Life isn’t easy. It never has been, and it never would be. And, personally, if life was easy for someone, they weren’t pushing themselves hard enough.

That said, getting a phone call from Hailey Spencer just as I was about to end my patrol for the day made things easier than I could’ve expected. She explained that her keys had been in the bag that was stolen, and I could hear a gruff woman’s voice in the background, whom I assumed was the disgruntled landlady.

While Ms. Spencer seemed less than thrilled to have to speak to me again, it’d been more than two hours since I’d interviewed her, and even longer since the purse had been snatched. I played up the situation, goading the apartment’s address from her after explaining that I’d need both her and her landlady to take inventory to determine if the perpetrator had been there during the time that had lapsed. She assured me that no one had been there, but the crotchety landlord’s “How the hell should I know?” prompted me to offer to swing by on my way home and take a look around.

You know, just to be safe.

I was just coming off the night patrol, and my body ached for the comforts of home. And a few hours ago, I would’ve sold my soul to the devil for a chance at a solid eight hours of sleep in my king-sized bed.

Then, Hailey Spencer had been the victim of a needless crime. Now, if I closed my eyes, all I could see was the wariness in the depths of her eyes. She’d distrusted me from the moment I walked in, which wasn’t typically the case for most people. Evoking that kind of emotional response in someone just by wearing a uniform and badge was usually reserved for…

Criminals.

Which led me to my next question. What have you done, Hailey Spencer?

* * *

My chest constricted slightly at the sight of the apartment building that stood at 44 Ellington Street. I’d known this section of the city was bad, more rundown and unsafe in comparison to other parts, but as I pulled my black SUV up to the curb, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of desire to help Hailey Spencer get the hell out of here. The woman I met this morning didn’t seem to trust anyone, and living in a disheveled-looking brick building with ruddy windows and cracked rain gutters probably didn’t do much to make her feel safe.

I kicked an empty, rusted beer can off the sidewalk as I made my way down the cracked asphalt driveway, making a mental note to pick it up on the way back to my vehicle. It quickly slipped from my mind, though, when I rounded the side of the building and saw Hailey Spencer curled up outside the door, leaning against it with her hands shoved deep into her pockets for warmth.

“Ms. Spencer?”

She’d been focused intently on a spot in the gravel parking lot before her, but her head snapped up at the sudden sound of my voice. “Oh, geez. Hey. Sorry.” She scrambled to stand up, wiping dust from her jeans.

“Why are you waiting out here? The landlord must have a key to let you in.”

“My doorbell doesn’t work, and I can’t hear knocking on the main entrance door from inside my apartment.”

“You must be freezing.” I could see her cheeks were pink from the chilly wind, and her fingers boasted the same discoloration when she pulled them from her pockets, holding a key.

“I’m okay,” she muttered, turning away from me to unlock the door.

“I could’ve talked to your landlord first. Is she—”

“I said I’m fine.” She turned to me then, the heat in her eyes flaring alarmingly in comparison to the cool pink tinge of her skin. “She’s in the first unit, at the front of the house. If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon get this over with, so I can continue on with my day.”

I knew plenty of officers who’d have played the cop card, demanding respect and growing defensive in the wake of her attitude, but I let it go. As much as I could, anyway. Her hostility made my jaw clench slightly, and I glared at her with a renewed sense of determination, but I didn’t retaliate.

Instead, I allowed her to open the door, made a note that there’d been no signs of forced entry—not that there would be if the purse thief had her keys, but I was mentally checking things off a checklist—and held an arm out, stopping her when she proceeded to go inside. “Will you at least let me go in first?”

Hailey’s gaze dropped momentarily to where my hand rested against her forearm, then raised to meet mine. She said nothing, but stepped back, allowing me to enter the premises. The movement forced me to remove my hand from her arm.

I pulled my gun from its holster at my hip and ducked inside the building. The hallway left a lot to be desired, matching the dilapidated exterior. Stained carpet, chipped paint, and missing baseboards along one wall. A stale, pungent scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and somewhere down the hall to my right, the sound of raspy, raucous laughter rang out through the paper-thin walls.

This was not the place for a young, single woman to be living. I looked back over my shoulder after ensuring there was no immediate threat within the hall, intent on confirming that she did, in fact, live alone, but the expression she wore made my throat thick, and I was unable to speak.

Hailey Spencer was standing close behind me, and she was humiliated. She didn’t want me here, that much was evident. But, she also didn’t want me correlating a place like this with her, either.

She pointed around me, to my left, away from the length of hallway. A darkened set of eight stairs led to a basement doorway. “That’s my place.” She spoke low, holding out the set of keys to me.

I took them, feeling as though they were some kind of peace offering. She signaled to one on the ring, indicating it was for the apartment, and I nodded.

The door wasn’t ajar, still locked, and I opened it slowly. It wasn’t hard to sweep the place and deem it clear, as it was only one room, with the smallest bathroom I’d ever seen attached to it.

“All clear,” I stated, and offered her an encouraging smile, one that hopefully said, I’m not judging you.

With my gun tucked safely away again, I had a moment to take in the apartment for what it truly was—not goddamn much. She had little in the way of belongings or furniture. A futon was pushed up under the only window in the room, with one blanket and one pillow on it. There was no TV, no radio, and no computer that I could see. The closet didn’t have a door on it, and a small pile of clothing was stacked neatly on the floor of it. The kitchenette, if it could be called that, had a microwave and a coffeemaker, but both appliances looked ancient. The fridge was one of those little apartment-sized ones, and the space where an oven should’ve sat was empty, a gaping hole off the end of the countertop with only a plug-in to prove where it should be.

“How long have you lived here, Ms. Spencer?”

She stood by the doorway, her arms once again wrapped around her middle in the defensive stance she’d wore earlier at the coffee shop. “A few months. Why?”

“Because it looks like you haven’t quite moved in,” I said, trying to convey a hint of humor in hopes of covering up my rising curiosity.

“I travelled light,” she explained, not meeting my eyes.

I didn’t want to keep her on edge, but I didn’t know what could possibly bring her unease down, short of me leaving, which is what I knew she wanted. “Anything taken? Or seem out of place?”

She shook her head, glancing toward the door purposely. It was a signal. Your time is up. Thanks for coming out.

I turned, about to exit the room despite the thousand questions bubbling up inside me. I planned to speak to the landlord next, which I imagined wouldn’t be overly enlightening, either. Then, my gaze fell to the far corner of the room. It hadn’t registered in my mind at first because the easel was facing away from me, and in the initial sweep of the place I’d dismissed it as more mess, more bare wood and chipped drywall and the general neglect of a building that had seen better days. But the wooden frame of the easel had a canvas leaning on it, not drywall, and the mess I’d overlooked wasn’t a mess at all, but scattered paint tubes, brushes, and pencils of various sizes and colors.

“You paint?” I asked, my curiosity piqued for the first time on a more personal level.

“Oh.” She held her hands up as though to stop me from peering around to the front of the canvas, but it was too late. “Yeah. I sketch, mostly. But I dabble in acrylics, too, I guess.”

This woman wasn’t dabbling when it came to her artistic abilities. Not from my vantage point, anyway. “Ms. Spencer, this is incredible. You did this?”

I didn’t know a thing about art, and I wouldn’t pretend to. But, damn, she had talent. The face of the woman that stared back at me was striking, and shared a strong likeness to the woman who stood before me now, nodding and mumbling her gratitude for my praise. The sketching technique and obvious attention to detail was astounding. It looked far beyond what I would consider a pastime or hobby.

“Who is she?”

While Hailey hadn’t been handling my compliments well, she’d been taking slow and steady steps toward me as I stared in awe at the drawing before me. I’d taken it as a sign of progress.

But once the second question passed my lips, she stopped dead in her tracks, and her eyes grew darker. Just like that, her defenses were back up, higher than before, and she shook her head. “My…my mother,” she admitted, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyway, Mrs. Coskins is probably waiting for you.”

She might’ve been hell-bent on getting rid of me, but I had a better idea. “Did you draw this from memory, or a photograph?”

A blank stare answered me, then, “Memory.”

“Can you sketch the man who stole your purse?”

Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she was wondering if I was trying to catch her in a lie. “I told you, I wasn’t paying attention when he took it. And I only saw the back of his head when I went after him.”

I nodded, trying to choose my words carefully. “And if I had seen him, and told you what he looked like, would you be able to sketch him, then?”

“You didn’t see—”

“Humor me, Hailey.” Her first name propelled from my lips without thought. “Sorry. Ms. Spencer.”

“I’m sure I could,” she advised, exasperated. “But I’ve never tried.”

“We could use that kind of talent at the precinct,” I told her, my eyebrows still high on my forehead as I appraised the artwork in front of me. “If you do freelance work, I mean.”

I’d barely finished my sentence when she cut me off. “I’m not interested.”

A hollow chuckle escaped my throat. “Why am I not surprised?”

My snide remark must’ve hit a nerve, because Hailey let out a frustrated breath. “Thank you for coming to check on me, Officer Brett. And while I appreciate it, as you can see, no danger lurks in the corners of this apartment. Mrs. Coskins will be waiting, I’m sure.”

I nodded, knowing there was no sense in pushing her any farther. Instead, I pulled another one of my business cards from my pocket and leaned it against the edge of the canvas. “I’m relieved to know you’re safe, Ms. Spencer. You have yourself a good afternoon, now.”

There was no denying the cocky, smartass quality to my voice, and I wore a smug grin I couldn’t quite erase. But I took my leave and headed for the door.

“Same to you, Officer,” she added shortly, her hand on the doorknob.

She couldn’t wait to get that door closed between us, which only made me bite down on my lip and turn back to her just inside the doorway. “Oh, and Ms. Spencer?”

“Yes?”

Call it intuition, but I knew I would hear from her again. If this apartment and lack of furnishings was any indication, mixed with the fact that her purse and undoubtedly any money she’d had was now gone, she would call me for more information on my offer. She didn’t really have a choice, and I wasn’t planning on giving her one.

I waited until she was forced to lock her gaze with mine in askance, then I smiled genuinely. “I’m off the clock, so please, call me Alex.”