My fists pound on the heavy wooden door of a house I visited once about ten years ago. Regardless of that fact, I could find it in my sleep. Not because it’s in the same neighborhood I grew up in, but because I’ve found myself driving past it on more than one occasion when I visited home. I never found the courage to pull over and stop by for a chat, though. My words ran together in my head so fast they made me sick; I didn’t think I could get them out.

I knock again. This time harder—the echoing boom more than loud enough to wake the sleeping resident. As my fist swings to make contact a third time, a voice calls from inside.

“You’d better get the fuck back in your vehicle and drive off if you know what’s good for you. I’ve got a gun, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

My throat dries at hearing a voice I’ve only heard through a cell phone inbox for nearly a decade. So much so, when I respond, only a single word scrapes up my throat. “Reece.”

Metal scrapes on metal and then the heavy door swings inward a foot.

“What do you want?”

“You gonna shoot me?” I ask. I don’t know why. I’m not trying to be funny, but the mood is too damn tense.

Something stops him from slamming the door in my face. Could be the way I look or the sound of my voice, I’m not sure. Whatever he perceives is enough to make him swing the door open farther and lean out. “Are you all right?”

“There were gunshots.” That singular thought is enough to make my stomach cramp again. Something that troubles me at the same time it ticks me the hell off.

Reece rolls his eyes and scoffs. “You’re a police officer. That’s nothing new.”

“At our old house. Reece, I haven’t heard gunshots there in at least a decade. It just… fuck.” I reach back and run a hand over the back of my neck. I’m tense again, and the sweats have returned.

He regards me without giving away a hint of what he’s thinking. Without acknowledging what I said, he swings his front door open the rest of the way and turns into the house. “Want a beer?” he calls back to me, and I take that as my cue to follow him inside.

I shut the door gently behind me and flip the lock. “Um, sure. Whatever you have is fine.”

As the sound of bottles clanking comes from the kitchen, I use the moment alone to unobtrusively take in his living room. Pictures line the mantel over an old brick fireplace. I can’t tell if it’s been updated to look old or if it is so old that it’s back in style. I can’t remember what the fireplace was like the one time I was here. Hell, if I’d been asked, I probably wouldn’t have remembered he had one. I take a step closer to inspect the pictures. Our family. Every single one of them holds members of our family. Even my face is present, which shocks the shit out of me. You’d think after not speaking for as long as we have, he wouldn’t have put them up.

The sound of his footsteps serves as an early warning, and I step back from the photographs. He hands me a cold beer, and I give him a chin lift. “Thanks.” I take a swig, the cool liquid soothing my dry throat.

“PTSD,” Reece announces abruptly. I suddenly suck my beer down the wrong pipe.

“What?” I barely manage to choke out.

“You’ve got PTSD.”

I straighten at his words, and even though I’m still catching my breath, I manage, “Who made you a psychiatrist?”

He shrugs, taking a pull off his own beer. “Don’t need to be one to see that’s what this is. Why else would you wake me in the middle of the night because you heard gunshots?”

“It’s not that. I’ve been on the force for twelve years, first as a cop, now as a detective. If I had PTSD, I’d have quit my job a long time ago. Hell, I wouldn’t have even been able to do it.”

Reece shakes his head, that fire I used to know so well lighting up his eyes. “That’s not the case. It’s different when you’re chasing a criminal who’s shooting at you and you can see exactly what’s going on. Not so easy to put it in a box when you hear random gunshots right outside your house in the middle of the night.”

I clench my teeth, trying to hold back from going off. “How’d you know they were right outside my house?”

With his beer, he gestures toward the end table in the corner of the room near the couch. I follow his direction with my eyes, and there, on the top, sits an old police scanner.

“Dad’s?”

Reece just nods.

“Right. Back to the matter at hand, I’m still not going to agree with you.”

“Yeah?” he challenges. “Why’re you here then?”

The question physically stops me. Not a muscle twitches, not even my lungs, as I run the question through my mind over and over again. Why’re you here? Why am I here?

“I’m checking in,” I hiss through clenched teeth, knowing how fucking stupid I sound. This is why it’s taken so damn long for me to reconnect with Reece, and it’s exactly why I’m unsure we ever will. We aren’t two kids fighting over Legos or G.I. Joes anymore; we’re two grown ass men. We’re hot tempered and stubborn as fuck, and neither of us likes to admit we’re wrong.

Maybe it’s time to start correcting that.

He snorts in response and pours the last of his beer down his throat. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I had to check on you. Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong, but I haven’t heard gunshots right outside my house—fuck, outside that house—in over a decade. When shit like that’d go down, we used to check on each other, and I guess I couldn’t shake that feeling.” I drain my beer, take two steps, and slam it down on his mantel. “Didn’t make a difference.” I flip the lock and yank the door open. I’m through and about to close it when he calls behind me.

“My door’s always open.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I respond derisively then pull that same door closed.

As I get in my truck and point it toward town, I let myself feel the truth. It did make a difference. It made a whole world of difference. The shakes stopped, and I’m no longer sweating. Seeing my brother did exactly as I’d hoped it would, but that being said, I’m still not ready to go home.

The drive into town is short, and within minutes, I’m pulling into the alley behind Bar 9. The owner actually did try out bars 1-8 before he was successful, though they weren’t all named after numbers. I’m not exactly sure what happened to the others, but the owner, Tom, calls them “practice.” A better outlook than I would have had. I’d probably call them failures.

I leave my truck in the near-empty parking lot behind the bar. Grabbing my phone from the passenger’s seat, I climb out and hit the locks. As I’m walking in the back door, my phone vibrates in my hand. Tavers Calling…

I hit ignore, and the screen shows two other missed calls from him. I open a message. There’s a seat open near the far corner of the bar top, three from the end, so I head that way as I type out a response.

I know my partner enough to know he’s just checking in. I’m sure he got home, and his wife started asking questions about me. She probably convinced him to call me once more, and then when I didn’t answer, she most likely demanded he keep calling until I do. I chuckle to myself, thinking of that woman. She’s a spitfire for sure and keeps Tavers on his damn toes.

When I sit down, Tom catches my eye with a lift of his chin. I hold up three fingers—my index, middle, and thumb—to communicate to him that I want three shots. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been here enough that he knows my drink of choice. Usually, he just needs to know the quantity. That’s the way it goes in a small town bar. I might have just moved back to town, but I’ve frequented here enough over the years.

As I wait for my drinks, I check out the bar and find only a handful of people here tonight. A group of young adults in their early twenties hanging out by the pool table. Two guys about my age watching a sports recap on the other side of the bar. To my right and one stool separating us sits a middle-aged man who looks three sheets to the wind. His head rests heavily in his hand as he twists his glass on the bar top.

Whatever. He’s not doing any harm, and I’m off duty. So long as he doesn’t try to stumble to his car, I decide to leave him be. I’m not in the mood for conversation anyway. There’s been enough of that for tonight.

Tom sets my drinks down, and I give him my card. Might as well start a tab.

I toss the first shot of vodka back like it’s nothing but water. Halfway to grabbing the second, my phone vibrates with a text. Fucking Tavers. More like his wife but I can’t curse the sweet woman. She makes the best damn pot roast I’ve ever had, and I’d hate to lose my privilege at her table. The second shot goes down the hatch.

“How’s life, Niko?” Tom asks, stopping in front of me to wipe down a spot on the bar. The man’s as old as my father and looks it too with his salt and pepper hair and the lines around his eyes. He has six kids of his own, but none of them live around here, so he treats his customers like his kids. Kind eyes look down at me from behind the bar, and even though I’ve had one hell of a night, the vodka helps me flash a half grin.

“Oh, you know, same old. Criminals being criminals.” I trail my fingertips along the third shot. The movement draws Tom’s eyes.

“Need another?”

“Three,” I grunt, losing the half grin.

Tom’s eyes widen. He splays both hands on the top of his lacquered bar and looks at me critically. “Something going on, son?”

“Nothing more than usual.”

“I think maybe you should head home. I’ve been a bar owner for as many years as you’ve been alive; I know better than anyone that liquor solves nothing.”

“Quit preaching and bring the damn kid his drinks. While you’re at it, I’m fresh out,” the man on my right snaps. Tom clenches his fist and gives a curt nod.

“It’s nothing personal, Tom. I’ve had a shit couple of weeks.” I slam the third shot just as he places down three more.

Another nod. “Let me know if you need anything else.” He walks away.

My phone vibrates again, reminding me I never read Tavers’ other text.

And then-

The second one causes me to bark out a laugh. I can picture it clearly, too. His wife probably kicked him to the couch. She’s a strong one. A feisty little Italian thing no more than five-foot-two and a hundred and fifteen pounds, but she’s got him by the balls. No doubt about it.

I’m not in the mood to appease either of them, though, no matter how cute she is, so I fire back another text and pick up my fourth shot.

I tack on a pair of pink kissy lips for added effect. Tavers’ response comes quickly and says only two words.

“Your girlfriend?” the old man beside me croaks.

“What?” I ask and tilt my head to get a quick look at him. He’s slumped so far over the bar his forehead nearly touches the top, but his eyes are directed at me. He nods his head toward my phone.

“Sending you messages?”

Normally, I’d find the prying rude and would probably say so, but tonight, I’m all out of fucks to give. “Nah. My work partner. His wife doesn’t like me out drinking alone, but sometimes that’s the only way to go.”

“Cheers to that,” the old man mutters before taking a hefty swallow of his drink. It looks like some sort of bubbly concoction, but I couldn’t begin to guess what’s in the glass.

The noise jacks up a decibel as the kids in the corner cheer at their pool game. I glance over at them, unable to help my curiosity. Part of my job is to always be aware of my surroundings. Even a few innocent kids can turn from rowdy to deadly when alcohol is involved.

“Do you remember being so carefree? I sure as shit don’t. All I know now is misery…” He trails off, mumbling under his breath and dropping his forehead until it’s flat on the bar. Good God, this guy is drunk. I wonder why Tom hasn’t called him a cab yet. It’s obvious he’s nearing the point of overserved. Lucky bastard. If I have my way tonight, I’m well on my own way to being drunk. On that thought, I slam down the fifth shot. I can feel it now. That first hint of alcohol coursing through my system. Everything inside starts to warm as if molten lava fills my veins. It almost prickles, and the numbness starts to take over. I know if I were to stand right now, I’d stumble.

His words make me think back on my own years as a young adult, and I can commiserate. “No,” I growl darkly as thoughts of my lost childhood take hold. The minute Aislin disappeared, I spiraled down a desolate path of hopelessness. All these years later, I still haven’t recovered.

I wonder if it’ll always be like this. At least with her body found, I can begin to have some closure. The only way to completely close the book on this chapter would be to find her killer and bring him to justice. I won’t settle for anything less. My phone vibrates on the bar. Without looking, I reach down and press the button to completely turn it off.

He looks over at me again. “You’re young, son. You’ve got plenty of time to fix your wrongs. Not me, though. Nope. I’ve fucked up beyond repair this time.”

I bring my last shot to my mouth and look over at him. “Oh, yeah? Can’t say there’s much in life that’s completely unforgiveable.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve hit the jackpot this time.”

“I haven’t spoken to my brother in about a decade. Went and saw him for the first time tonight. The visit was short, but I left with the sense we could patch things up someday.”

“Good for you, son,” he grunts, not unkindly. I get the distinct impression that my words affect him. I’m just not sure how.

I give him a side glance, definitely feeling the full effects of the vodka now. “Yep.”

Our side of the bar goes quiet. I bet the liquor has finally knocked this guy unconscious. I see Tom on the other side of the bar and start to wave him down when the man speaks again.

“Fucked up,” he mumbles. After a brief pause, he goes on. “I didn’t mean to.”

Normally, I’d leave well enough alone, but a strange vibe hits me square in the gut. I’d be a shit detective if I didn’t trust my own gut. So I press him further. “What didn’t you mean to do?”

“It was a mistake.”

“Can you fix it?” I ask.

“No,” he groans. “No, goddammit.” Now his voice is hardly a whisper. “She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve what I did to her.”

“Did you cheat on your wife?”

He peers over at me with bloodshot eyes. Now that I’m seeing him head on, I can see he looks like shit. I thought he was three sheets in before, but now I can see he’s probably been on a week-long bender. His hair looks dirty and matted, the grease from being unwashed slicking it back in places.

“Whatever you did can’t be that bad.”

“Cheat on my wife—ha!” He lets out a humorless sound. “I’d cheat on her a thousand times if she were still alive. Anything other than what I did. Anything,” he moans, the agony in his voice resonating deep within my bones.

“I’m not a damn priest, but if you’re seeking some absolution, I can’t help until you tell me what you did.”

“I killed her,” he mumbled drunkenly, so soft I almost missed it. Almost. “A girl… a, a woman… fuck me, man, I didn’t mean to do it. And then I panicked and dumped her in the woods. Oh, God. Oh, shit. What have I done? What did I do?”

Anything else he says is cut off by a roaring in my ears so loud, the rest of the bar goes silent. I fly from my stool, the wooden thing crashing to the ground behind me, but it doesn’t make a sound. Not to me. The only thing I can hear is my own heart pulsating in my ears. I can’t think, only react, and that’s what I do. I go with instinct. My training flies out the fucking door, and I snap.

“Niko!” Someone shouts as I throw my entire body weight at the guy in the corner. To his credit, he doesn’t even flinch as my one-hundred-and-eighty-five-pound body flies through the air. I wrap my fist into the soiled shirt at his chest and hoist him off the stool, which joins mine tipped over behind us. Pressing his back up against the wall, I send old memorabilia signs crashing to the floor.

“Please just kill me. I can’t live with this guilt any longer.”

“Shut. Up,” I spit. I sound controlled, but I’m barely hanging on the precipice. I rear my right arm back, but on the forward swing, someone wraps their arm around my bicep and hauls me back.

I fight. The old man sinks to the floor, mumbling and crying as tears run down his dirty face. I get my arm free and lunge. I’m going to beat this guy to fucking hell, alcohol be damned. He deserves it. He deserves to sit and take everything I dish out. I’ll go to prison, but killing him would be the sweetest revenge.

“Niko, stop!”

Another set of hands grabs my other arm, but not before I land an elbow in somebody’s gut, and the two of them manage to yank me back. They don’t stop until I’m clear across the bar, and they’ve shoved my ass into a chair.

“Let go,” I snarl, finally looking up to see who dared to stop me. I’m slightly surprised then immediately annoyed. “What are you doing here?” I ask Tavers, who’s standing beside Tom. His face is red and he’s breathing hard, clutching the table beside him for support.

“Saving your ass,” he growls back at me. “What were you thinking? A bar fight? Are you trying to land yourself in jail?”

The reminder of fighting and jail sends my gaze flickering over to the guy lying on the floor, and my anger returns with a vengeance.

“Call Captain. And a squad,” I tell him, not taking my eyes off the man.

“On it,” Tom answers and rushes to call 9-1-1.

Tavers follows my line of sight before blocking it with his body. “Tell me what’s going on,” he says low.

“He just confessed to a murder.”

My friend’s eyes widen slightly before narrowing. “Did he say whose?”

“No.” I clench my hands at my sides.

“Niko…” Tavers tilts his head and continues, “I know what you’re thinking, but chances are—ˮ

“Two girls have gone missing from this county in the past decade, so chances are it’s one of ‘em,” I hiss agitatedly and run a hand through my hair.

“So we bring him in. Nothing wrong with that, Niko, but you can’t beat the guy to a bloody pulp. He’s drunk and so are you, which already throws a wrench into this. You know as well as anybody we have to do this right. We do this by the book.”

I glare at him.

“Look, you want to do this then grab some water and get in my damn truck. I’ll wait for an officer, and we’ll go to the station together.”

After another few seconds of glaring, I do as he says. He’s right, and I’m drunk. The last thing I want to do is fuck this up.

* * *

We follow the officer with the drunk man back to the station. Tavers goes to find the captain while I head to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me from the old mirror above the sink. I grip the square porcelain bowl with white knuckles, barely holding back the need to throw my fist into the glass. Alcohol sloshes in my gut. I blow out a deep breath and lower my head, throwing more cold water onto my face.

I can do this.

Holding that thought, I leave the bathroom in search of Tavers and Captain. The two of them are outside the interrogation room; Captain with his hands on his hips and Tavers holding a folder in his hand.

“Is he in there?” I ask. Two sets of eyes swing in my direction but nobody replies. I look back and forth between the two men, trying to read their faces in my drunken state. “What?”

“You can’t do this,” Captain starts, and I immediately shake my head.

“Fuck yeah, I can. This case is mine. Anything related to Aislin is mine. That guy confessed to me.”

“You’re drunk, James.”

“So is he.” I nod my head in the direction of our suspect.

“We’re aware,” he responds dryly.

I cut my eyes to Tavers even though I speak to my boss. “Then what’s the problem?”

“You’ve had a lot going on. You’re overworked; this case has taken a lot out of you. Someone shot up your backyard, and now you’re drunk. You need a break before you break. You’re a good detective, but you won’t be worth shit if you allow yourself to get burned out.”

“This has nothing to do with being burned out. That’s my case, so I’m going in there. If either of you knows what’s good for you, you won’t stand in my way.”

Tavers shakes his head and looks at the floor.

“Is that a threat?” Captain hisses.

“It’s a goddamned promise.” He tries to interject, so I hold up my hand. “I respect the hell out of you. You taught me most of what I know, so I know you can put yourself in my place and understand. If that were your sister, daughter, niece, or cousin missing for years and found dead, you’d be over here fighting with me, drunk or not. I know you can see exactly where I’m coming from.”

He appears to mull over my words. The muscle in his jaw jumps. “Take a nap, James. We have to let this guy sleep off his booze, so you might as well do the same. You can question him when you’re both sobered up. Eight hours, minimum. Now get out of my sight before I write you up for insubordination.”

Fair enough.

I trek to the spare bunks and climb to the top for some shut-eye. I don’t dare have Tavers take me home. Knowing these two, they’d have the guy lawyered up and questioned before I woke. At least this way I’m still here, and if they dare to start without me, there’ll be hell to pay.

* * *

The slamming door startles me awake, but it’s the overhead light clicking on that pisses me the fuck off. I go to sit up, and the dizziness hits along with the sloshing in my gut. “Jesus Christ,” I bite out.

“Rise and shine, princess. Captain’s ready to get this show on the road, and you two have had ten hours of rest.”

Ten hours? “Since when does it take me ten hours to sober up?”

“We had to wait on the other guy, who seemed to have drank a bit more than you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut against the harsh light and rub a hand over my forehead. “Thanks for the rude awakening,” I grumble before hopping down unsteadily.

“You’re welcome. Let’s get this over with so I can get back home to my wife. I need to remind her once again that you’re a grown ass man so she’ll stop sending me out after you.”

“You can tell her I’m bringing the wine next time I come over for dinner.”

Tavers shoots me a glare. I follow him out to the interrogation room where our captain stands just outside the door. He looks pissed off and tired, but who can blame him? I’d apologize except I don’t have an ounce of remorse if this is the guy we’ve been looking for.

“Work your magic, Niko. I’d imagine if he was spouting confessions in a bar, he’ll be easy to crack, but you never know. Liquor makes people loose and nothing tightens up an asshole like the threat of a lifetime prison sentence.” He holds the file out to me. I take it, and without a word, walk into the room.

“You get enough rest?” I ask, setting the file on the table and keeping my tone calm. Just looking at the guy makes me sick. It’s not the time to freak him out, though. Not yet. Right now, I need to be his friend.

“I s’pose.”

“Can I get you something to drink? Water? I know I could use a drink after all those shots.” Without waiting for a response, I walk over to the mini-fridge in the corner and pull out a chilled bottle. I twist the cap off and take a refreshing gulp, not giving a damn that some of it runs down my chin. I gesture to him with the open bottle, sloshing some over the side. “What do you say? Can I get you one?”

He looks torn. I observe his red-rimmed eyes and pale skin as he finally nods. “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

I hand him a bottle, kick the fridge closed, and finally take a seat.

“I’m Detective Niko James. Can you tell me your name?”

He fiddles with the cap to his bottle with trembling fingers. “Louie… Louis DeLucia.”

“You know that you’re not under arrest. We’re here just to ask you a few questions.”

He nods, and I continue to give him his Miranda Rights. “No, no lawyers, I don’t need anybody. Why’d you say that if I’m not under arrest?”

I flatten my hands on the file in front of me. “You and I, we had an interesting conversation in the bar. A very… self-incriminating one. I’m merely making you aware of your constitutional rights before we continue. Shall I say, covering both our asses.”

“Why would you do that?”

I make sure to keep my eyes steady on his even though the mere sight of this man sends my blood boiling. “Liquor can make people say funny things. Do funny things. I’m on your side, Louie. You seemed like you wanted to talk at the bar, so I’m here to listen.”

“I didn’t know you were a cop,” he argues. “You set me up. That’s entrapment or something, and it’s illegal.”

“If it were a trap, I wouldn’t have been drinking. I was nearly as drunk as you were. Anything I say in regards to our conversation will be thrown out as inadmissible. Any judge would call me an unreliable witness. It was a lucky coincidence I was there, don’t you think?”

“How is this lucky?” he asks back, becoming more agitated. I lean back in the metal chair, trying to appear relaxed through the waves of rage assaulting me inside.

“I’d say you want to be here. You were pretty eager to talk to a stranger about your guilt. Isn’t this what you wanted? To be absolved?”

Louis drops his head into his hands and tugs at his dirty hair. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Tell me what happened,” I coax, a slight edge appearing in my voice. I try so hard to conceal it, but I’m so close to the truth, I can nearly taste it. “I can’t promise you anything, but you’ll make it a lot easier on yourself if you just tell me the truth. They give all sorts of lighter sentences for people who are honest.”

He runs his hands through his hair again before flattening them on the table between us. He looks up, down, away—anywhere but at me for several long moments, and I think he’s going to stay quiet. Captain was right. Even when people know they should do the right thing, even when they deserve the damn consequences, they’ll stay locked up tight to avoid a jail sentence.

“I can leave you alone to think about it.” I rise from my chair and walk calmly to the door. I pull it open to see Tavers on the other side, but the thought of leaving without a confession unleashes something inside me. When I look back, Louis looks relieved at my retreat, and that’s enough for me to completely fucking snap. I cross the room in two strides, grab the back of the metal chair I was sitting in, and flip it into the air with one hand. I catch it by two legs, and with everything inside me, every ounce of pent-up emotion, I send it cutting through the air and slamming into the ground with a resounding crack.

“TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!”

Louis throws back his body, sliding his chair away from the table. And me. “I didn’t mean to do it. It wasn’t my plan. I didn’t have a goddamned plan,” he rattles off in quick succession, burying his fingers into his hair and shaking his head. Fear sits stark on his pale face.

Tavers catches my eye.  I shake my head, communicating I don’t need him, and he shuts the door while wearing a dubious expression. I right my chair, and when I take a seat, I fold my hands on top of the table.

“What went wrong?” I ask quietly.

Everything Louis can see gives the appearance of calm, but beneath the table, my legs are so tight I’m about to give myself a fucking Charlie horse. I fight to relax while he starts speaking again.

“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it,” he repeats.

“Who was she?”

“I didn’t get her name,” he mutters.

“How old was she?” I press.

“I don’t know.”

“Twelve? Fifteen?”

His head snaps up. “I killed someone, but I’m not a fucking pedophile! I have grandkids that age!”

If she wasn’t young, that means he didn’t have Aislin. Unless he didn’t kidnap her and somehow... acquired her... another way when she was older. The sickness from my bender returns with a vengeance.

“If you’d give me the information, I wouldn’t have to guess. Help me out here, Louie. She had a family. I want to give her family some closure. Don’t you?”

“Y-y-yes.” His voice shakes. “She was older. Your age, maybe. We met at a bar in Bakersville. She wanted to come home to fool around, and an old man like me wasn’t about to say no to young pussy. I just… we got so into it. She wanted to try some of that erotic asphyxiation crap. I was choking her, had my hand wrapped nearly the entirety of her airway, squeezing while she got off and I got off, and when it was over, I must have held on too long because she’d stopped moving. Her eyes were glassy, and she was staring at the ceiling... She was dead.”

The legs of my metal chair scrape loudly across the floor as I push back. Louis jerks his head up as if he forgot I was even sitting there. I flip open the file in front of me, pull out a picture clipped to a piece of paper, and spin it around to face him. “This her?”

“What?” he asks, his face colored in confusion.

“Is. This. Her?” I clip, barely hanging onto my remaining restraint. I need to finish this so I can get the fuck out of here.

His gaze drops to the computer-generated image of a twenty-eight-year-old Aislin, modified from the original sketch I had done of her all those years ago. He sucks in his lower lip, squints his eyes, and starts shaking his head. “No. No, no way. That’s not her.”

“Look closer,” I bite out.

“No! Her hair was red, like a deep, dark color that was obviously fake, and she had a Cindy Crawford mole above her lip.”

Fuck! The hair didn’t have me convinced, but she couldn’t be Aislin with such a telltale mark. Not to mention the guy said he strangled her to death, not beat the ever-loving life straight out of her flesh.

I shift around the open file, dig out a fresh piece of paper, and push it along with a pen in front of him. “If you could please write that all down, we’ll be done here. I’ll be right back.”

I give him a second to pick up the pen and begin to write before I leave. Tavers and Captain are waiting for me on the other side.

“Nice work, James,” Captain praises once the door’s closed.

I’m so ready to explode I can’t even speak. I was so damn sure I’d found the guy or, more accurately, that he’d fallen right into my fucking lap. Finding out I’m wrong feels like losing her all over again.

“Now get out of here.”

“What?” I whip my head in Captain’s direction. “You’re sending me home after that? After I got that confession without any bloodshed?”

Tavers looks as confused as I feel but doesn’t speak. He knows he doesn’t have a dog in this fight. Not like I do.

“Yep,” he replies shortly. “He’s not your guy, so now you’re off this case. Mandatory. Five days. I don’t want to see you; I don’t want to hear from you.”

I start to defend myself, but he holds up a hand.

“Don’t force me to make it indefinite. Just get out of here, take some R&R, and clear your head. We’ve got it from here.” He disappears into the interrogation room.

“Fuck this shit,” I growl and turn my back.

“Niko...” Tavers starts.

“Say hi to your wife.”

“Where’re you going?” he calls after me.

“Stay out of it,” I bite out and push my way through the double doors that lead outside. I don’t have my truck and don’t bother to call a cab. My feet are capable of taking me where I want—no, need—to go, which is straight back to Bar 9 to get my truck. After that, I’m swinging by the liquor store and spending the first day of my mandatory vacation at home.