I want to believe in the system. I want to believe that Maria can at least get justice, even if it's too late to save her. But it only takes one sentence to completely kill what little hope I had.

"We the jury do not believe there is sufficient evidence to warrant an indictment at this time."

I sit there in the gallery, after having given my statement hours earlier, and just feel this wash of sickness overwhelm me. It fucking stains my soul, and I realize there’s a huge part of me that didn't expect things to turn out any differently.

"Can't fucking believe this," Parker mutters beside me.

It's the first time I've seen him in over a year, and we're spending it watching the complete failure of a system we both invested our lives in. The fact that I got out—that I walked away from the police department—doesn't feel like much of a victory right now.

I shift on the bench, wanting to get the hell out of that courtroom as soon as possible. Hours of presenting evidence and examining witnesses, and all for nothing. Diego Cortez is just going to keep on living his life.

As soon as the judge leaves, I spring to my feet and fight my way through the small crowd. It feels like the walls are closing in and I'm gasping for air, my lungs burning with the effort it takes just to breathe. My hand finds the cool stucco wall out in the expansive hallway, light from the nearby window warming half of me as I drop my head below the line of my shoulders.

"Hey, man. You okay?" I hear Parker ask. I make a sound in the back of my throat. "Yeah. Dumb fucking question, I know."

I draw in a long breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth, trying to calm down. I knew this was going to happen. I fucking knew it. So why does it still hurt so much?

"She deserves better than this," I manage, still not looking at Parker.

"Yeah, she does." He lets out a sigh, his back pressing against the wall. "I'm not gonna stop, Reeve. This doesn't have to be the end. We can find more evidence—"

"'We' can't do anything," I correct him. "I'm out. I'm not doing this shit anymore."

He turns to me, frowning. "Reeve, come on."

I shake my head. "Even if he's indicted, even if this case goes to trial, I can't fucking sit there and watch that bastard get off. I can't do it."

The look he gives me then is exactly why I haven't talked to many of my old buddies since leaving the force. It's a look of equal parts bewilderment and pity, like he can't believe any person could be so cynical.

Meanwhile, I'm over here completely floored by the fact that he can shoulder these losses time after time and still somehow have hope that justice will win out in the end.

I've never been more sure that I don't belong here.

"I've gotta get home," I say gruffly, already starting toward the security checkpoint.

"Reeve, I haven't seen you in a year. Stay for a drink or something, at least."

As badly as I want one, I can’t stay. I'm afraid of what'll happen if I let myself get even a little bit tipsy around him. He doesn't need to know I haven't made shit of my life since, and I don't need him to try and convince me the police force does more good than not.

So I just keep on walking, all in the interest of getting the fuck out of Lexington as fast as I can.

* * *

I get back to Glen Springs around five, and the only place I hit up before heading home is the liquor store on the corner. My hand is wrapped around the neck of a brown-bagged bourbon bottle as I make my way to my apartment. I get as far as the kitchen before I open the bottle and pour myself a drink.

There's nothing quiet or reflective about it. I slam about two fingers' worth of whiskey and pour myself another, wanting to get as far removed from reality as I can.

I don't want to think about the case. I don't want to think about Maria. I definitely don't want to think about the fact that the same damn thing could happen to Eric, and there'd be no justice for it.

I drink until the world starts to tilt on its axis. Until I'm flushed and sweating bullets. Until it takes a fuck ton of effort for me to stumble to my usual chair. A little bit more and I'll pass out. I know I'll pay for it tomorrow, but since I'm not working tonight, I've got plenty of time to sleep off the massive hangover. And at least if my head's trying to murder me, I won't be able to think about the case.

But before I can polish off another glass, my phone rings. I fumble for it, seeing Eric's name on the display. I shouldn't pick up when I'm like this, but it could be important. I can't let him down the way I let Maria down.

"Hello," I manage, that single word slurred. My eyes lose focus and I'm forced to close them as the room spins.

"Reeve? Are you okay?"

There's concern in his voice and I tell myself I don't want any part of it.

"Yeah, sure. I'm good. Real good. Peachy keen." I lift the glass to my lips again, but my stomach lurches.

"You're drunk," he says, and I can't really make out what he's feeling. It'd be easier if I could see him. "Did something happen with the case?"

I scoff, making an unattractive noise against my phone. "Nope. Nothing happened. Whole fucking lot of nothing."

There's silence on the other end, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or crushed by it.

"Give me your address," he finally says.

I sit back and stare at my phone. The screen blurs into an unreadable mess and I can feel a dull throb working its way through my skull.

Christ. I can't let him come over here and see me like this. My apartment's a mess and it's doing a hell of a lot better than I am. But the thought of being alone tonight… passed out or not, I'm not sure if I can handle it.

"Yeah. Okay."

I set my glass on the storage unit I'm using as an end table and give him my address. I don't know how long it actually takes him, but it seems like he's knocking on my door in the very next instant.

As I stumble over there to let him in, I remember I was supposed to meet up with him after I got back into town. We'd already scheduled another gym session. No fucking wonder he called.

"Sorry to just bail on you," I say, the words rushing together.

"That's the last thing I'm worried about right now."

I look at him, trying to focus on his eyes. The pity or disgust I was afraid was going to be there isn't, and I let out a shaky breath.

"Come on. Let's get you sobered up," he says, holding up a white sack and a thermos of what I'm going to guess is coffee.

I almost fight him on it, just out of pride. If I want to get shit-faced, that's my fucking right and nobody can take that away from me. But as I'm swaying there, trying to interact with Eric, I realize I don't really want to be drunk. I just want the pain to stop.

He helps me to the kitchen table and pours me a cup of coffee, urging me to drink. It's strong as hell, but my tastebuds are so overwhelmed from the bourbon that I barely get that bitter flavor.

"I got you a sub from Lou's," he says, pulling it out of the sack. "Lots of bread to soak up that alcohol."

I take the sandwich and bite into it without a word. As soon as I swallow, my stomach wakes up and sends a message to my brain that I’m fucking ravenous. I finish the thing within a few minutes, and drink the last of my coffee.

Eric just pours me another cup.

"If you want to talk about it, I'm here," he says softly, "but I'm not going to push. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

There's no world where I would've been okay with telling Eric how badly I fucked things up when I was a cop. I never wanted him to see me that way, for starters, and with everything that's happened with Blake, I don't want him to feel like he can't trust me to keep him safe.

But right now, I feel compelled to tell him everything. To bear my soul and let him make of it what he will. The fact that he came over here as quick as he did, with food and coffee, makes me feel like maybe he wouldn't judge me as harshly as I judge myself.

And at this point, I need to tell someone. It's eating away at me from the inside out.

So I sit back in my chair and lift my gaze to his, looking into his warm, welcoming blue eyes like they're the one thing in the world that's going to save me.

"Case today was the last one I worked when I was a detective," I start, scrubbing a hand over my face. Whether it's the coffee or the subject matter, I'm already starting to sober up. "Woman came to me saying her husband was violent and he'd made threats against her life."

I've never seen somebody more terrified. She was pale and shaking and she made herself so small in that chair as she sat across from me.

"I followed protocol. Started the process for a restraining order. Chief always told us that was the first step if there weren't any signs of immediate abuse. Police station couldn't spare resources until whoever it was actually broke the order."

My words are bitter, that familiar, impotent rage rising in me. The urge to reach for the whiskey again is strong, but I down another generous gulp of coffee instead.

"I should've sent uniformed officers out to her place anyway. Fuck procedure. But I'd just made detective, and our chief had a hard-on for doing things by the book. Said it would save us all trouble in the long run."

I glance over at Eric, and his expression's about where I thought it'd be. Mostly, he looks horrified. This has to hit close to home for him, and for a moment, the guilt in that almost stops me from continuing.

But somebody needs to hear this, and right now, I need it to be Eric.

"Her body was found in a ditch a couple days later," I say, my voice breaking in the middle. Eric sucks in a breath. "It was… honestly, it was the work of a fucking animal. I knew it was the husband. My partner knew it was the husband. But there wasn't any physical evidence, and we couldn't make what we had stick."

I swallow past a lump in my throat, that rage starting to twist into something else. Some deep, dark sort of hopelessness that I’ve never been able to shake.

Eric must sense my struggling, because he reaches out and puts a hand on mine, his fingers curling until they touch my palm. That little bit of contact, that little bit of warmth is what keeps me going.

"Tried to keep the case open, but without any new leads, it went cold. I was so fucking angry and just… felt betrayed, you know? I became a cop to help people. To make sure justice was done. But there wasn't any justice there. Just a bunch of bullshit paperwork to cover our asses."

"Is that why you left?" he asks.

I look away, nodding. Deciding to leave the force was both the easiest and hardest decision I've ever made. It still stings, and I can't help but wonder what my mom would think of my decision were she still alive.

"Yeah. Couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't wear a badge every day, expecting it to mean something when I knew it didn't."

I brace myself, waiting for him to try and tell me law enforcement does lots of good. I already know that. I know exactly how much of an impact the men and women in that precinct had. The problem was never with us—it was with a system that prioritizes paperwork and rule-following over trusting officers and detectives to know what's best in any given situation.

But Eric never tries to feed me any "comforting" lines. His hand just squeezes mine, and I lace my own fingers with his in response.

"The shit show today was a trial before a grand jury to see if an indictment would stick. And somehow there's still not enough evidence, so that bastard's just going to keep walking free."

"It's wrong," he agrees. "It should've never gotten to this point."

Two of his fingers trace patterns over my skin. I've always considered myself a pretty tough guy, but that soft, simple touch is undoing me. I can feel that tide of emotion rising fast, and I make a last-ditch effort to hold it back. Eric's a friend, but he doesn't need to see me turn into any more of a mess than I already am.

I close my eyes as if that's going to help matters any, but it only makes things worse. I can see her face, just as clear as the day I met her. The same face that's haunted me every night since.

"She was so scared, Eric. She kept begging me, over and over. She was crying so hard, she couldn’t breathe by the end of it. And I told her to trust in the system. Trust in the fucking system so we'd have enough evidence to make a case and lock him up for good." My jaw sets, and I draw a breath in through my nose.

"Hey. You were doing what you were supposed to do," he says, and his free hand reaches up to rest on my shoulder.

"Sometimes I wonder if deep down, maybe I just didn't believe her. We get so many call-ins, so many things that lead to nothing. Maybe…"

Eric squeezes my shoulder, ducking his head to make eye contact with me in my slumped state. "I don't believe that. I think you made a judgment call based off the tools available to you."

"And it was the wrong call," I say, feeling my voice waiver. That anger starts to give way to something else; something that's even harder for me to contain. "It was the wrong fucking call, and that woman is dead now because of me. I could've gone to her house myself. I could've sent a patrol over there. I could've slipped her a fucking gun so she'd at least have a chance to defend herself! But all I did was fill out a goddamn form that sat on somebody's desk for days after she was already dead."

As I keep on, my voice gets shakier, emotion suffusing every last word. I don't even notice that telltale sting of tears starting before they're streaming down my face. I feel like I'm out of control. Like I'm in the field again, pulling back that blood-stained sheet to ID her even though I knew exactly whose body I was looking at.

"I couldn't protect her. She came to me for help, and I couldn't protect her."

That’s what hits me the hardest. She trusted me. She trusted me the same way Eric trusts me now. I let her down in the worst possible way, and I’m fucking terrified of the same thing happening to Eric.

I can’t seem to get my shit together, and every moment I let these thoughts infect my mind just makes things worse and worse. But then Eric shifts in his chair, and suddenly his arms are around me. And this isn’t just a half-assed “sorry about your life, dude” hug. His arms are locked tight, his fingers are curled into the fabric of my shirt, and he’s half off his chair in the process of trying to get closer.

I have no idea when I was last hugged like this, but it just fucking breaks me. Sobs wrack my body and I lean into Eric’s embrace, clinging to him like my life depends on it.

I’ve never needed this kind of comfort; never sought it out. But now that it’s on offer, it feels like I’ve just been waiting a lifetime for somebody to let me break down without judgment. To let a big, rough-looking guy cry his fucking eyes out without giving him shit about it or trying to patronize him.

I don’t know how long he keeps me wrapped up in that hug, but when I finally pull back, I’m a mess of snot and tears and a whole lot of unattractiveness put into one package. My pride would take a hit if I had any left, but I think it got wrung out with the rest of my emotions.

Eric gets up and grabs the closest thing he can—a paper towel from the roll—and offers it to me. My laugh is wet and roughened as I try to do damage control without rubbing my face raw.

A bit of that self-consciousness kicks in and I clear my throat. “Jesus, sorry. You didn’t need to hear my sob story.”

“It’s only fair, since you got to hear mine.”

His lips quirk upward in a slow smile, and I laugh again. It’s such a weird thing, like emotional whiplash as I go from such sharp and inescapable sadness and feelings of failure to whatever it is that inspires that laugh. Maybe it’s just the same sort of madness that makes people laugh at a funeral. Once you’ve cried so much, all you can do is laugh.

But for me, it doesn’t turn into hysterics. The laugh tapers off, and then I’m just sitting there, looking into Eric’s eyes. He’s got so much shit to deal with right now, but he came over here to make sure I was okay. It’s hard to believe I once thought he was a self-absorbed diva. The real Eric is nothing like that.

Maybe it’s just how raw my emotions are. Maybe I’m gripped by the same sort of desperation that drove Eric not long ago. But I find myself leaning in, going for a kiss.

And meeting only air as Eric’s hands come to rest gently on my shoulders, keeping me at bay.

“We really have to stop doing this,” he says with a humorless chuckle.

Shame washes over me, but it’s nothing compared to the fear I feel when Eric gets up again.

“Wait. You don’t have to leave.” I reach for him in a move that’s definitely all desperation.

He looks at me, bewildered, then says, “I was going to get you some water.”

Jesus. My nerves, my emotions are so overwrought right now. I try to compose myself as he fills a glass; try to find the gruff guy underneath the mess. It feels like I’ve got it—or at least something close to it—but when Eric comes back to the table and smiles at me, I lose it again.

“So this may sound weird. Call it intuition, I guess, but…” He fidgets, rubbing idly at his wrist before he finally says, “I can stay here tonight. If you want. To keep you company.”

I shouldn’t need somebody to stay with me. I shouldn’t need any of this. I’m a grown-ass man who’s gotten by just fine on his own for years and years.

But as I think of spending tonight alone in this apartment, I just can’t make myself believe that.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

I put some more coffee on, and we sit up and talk late into the night. Eric’s got a talent for putting people at ease, making them laugh or smile, and before too long, we’re sitting on my couch, watching this really bad movie he recommended and just tearing it to pieces. One bad movie turns into two, and two turns into three before my whole body starts to feel heavy, like I could sink into the couch.

But it’s Eric who passes out first. He’s so tired he uses me as a pillow, his head resting against my shoulder and then my chest when I shift my arm. I doze off, too, only to wake up later with him nestled against my side before I fall back into a deep sleep, feeling a little less broken than I did before.