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  Then she turned around and marched into her apartment. Her hand shook as she pushed the door open, reached back to grab her suitcase. Paul was already gone.

  All she saw was his back, his hands pressed into his pockets as he made his way down the stairs and out onto the street.

  Furious, she dragged her bag inside, slammed the door. She thought of how far she’d thrown that phone. Her father would have been proud.

  She tried to hold onto that thought as she looked around the empty apartment.

  Then, buckling to her knees, she sobbed.

  Chapter 19

  Jamie hadn’t gotten Scanlan into an interview room before Internal Affairs stepped in. It was like he had some homing device that alerted Daddy and his cronies whenever he was in trouble. Jamie had insisted she be part of the interview, but they’d denied her request.

  So she’d done the only thing she could think to do. She called Captain Jules, roused him from bed, and had been told to cool her heels. She texted Chip Washington too. If Jules didn’t want to push, maybe Washington could move things along from the DA’s office.

  Then, she and Hailey sat outside the interview room for more than an hour, waiting. She called her house, but Tony didn’t answer. Maybe he was sleeping. She didn’t let herself think about what else he might be doing. He had promised. Sworn on Lana’s grave.

  Hailey and Jamie took turns getting coffee, talking, and half dozing in their chairs, neither willing to leave until the interview was over.

  Something had to come of this. She was pissed off that someone showed up to save Scanlan’s hide, again. She’d like to hang him from his damn toenails instead. But, that might have been premature too.

  Nearly forty-five minutes into the wait, Jamie realized she had voicemails. She thought about Tony, fretting. She’d forgotten about him. Left him at home. He said he’d be fine. Both messages were from Tim. Though he was in prison and mentioned his concern about whether he’d get bail in the appeal, his messages were about Natasha’s murder. He had heard that they had a new lead and he wanted to know if she could share it. No doubt he was hoping that they’d found something definitive that pointed to someone else as her killer. Truth was they hadn’t. Not unless something panned out with Scanlan.

  Nothing unexpected had turned up in the search of Tim’s house and car. They’d found some clothes with Natasha’s blood on them, but Tim had already explained that he had carried her out of the building after she was dead.

  When Jamie had called Goldman, the attorney had assured Jamie that they had enough reasonable doubt to get Tim released from prison. The appeal wouldn’t fail again, especially with the other suspects that were emerging. Though skeptical, Jamie hoped Goldman could make it happen. She didn’t want to see Tim, but she didn’t like the idea of him sitting in jail either.

  When Scanlan finally emerged from the interview room flanked by the two Internal Affairs investigators, he looked relieved.

  Both women stood.

  Bruce Daniels waved them into the conference room. “Let’s talk in here.”

  Jamie eyed Scanlan.

  “Wait for us out here, Scott.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Jamie followed Daniels into the conference room, stood against the wall.

  Daniels motioned to a chair.

  Hailey sat. Jamie stood.

  The other IA guy sat too. Jamie had seen him around but she had no idea of his name.

  Daniels looked at Jamie. “You don’t have enough on him.”

  “I’ve got a photograph,” she returned. “What were you hoping for? A confession?”

  He shook his head. “You’ve got a picture that shows Scanlan dropping her off at the station. No. The image shows a car with something hanging in the rearview mirror that is similar to the thing hanging in Scanlan’s rearview mirror. That’s it.”

  “Did you ask Scanlan if he dropped her off?”

  Daniels nodded.

  “And?” Hailey asked.

  “He says he did. But, he didn’t get out of the car with her.”

  Jamie clenched her jaw. “We need a blood test for DNA comparison to the scene. He could make this easier and submit to the tests.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think he will.”

  “You’re protecting him,” Hailey said.

  “I’m doing my job,” he responded. He sat back in his chair. “We’ll continue the investigation from our department,” he added, sounding like the perfect bureaucrat.

  “Christ,” Hailey said. “You’re going to take over the murder case?”

  “No,” Daniels responded. “Just this one aspect of the questioning.”

  “This aspect of the questioning is a primary suspect. It’s not some little detail, it’s the whole case,” Jamie countered.

  Hailey launched herself out of her chair. “You’re giving him special treatment because he’s the deputy chief’s son. That’s bullshit, Bruce.”

  “No, Inspector. We are not giving him special treatment,” Daniels responded, his voice even. “We are merely treating him like a respected member of the force.”

  “Is that how you treated Tim Worley?” Jamie snapped.

  Daniels didn’t respond to her. Instead, he said, “We agreed that we will pursue it tomorrow. Officer Scanlan said he went straight home. And he’s got an alibi. We’ll check it out.”

  “What’s the alibi?” Jamie demanded.

  Daniels’s lips thinned. “He stayed at his parents’.”

  “Mommy?” Jamie was outraged. “Mommy is his fucking alibi?”

  “Understand our position,” the other officer interjected, speaking for the first time. “We have to offer him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a police officer.”

  “So was Tim Worley when he was arrested for murder and denied bail.”

  The two men sat in silence.

  “We’ve got his print in her car,” Hailey added. “You can’t let him walk because of who his father is.”

  “We’ll check it out.”

  “You’d better bet we will,” Jamie said, but the threat felt empty.

  Hailey stood, crossed her arms, stared down at Daniels. “I would’ve expected more from you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” He didn’t look sorry.

  But, Hailey shook her head at Jamie as though to say it wasn’t worth the fight. Then, without another word, she turned and left the room.

  Jamie looked back at Daniels and wondered what had passed between them.

  Outside the office, Scanlan stood against the far wall. He held his fingers up like they were a gun and shot at her. Then, he blew the smoke off like an old gangster movie. The gesture made him seem more like a surly teenager than any kind of real threat.

  “Watch it, asshole,” she warned him. “We’re not close to being finished with you.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said, blowing her a kiss. With that, she left Scanlan alone. She hurried to the lot, hoping to catch Hailey and get her take on it.

  But Hailey was gone.

  Her cell phone rang as she turned to walk toward the parking lot. “Vail.”

  “Jamie. It’s Chip Washington. I got your message. Who’s in the photo with Devlin?”

  “Scott Scanlan. Marchek must have seen them arrive at the station.”

  “Christ. And there was only that one photo?”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, just one. No image of him bashing her head in.”

  “What did Jules say?”

  “IA is handling it for now. According to them, he’s got a strong alibi.”

  “Oh?” Washington asked.

  “He was at his parents’ house.”

  “Do you like him for it?” Washington asked.

  She thought about Scanlan, about Natasha. She wasn’t a homicide inspector. Scanlan as a rapist she could buy, but a murderer? “I don’t know.”

  Washington promised to follow up and Jamie ended the call, found her car in the lot. Revving the engine, she lit a cigarette as she h
eaded for home. She thought about settling in for a quiet night of rest.

  Then, she wondered where Tony had been all day, why he hadn’t answered her calls. An image of him hanging in a closet made her shudder.

  He’d promised on Lana’s grave that he wouldn’t do it again.

  Not here, not in her house.

  Christ, not Tony.

  She sucked hard on the cigarette, drove too fast, and prayed he had kept his promise.

  Chapter 20

  Hailey was three blocks from the police station when her cell phone rang. She knew who it was without glancing at the phone. She was frustrated, angry. She felt the tension between them and hated it. Sighing, she reached over and touched the green circle. “Wyatt.”

  “I’m on my way home,” he said. “Can you please come for one drink?”

  “I should get home, Bruce.” She had hoped to catch the girls before bed, but it was too late now. John would be there—working late, maybe. Or reading.

  Maybe he would turn in early.

  Be asleep when she got home.

  It would be a relief to go to bed tonight, without the strain, without arguing.

  “Twenty minutes,” Bruce said. “I want to talk about this. I want to explain.”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s Friday night. I won’t get to talk to you again until Monday. Please.”

  “One drink. And just talking.” The weekend belonged to her family. It felt like Bruce owned her during the week, so she was adamant about weekends. Or, she used to be.

  The firmly drawn lines helped her keep the two worlds separate, and for whatever backwards reasoning, the rules also kept her from feeling too much guilt.

  It was harder lately. The weekends were lonely, even surrounded by her family.

  She longed for the adult connection she felt during the week.

  The connection she should have felt with John.

  “I promise,” he assured her, sounding relieved. “I want to talk. Thank you.”

  She hung up, changed lanes, and waited at the turn signal. Behind her, the driver of a Camaro revved his engine. Friday nights brought out the worst. More of every crime happened on Friday night. Payday, the end of the workweek—it was a heyday of lawlessness.

  Hailey hoped there were no murders tonight, though she knew it would be someone else’s turn. She already had one too many on her plate and until her partner was back, it felt like working the equivalent of four cases.

  She arrived at Bruce’s apartment at 9:20 and parked up the street from the entrance to the building. She normally parked across the park. If someone noticed her car there, she could point to a half dozen restaurants and bars she might be at. Here was too close. She considered moving, but couldn’t rouse the energy. After this week—Natasha, the Dennigs, Scanlan—she was ready to put the job aside. Ready to watch Camilla and Ali argue over whose turn it was with the Barbie car. Ready to spend some time on the couch, to watch a movie about magical horses or minions, anything but murder.

  Hailey stared at the facade of Bruce’s building. It wasn’t too late to go straight home. She’d promised him twenty minutes. She was angry, but didn’t want the relationship to end, especially not like this. She locked her gun in the glove box, stood from the car, and set the alarm with the key fob. She put her purse over one shoulder and across her chest and walked to the apartment door.

  It was dark and the single, old light over the doorway gave off only a pale, amber glow. She was rarely here in the dark. Maybe one other time before this, and it crossed her mind that it wasn’t a very safe entryway. She pressed the buzzer for his apartment and heard the click of the door unlock. She stepped inside and felt her purse catch on something. She reached back, turned, and someone bulldozed her into the dark apartment stairwell.

  Before she could scream, a man was on her back. She fell to the floor. “Bruce!” she called out, but the sound was muffled. The strap of her purse was coiled around her neck, tightened on her throat. She tasted the dust of the old rug, saw white stars in her vision as the strap cut off her air. She dug her fingers into her neck, struggled to pry the strap loose. She sucked a breath, tried to roll to one side.

  He pinned her down with his hips, held the strap like reins. Bruce, she thought. Where was Bruce?

  The strap loosened for a fraction of a second. She gasped a breath. Frantic, she reached down and clawed at his ankle, felt her nails dig into his skin.

  The pressure loosened ever so slightly. She struggled left, then right. The strap crushed her throat again. Her vision blacked. She choked, struggled to scream. She blinked, saw black as she started to lose consciousness.

  Blood surged in her face like a pounding drum.

  Black.

  It was all black.

  A door clicked open above her.

  “Hailey?”

  She screamed. The sound caught in her throat, faded out.

  She heard Bruce again.

  I’m here. I’m right here. Help me.

  Black swam across her vision. Then bright white lights. She heard footsteps and tried to yell.

  Louder. Someone was coming.

  The strap went slack. She sucked in air, panted. Tried to move. Couldn’t.

  More running.

  A sound like a hand hitting glass. The door clicked opened, slammed closed.

  Bruce’s voice. “Christ. Christ.”

  His touch was cool. His hand tingled against her skin.

  She looked at him.

  Spots in her vision blocked his face.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 21

  When Jamie woke on Saturday morning, Tony was asleep. He’d been asleep when she arrived home the night before too.

  After a long shower, she dragged her bedroom chair to the window. Sitting in the natural light, she brushed her hair with the wood-handled brush she’d had for a decade. She fought with the gnarled bits. Eventually, she won, and the knots came loose. She turned her head over and brushed the underneath and then flipped it back up. It was cool on her neck. She passed the brush through the smooth strands, daring it to catch.

  She held the brush in her hands, ran her fingers across the smooth wood.

  Brushing her hair reminded her of the first female friend she’d had. Marisa Caltabiano was Italian, her father a police officer in the Bronx. She and her family—parents and two younger brothers—had moved in down the street from Tony and Jamie. They hadn’t moved from far, just from somewhere else in Brooklyn.

  As a kid, though, a couple of blocks seemed like across the world. Marisa had lived near them for four years, beginning when Tony and Jamie were nine, or maybe ten.

  She had moved away when they were thirteen—after the attack.

  Her father had been the one to find them. It had been his call.

  Jamie pushed those memories aside and thought about the early days.

  Tony had discovered Marisa playing jacks down the street and brought her home like a stray puppy.

  Jamie had disliked her immediately.

  She had thick curls, olive skin, and perfectly almond-shaped eyes. She was nice, not sweet, and held her own from the start.

  Tony and Mick were so taken with her that Jamie’s Irish temper had been thrown into overdrive.

  Jamie had been so protective of them, especially Tony. She wasn’t used to sharing him. Marisa and Tony had dated a bit; she was his first girlfriend.

  All of it before the attack, the rape.

  Before everything had changed.

  She worked through a knot in her hair as she thought about Tony.

  She wanted to talk to him. They needed to break this all open, let it out. But how?

  How did they pull down those barriers and actually talk if they had never learned? The most open conversations she’d ever had were with Tim during their seven-year marriage. He had taught her how to open up, to acknowledge her emotions as something other than a nuisance to be corked and ignored.

  She obviously
hadn’t learned well enough.

  That was his excuse for going to bed with Natasha Devlin. “You never let your guard down. You never let me in to what you were thinking or feeling.”

  “You want to know how I’m feeling?” she’d screamed, drawing her service weapon from her holster and unloading it into the wall above their heads—her own bedroom wall. “I’m fucking furious.”

  Anger was easy. Her default emotion. She wasn’t angry at Tony, and she knew he wasn’t angry at her. They were angry—mostly at themselves. They had made mistakes. They needed help forgiving themselves. She wasn’t sure they were the right people to help each other. But who else was there?

  They were the only family they had left.

  At ten thirty, she left for errands, leaving a menu to a local pizza place and a check with a note. When she returned home at four thirty, Tony was gone—no note, no message. The check sat untouched on the counter. The backpack he’d brought with him sat beside the couch. The blankets he’d used as covers were in a heap at the far end of the couch, the pillow on top. He was obviously coming back, but where would he have gone? With no car, no knowledge of the area.

  He might have had money, but she couldn’t imagine him sightseeing. And it was impossible to picture him looking for a job in the state he was in. The library seemed unlikely. The only thing left was alcohol. He had gone somewhere to drink and the thought of him out there, drunk and still drinking, made her a little sick to her stomach.

  She spent a quiet evening alone, ate a Lean Cuisine chicken teriyaki, washed it down with the last of the liter of flat Pepsi that she’d bought earlier in the week. It was a typical Saturday night, but somehow worrying about Tony left her feeling more hollow than usual. She was used to being alone.

  What she wasn’t used to—and didn’t want to get used to—was worrying about someone else.

  When the phone rang at nine, she snatched it up, hoping to hear Tony’s voice. Even drunk, it would have been a relief.

  “It’s Tim.”

  Jamie sank back down. “You’re out?”