes closed, mortified. I completely forgot about the concert. It all comes back like a freight train. The singing, the dancing, the sex with Eli Walsh. How the hell could I forget that there are probably videos and . . . oh God.

I look around the break room and there, on the bulletin board, is a photo of me sitting on the stage with Eli singing to me.

Damn it.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I walk over and rip it down, trying to pretend as if I don’t care. “Real funny guys.”

“But,” Whitman, one of the idiots on my squad jumps in, “you’re my once in a lifetime girl.”

“Shut up,” I crumple the paper and toss it in the garbage. “You’re all tools.”

“We all know what you like, Covey. Maybe we should just pretend to be cops on television, then you’ll think we’re sexy.”

“You need to lay off the greasy food and lose some weight. Then maybe the half blind lady down the street will think you’re sexy.”

A few guys laugh, and jab his side.

“Yeah? Tell your boyfriend that we don’t all eat donuts! I work hard for this physique. Besides, we need to be in a boy band to get you tossing your panties at us.”

This is never going to end. The more I feed into them, the worse this will be. I grab the keys from Brody’s hand and walk off. They start to sing and yell at me, but I keep moving. Idiots. I work with idiots.

Brody climbs in the passenger seat and chuckles. “Oh, come on, Heather. We’re just having fun.”

“Clearly. It’s not that, though.” I toss my hat on the dash. “Stephanie had an episode, which is why I didn’t come in yesterday.”

Brody’s eyes soften, and he sighs. “I’m sorry. I figured you were recovering from your night of singing and drinking. Is she better?”

“She’s okay now, well, as okay as it gets for her.”

Brody was the one who helped me move Stephanie in to Breezy Beaches. He’s been more of a husband than Matt ever was. His wife Rachel has been great. I’m glad she and I have become as close as we are. There’s a very strange bond between partners, which can lead to a lot of questions, and I’ve seen more than one wife accuse her husband of cheating. I’ve also seen more than one occasion where she wasn’t wrong.

As much as I love Brody, it’s a brother-sister kind of love. I would take a bullet for him, but his “gun” isn’t going anywhere but in his holster.

“You should’ve called me, Rachel and I would’ve come to the hospital.”

“No.” I shake my head. “That would’ve been totally unnecessary.”

“Let me guess, you had it?” His tone is laced with sarcasm.

I turn the key in the ignition and start to drive. I’m not going to let him goad me. He’s way too good at it.

We drive toward the section we’re patrolling. Even with Matt being the asshole he is, he always puts me in the section near Tampa General Hospital, which is something that I should probably thank him for. At least I’m close if something changes with her condition.

Brody tells me about Rachel’s new kick with some crazy diet. She’s so pretty and already skinny, I don’t know what she’s thinking.

“Well, when you finally have kids, she won’t care.”

He gives me side eyes and grunts. “I’m not sure we’ll have kids.”

“Brody,” I touch his arm. “You need to let go of the past.”

Two years ago, Brody was in a horrific wreck. He was doing code and a driver plowed through the red light, T-boning his cruiser. It was a miracle he survived. It was one of the nights we were shorthanded and weren’t riding doubles. I’ve never been so scared in my life, and neither had Rachel. She was so terrified that the stress caused her to miscarry. Brody never recovered from that.

“Says the girl who refuses to date because she married an idiot. Hell, when’s the last time you even had sex?”

My cheeks burn, and I hope he isn’t looking at me.

“I know that look, Heather.” Brody shifts in his seat and laughs. “Who did you have sex with?”

“None of your business.”

Shit. He’s going to keep prying until I have to tell him just so he’ll shut up.

I focus on the road and want to throw my hands up hallelujah style when the radio cuts in.

“We have a report of a domestic in Hyde Park.”

Brody’s grin is gone, and he grabs the radio. “Car 186 is on it.”

“Central copies, dispatching the address now.” The dispatcher cuts out, and I flick the lights on.

I focus on the road as Brody gives directions. We head into the small upper-class suburb and pull in front of the house.

Both of us cautiously approach the door, we knock twice, and a woman opens the door with a smile.

“Hello, officers.”

“Good morning, ma’am. We got a call about a disturbance. Is everything all right here?” I ask.

She smiles warmly and opens the door. “Yes, my son is autistic, and well, sometimes he gets really loud. My neighbor behind us keeps calling. No matter how many times we explain that there’s nothing we can do but let him work it out, she continues to call the cops.”

“Do you mind if we come in?” Brody asks.

We’ve seen too many instances of a wife covering for her husband because she’s terrified of him.

“Of course,” she steps back, giving us room to pass. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you, Mrs. . . . ” I leave it open.

“Harmon. I’m Delia Harmon”

We step forward, and a boy around fourteen comes to the door, and I smile. “Hi.”

He stares off to the side and grunts.

“Sloane doesn’t speak, but he loves lights,” Mrs. Harmon explains. “It’s been a rough few months. His father took off a while ago, so it’s just us, but we’re doing fine. Aren’t we Sloane?” She looks adoringly at her son.

I smile, thinking of how lucky this boy is to have a mother like her. The way she stares at him reminds me of how my mother looked at me, and my mother was always brimming with love. Stephanie and I were her life.

“Hi, Sloane,” I kneel in front of him and his eyes dart outside.

“Can you say hello to the police officers?” Delia encourages.

Sloane doesn’t say anything. Instead, he points to the cruiser outside. The look of wonder in his eyes is shining bright. He starts to pull on her arm while she tries to pull him back.

“Would he like to see the police lights?” Brody asks, breaking his silence.

“Oh, he’d love that.”

Brody and I spend the next few minutes with Mrs. Harmon and Sloane. We show him the lights and watch as the joy spreads across his face. He seems much calmer, and I wish there were more we could do for him. Inevitably, another call comes in and we have to leave. Sloane starts fussing, and I know it’s only going to get worse. He wants us to stay, and I hate that we are leaving Mrs. Harmon to calm him down.

We head back on the road, and our day is filled with bullshit calls. Two traffic accidents, a possible shoplifter who ended up being the owner’s daughter, and a police report for a stolen car. Paperwork sucks.

“Do you mind stopping if we stop in and check on Steph?”

“You know I don’t.”

Brody calls in that we’re on break, and we head over.

When we get to the turn in by Tampa General, a sleek, black Bentley comes peeling out of the side street, almost hitting two cars in the process.

“Oh, hell no,” I say and flip the lights and sirens on. “I hate these assholes on this side of the island. They all think they can do whatever they want.”

Having money doesn’t mean you’re above the law.

Brody and I approach the car and the tinted windows lower.

“License, registration, and insurance,” I say without looking at the driver.

“Sorry, officer,” a familiar voice causes my eyes to lift. I stare into the green irises I doubt I’ll ever forget. A five o’clock shadow paints his face, and the sun only makes everything seem brighter. His mouth turns into a radiant smile, and my heart begins to race. “I was on my way to see someone. But it turns out she came to me.”