I spent the entire weekend with Marina, taking her out, having her cook for me. Helping her pack. It was exactly what I’ve always pictured with that special woman but wasn’t convinced was in my cards. However, after this time together, I know she’s it. She’s the one woman I’m meant to spend my life with.

Leaving her last night after things got heated on her couch, was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. I was rock hard; she was needy and breathless. I had to recite the entire Nashville Predators roster to focus long enough to drive home.

My five a.m. wakeup call to a gruesome double murder wasn’t how I wanted to spend my Monday. Rod hadn’t been any happier when I called to wake him up after arriving at the scene, either.

Twelve hours later and we’re only getting back to the precinct after casing the scene, talking to witnesses, and stopping by the coroner’s office. We still have to notify both victims’ families before we can take any time to decompress.

“That was a brutal one.” Rod drops into his chair with a heavy sigh.

“Yeah. Worst I’ve seen in years,” I mutter as I walk to the coffee machine. I need fuel before I can even think of sitting down, or I may not get up again.

“Fuck,” Rod shouts as he jumps to his feet. “Emily’s on her way to the hospital.” He looks torn between duty and family.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I yell at him. “Call with an update!” He’s out the door and waving his hand as it swings shut.

“Daniels!” I hear barked from the captain’s office.

Walking over, I know what he’s going to want before I enter. A report. Answers. An arrest. None of which I have yet.

Knocking on his door, he bellows, “Come in!” Even though he knows it’s me, he still demands acceptance to anyone’s entrance.

“You called?”

“Status report on the double homicide.” The man is a demanding son of a bitch, but from what I’ve been told, he was one of the best back in his time.

“No physical evidence at the scene. Coroner is having castings made of the stab wounds. There were defensive marks on both victims, and we’re still waiting on the toxicology report.”

“So you have nothing?” he snaps.

I have to grind my teeth together. “Basically, yeah.”

“Spoken to the family yet?” He doesn’t even look up from the papers on his desk. The man is cold.

“On my way there now.”

“Get going.”

“Yes, sir.”

As I’m about to walk out the door, he calls out, “Detective, next time, tell your partner to stay until the work is finished.”

I don’t bother responding. He won’t take any type of excuse as acceptable. Nodding, I leave, closing the door behind me. Notifying parents that their child isn’t coming home again is the worst part of my job. I loathe doing it, but I’d rather it come from me than from a beat cop. I have the connection to their loved ones, not some nameless officer.

This is going to be one of the worst notifications I’ve ever had to do. The victims were both young—only eighteen and nineteen. Cousins from I was able to find out. These types of cases are the ones that eat away at a cop his entire career. Makes you question everything you know about the law, about justice and morality.

What happened to these boys is unjustifiable. There is no rhyme or reason to it. It’s some sicko getting his rocks off from what we can tell. We collected their fingers from the bushes where they’d been thrown after being dismembered. The medical examiner counted a stab wound for each year of their age in their chests and abdomens. The very worst part is that they were left for dead.

The killer has excellent precision in anatomy because he made sure not to hit anything vital. They bled out over approximately four hours. With their hands and feet bound and their mouths gagged, no one would have heard them in the abandoned lot they were in overnight. It is a shitty area of town, so there weren’t many people out and about at night.

I would never tell their families any of this, though. It’s something I will protect them from. Learning their children are dead is torture enough. Knowing how is something very few people should have to live with.

Slowing into the parking lot of an apartment building only minutes from Marina’s, I feel a lead weight settle deep in my gut. I fucking hate this part of the job.

I take a moment to place a stoic but caring mask firmly on my face. They can’t know how harshly these boys’ deaths are affecting me; they need me to be strong for them. To give them answers. The rage inside me isn’t what they need.

Striding up to the building, I identify the buzzer with one of the boys’ last names and press. Waiting for an answer, I’m saddened by the knowledge of having to do this twice tonight.

“Hello?” A disembodied voice comes through the speaker.

“Evening ma’am, my name is Detective Arsen Daniels from MNPD. Could I come in and speak to you, please?” My voice is steady, thankfully.

“Is everything okay?” I can hear the tears in her tone already. She knows it’s not.

“I’d rather speak face to face, ma’am.”

“First floor,” she mumbles, “number six.”

The door clicks for opening, and I walk through, the overwhelming aroma of marijuana immediately invades my senses. At any other time, I’d have found the source. Tonight, I just want to get in and out as quickly as possible.

Seeing her door at the end of the hall, I knock. The door opens, and a woman in her late forties answers, waving me in. “Ms. Jackson?” I query. I’d hate to give the news to the wrong person and then have to do it again.

“Yes.” Her chin wobbles as she responds.

“Could we sit?”

“Please, just tell me.” She does as I ask, anyways.

Taking a deep breath, I sit at an angle beside her and say the one thing I hate more than anything in this cruel fucking world. “I’m sorry to tell you this– “

“No. Wait. Please.” Tears stream down her face in rivulets, and I watch as she tries to hold it together and fails. Instinctually, everyone knows. They fight it for as long as possible, but they always know. “I just need one more minute. Just one last second to believe he’s being a typical teen and not calling. One more minute to believe he’s going to walk through that door.” Her eyes plead with me to give her that. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. I wish it did something other than sound like I’m placating her.

“When?” She sniffles with her head down.

“I first need to ask you, Johnny Jackson is your son?” I see the heartbreak in her eyes as she looks to me and nods. “Thank you. Johnny and another male were found at approximately three this morning in an abandoned lot.”

“Another male?” I had a feeling she was going to catch that.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Sighing, I hate telling her this, especially because I haven’t told his mother yet. “Connor Jackson.”

“No.” Her head shakes repeatedly. There’s nothing I can do at this point. Her entire world is crashing right in front of her face, and I’m the cause of her pain. “He can’t; they can’t. Oh, my God. No.”

“I’m very sorry.” If I never say those words again, I’ll be happy with it.

Her tears and sobbing seem to go on forever as she processes the loss of her son and nephew. I eventually find myself holding her in my arms as she lets it all out. When my phone rings, I have to contort my arm to get it off the hook on my belt. It’s my desk sergeant. Knowing he doesn’t call unless it’s important, I answer.

“Detective, we just received a missing person’s report about one of your victims. The parents are here now.”

Fuck. Exactly what I don’t want. “Has anyone spoken with them yet?”

“They’re filling out paperwork and waiting for someone to come in and speak to them.”

“Don’t let anyone say a word to them. I’ll be right there.” This is my case, my burden, and I won’t let another soul experience what this night will bring. “Ms. Jackson, Connor’s parents are at my precinct filling out a missing person’s report. I’d like for you to come with me to speak to them. Then I can ask you all the same questions at one time.”

Sniffling again, she pulls back from me and nods her head. “Just let me grab my purse.” Waiting by the front door, I can still hear her cries in my mind. Her pain permeates the entire apartment. As she comes from a back room, I dread the next few hours of my life, recognizing that this family is going to go through hell.

Some days, I fucking hate my job.

* * *

I waited all day to hear anything from Arsen after our amazing weekend. I realize I should be more understanding given his profession. For all I know, he’s caught a case that needs all of his focus, but I can’t help feeling left behind.

I spent the majority of the day cleaning out all my teaching supplies from the year. I need to make a list of new things to keep the classroom fun and festive for the next. Plus, it kept my mind off Arsen.

I know I could have been the one to make contact with him, but on the chance that he did get a case, I don’t want him to feel obligated to answer me back or take my call.

Mom even called once to find out more about my mystery man. Lord, love the woman, but she drives me crazy. I eventually wound up tuning her out and making odd noises here and there, so she thought I was still listening. She means well.

After I told her about my budding feelings for Arsen, she asked if I was still coming home. I paused to think about it. Which is shocking in and of itself. I’ve never had to worry about anyone else and what they wanted. When I didn’t immediately answer, she told me to invite Arsen with me. That gave me pause. We aren’t ready for that step yet. I need to confess to him before either of us can make that type of commitment.

After spending over an hour in a dollar store shopping for pencil cases and cute prizes for the new school year, I came back home and reorganized my school bins. I like to try and buy as many supplies as I can for the students, so it’s one less worry for parents. I know many struggle to make sure their kids have new clothes, shoes, and outdoor gear. If I can buy the supplies my students will need for the year, I’m happy to do it.

I’ve been saving my money for as many years as I’ve been working, and thankfully, have a nice little nest egg put away for anything I like. Well, maybe not anything, but a good number of things. My students are the most prized possessions for me, and they deserve it.

As I climb into bed, I wonder if Arsen’s safe. I watched the news for anything about injured cops, and nothing came up. Gazing at the clock, I notice it’s after midnight, and I acknowledge that if I want to make my appointments in the morning, I have to go to sleep now.

If only my brain would work with me and calm down.

* * *

Loud banging wakes me from my sleep, and I look around wondering if it was a dream until I hear it again.

Coming from my front door.

Throwing the blanket aside, I grab my robe from the chair by my bedroom door and glance at the clock on my nightstand. It glares a red 3:08 a.m. Growling, this had better be the million-dollar man, or I may commit murder.

Approaching the door—this is one of those moments in the horror movies where the girl opens the door and gets stabbed to death—I hesitate. Leaning my ear against the wood panel in hopes of hearing someone, I wait. A pounding makes me scream and jump back.

“Marina!” is yelled loud enough to wake the dead.

Arsen.

Jesus Murphy. This man.

Unlocking the chain and deadbolt, I pull the door open to see him looking like death warmed over. “Arsen? What’s wrong.” Something has to be wrong. He wouldn’t just be here at this ungodly hour without good reason and looking so unkempt.

“Bad day,” he groans.

Grabbing his hand, I pull him inside. Ever the protector, he locks the door behind him. Walking to the sofa, his body nearly collapses on the cushions, dragging me down with him.

Worried, I ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Grabbing me around the waist, he pulls me into his lap, so I’m straddling his thighs. His arms wrap around my back, and he buries his face in my chest. “No. I just need to hold you,” he murmurs.

Delving my fingers into his hair, I gently massage his scalp. His body is coiled with tension, and I know his head must be pounding. His deep groan of appreciation tells me I’m right.

I don’t know how long we sit like that for, but when his body gradually relaxes, I let mine, too. My robe has been long since discarded, so I’m sitting on him in nothing more than a thin camisole and panties. A little less than I would have liked, but he seems to need it if his roaming hands are any indication.

Not in a provocative way, more as a calming effect. A reminder to himself that I’m here, and I’m real. I don’t know what happened over the past 24 hours, but he’s a mess, and if I can take that away by letting his fingers graze my body and holding him, I will.

Laying my head on his shoulder, exhaustion takes us both under, and soon we’re asleep with me on top of him, his hands up the back of my shirt gripping the material in both fists.