Chapter 1

Jake

2018

Tuesday starts at three seventeen in the morning with my fist buried in the pillow and my heart trying to break through my ribs.

I sit up hard enough to drag half the sheet with me. Sweat has soaked through the back of my T-shirt, and for several seconds I have no idea where I am. The bedroom door is closed. The ceiling fan turns above me. A thin strip of streetlight slips between the blinds and stretches across the floor.

Nobody is shouting downstairs. There is no small hand locked around mine while I search for somewhere to hide.

I press my palms against my eyes until sparks flare behind them. "Jesus Christ."

The dream is already coming apart, but my body has not figured that out. My chest keeps heaving. My jaw aches from clenching it, and my knuckles are stiff where I twisted the pillowcase around my fist.

Dr. Kaplan taught me to name five things I could see, four I could touch, three I could hear. That was two years ago, before I stopped making appointments and decided I had learned everything useful.

I try it anyway.

The clock. The dresser. My boots beside the closet. The ceiling fan.

The framed picture on my nightstand.

Brendon is eight in it, missing both front teeth and hanging off my shoulders while I pretend his weight is about to crush me. I am fifteen, scowling at the camera because smiling felt childish, though one arm is locked around his legs to make sure he does not fall. Mom took it the summer before she died.

The picture used to make me laugh.

Lately, I keep turning it toward the wall.

I reach over and do it again, hiding Brendon's grin against the dark wood of the frame. Then I move on to what I can feel: the mattress beneath me, damp cotton against my back, carpet under my feet, the rough seam of the pillowcase still caught in my hand.

By the time I reach the sounds—the ceiling fan, a truck passing outside, my own breathing—my pulse has slowed enough for me to swallow.

The prescription bottle waits on the nightstand beside yesterday morning's coffee. I shake one pill into my palm and chase it with a cold mouthful. The coffee tastes bitter and stale, but it gets the pill down.

My phone lights when I knock it with my wrist.

Three missed calls.

All from Brendon.

A voicemail notification sits beneath them.

I should leave it alone. Instead, I tap the screen and put the phone on speaker while I strip the wet pillowcase from the bed.

A burst of static comes through before his voice.

"Hey, Jake. It's me. We got access to the phones for a little while, so I figured I'd try you."

Men talk somewhere behind him. Something metallic strikes the ground, followed by the distant rumble of an engine.

"It's hot as hell here. Food still tastes like somebody boiled cardboard, so nothing new."

He gives a small laugh that dies quickly.

"I called yesterday too. Don't know if you saw it."

I yank the pillowcase free and throw it toward the hamper. It lands on the floor.

Brendon breathes into the phone for a second.

"Look, I know you're still pissed about what happened last time I was home. I am too. I said things I shouldn't have, and you—"

He stops himself.

"We both did."

My jaw tightens.

I can still see him in my kitchen a year ago, blood running from his split lip while I held one hand against my swelling eye. He looked at me like he no longer knew who I was.

I remember thinking the same thing about him.

"I'm not trying to argue about it from the other side of the world," he continues. "I just want to talk to my brother. Five minutes. Hell, thirty seconds. You don't even have to apologize."

Another pause.

"Neither do I, apparently."

There is a trace of a smile in his voice, an attempt to drag us back toward the way we used to talk. It almost works.

"Call me when you can, all right? I don't know when I'll have the phone again, but leave a message. I'll get it eventually."

His voice softens before the recording ends.

"Stay safe, Jake."

The room falls quiet.

I stare at the phone until the screen goes dark. Brendon has left some version of that message every chance he has gotten since he deployed. Sometimes he talks about the heat. Sometimes the food or one of the men in his unit. He always finds a way to ask me to call.

I never do.

I pick up the pillowcase and carry it to the hamper. On the way back to bed, my eyes catch on the blank back of the picture frame.

I stand there for several seconds before turning it around again.

Brendon grins up at me through the glass, his small arms hooked around my neck as though there was nowhere in the world he would rather be.

I leave him facing the room.

By seven, I am at the precinct explaining to a rookie why he nearly got himself killed.

Mercer stands in front of my desk with his report clutched in one hand and his shoulders locked square beneath his uniform. Six months on the job, and he already carries himself like the badge came with divine protection.

"I had him contained," he says.

"You chased an armed suspect through the back entrance of an abandoned house without waiting for your partner."

"He was getting away."

"He was boxed in between two units and a fence."

Mercer shifts his weight. "I made the arrest."

"You got lucky."

His jaw tightens. "Nobody got hurt."

I lean back and let that sit between us until he realizes he should have stopped talking.

"Nobody got hurt," I repeat. "That what you want me to put in the file? Officer Mercer ignored a direct order and entered an unsecured structure alone, but it all worked out, so everybody went for pancakes afterward?"

"No, sir."

"You saw the weapon."

"Yes, sir."

"You knew Daniels was thirty seconds behind you."

"Yes."

"And thirty seconds was too long because?"

Mercer looks at the floor.

I reach across the desk and take the report from his hand. "You want me standing on your mother's porch explaining that you died because waiting for backup offended your pride?"

The color drains from his face.

"No, sir."

"Rewrite this. Include the part where you broke formation, and don't make Daniels sound responsible for your decision."

He accepts the pages. "Yes, Lieutenant."

He turns toward the door.

"Mercer."

He looks back.

"You're good at the job. That's why we're having this conversation instead of me pulling you off the street. Stop trying so hard to prove yourself that somebody has to fold a flag for your family."

The fight leaves his face. "Yes, sir."

He shuts the door behind him.

I rub both hands over my face and feel the grit behind my eyes. My coffee has gone cold again. I drink it anyway.

Captain Rhodes appears in the doorway a few minutes later and drops an overtime sheet onto my desk.

"Two open shifts this weekend."

I pick up my pen.

"You already worked thirty extra hours last week."

"You need them covered."

"I need a lieutenant who can form a coherent sentence by Friday."

"I've been forming them all morning."

"You've been chewing through rookies like aspirin."

"Mercer entered a house alone."

"And judging by the look on his face, he'll never enter a broom closet without backup again."

I sign my name beside both openings and slide the sheet toward him.

Rhodes looks down at it, then back at me. "Pick one."

"I can work both."

"That wasn't a negotiation."

I stare at the paper.

He taps it with one finger. "One shift, Jake."

I cross my name off Saturday night and leave Sunday.

Rhodes takes the sheet. "Find a hobby."

"I have one."

"Work doesn't count."

"Then I'm fresh out."

He studies me long enough to make it clear he sees more than I want him to, but he leaves without saying it.

That is why I like Rhodes.

He knows when to stop.

By Tuesday night, sleep has come in scraps for two days, but I still go to Dugan's.

The place is loud before I make it through the door. The jukebox fights with a dozen conversations, somebody near the dartboards shouts about a bad throw, and laughter rolls across the room beneath the smell of fried onions, old beer, and whiskey.

My crew has claimed the same tables beside the pool area we have occupied every Tuesday since the academy.

Callahan looks up from the table as I approach. She has a cue balanced across one hand, dark hair pulled into a loose knot, and that sharp little smile she saves for people she intends to beat.

"Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence."

"I had to explain to Mercer why bullets don't respect seniority."

"The rookie with the hair?"

"They all have hair."

"The one who spends forty minutes making his look accidentally messy."

"That narrows it down."

She bends over the table and strikes the cue ball. The striped nine drops cleanly into the corner pocket.

Callahan straightens with a satisfied look. "You're late. First round's on you."

"Pretty sure you owe us," Ruiz calls from one of the tables. "She's been hustling everybody for an hour."

"You shouldn't gamble with money you're emotionally attached to," Callahan says.

I pull a beer from the metal bucket and twist off the cap. "She tell you she had a pool scholarship before the academy?"

Callahan points the cue at me. "You've been telling that lie for four years."

"I'm committed."

"You're committed to being an asshole."

"That too."

The first swallow is cold enough to sting the back of my throat. Some of the tension leaves my shoulders.

Callahan notices everything. It is one of her more irritating qualities.

"You look like hell," she says.

"Been hearing that all day."

"Maybe start listening to the consensus."

"I slept."

"How long?"

I take another drink instead of answering.

Her gaze drops to my hand around the bottle. My fingers are trembling slightly from caffeine, exhaustion, or whatever remains of the dream.

"You're shaking."

I tighten my grip around the bottle. "Long day."

"That's not a long-day shake."

"You diagnosing me now?"

"No. Just paying attention."

"There's your first mistake."

Her mouth pulls to one side, but she turns back to the table before I can tell her to mind her business. That is another thing about Callahan. She calls me on my lies but rarely stands around waiting for a confession.

We play doubles. Callahan and I take twenty dollars from Ruiz and Franklin, lose ten of it back, then win thirty more when Ruiz gets drunk enough to believe every shot should involve three rails and an act of God.

Sometime after one, my phone begins vibrating inside the jacket draped over the back of my chair. The fabric hums against the wood.

Callahan glances at it. "Your brother again?"

I do not reach for the jacket. "Probably."

"He's persistent."

"You have no idea."

The buzzing stops.

"Are you going to call him back?"

"He'll leave a message."

"That wasn't what I asked."

I gesture toward the table with my beer. "Take your shot."

"That must make him feel special."

She bends over the table and shoots. The ball catches the lip of the pocket and rolls away.

I point toward it. "That's what you get for worrying about my family."

"I missed because your face distracted me."

"Usually that's a compliment."

"It wasn't."

She moves around me to retrieve her glass, her shoulder brushing my chest as she passes. The contact is casual, familiar, and deliberate enough to make me look down at her.

"What happened between you two?" she asks.

"Nothing I'm discussing over pool."

"That bad?"

I give her a look.

She raises one hand. "Fine. Keep brooding. It gives your face something to do."

"I don't brood."

"You're doing it right now."

"I'm thinking."

"Dangerous hobby."

I lift the beer toward her. "Keep pushing and I'll assign you traffic duty for the rest of your natural life."

"You'd miss me."

"Eventually."

Callahan smiles into her drink.

We have done this dance before. The pool games, the insults, the way she stands close enough that I catch the faint wildflower scent of her perfume beneath the smoke and liquor. Sometimes we leave separately. Sometimes she comes home with me. Once in a while, I end up at her place and leave before her coffeemaker finishes dripping.

Neither of us mistakes it for something else.

That is why it works.

By last call, Ruiz and Franklin have disappeared into a cab, still arguing over forty dollars. The bartender stacks chairs at the far end while Callahan and I sit with the remains of the bucket between us.

My jacket starts vibrating against the back of the stool again.

Callahan looks toward it. "He got another turn at the phone?"

"Apparently."

"And you're still not answering."

"Apparently."

I lift my glass, but it is empty.

Callahan watches the jacket until the buzzing stops, then drains what is left in her drink. "Your funeral."

The words catch somewhere they should not.

I slide off the stool and reach for my jacket. The room shifts just enough that I brace one hand against the bar until it settles.

Callahan watches me.

"Your truck's staying here."

"I know, Lauren."

Her hand pauses around her empty glass.

Most of the people we work with probably forget Callahan has a first name. I use it when we are alone, usually with her mouth against mine or her bare feet crossing my kitchen the next morning.

Or when I have had too much to remember that we are still standing in a bar.

Her eyes lift to mine, but she lets it pass.

"Good. Call us a cab."

I pull out my phone without looking at the notifications and open the cab app. "Bossy tonight."

"You like me bossy."

"Sometimes."

"Whenever you're drunk, apparently."

"I'm not that drunk."

"You just called me Lauren in public."

I glance around. The bartender is stacking chairs, and the only other person within earshot is wiping down a table without paying attention to us.

"Scandalous."

"Ruiz hears you do it once, we'll never know peace again."

"I could fire him."

"No, you couldn't."

"I could make his schedule miserable."

"That I'd help with."

I request a cab and give the bartender enough cash to cover what remains of our tab.

We wait outside beneath Dugan's faded sign. The humid night presses against my skin, and the smell of fryer grease follows us through the door. My truck sits beneath a parking-lot light where I can collect it tomorrow, after I am capable of driving it without destroying my career or somebody's family.

Callahan leans against the brick beside me.

My phone vibrates against my hip.

She glances toward the sound. "Still him?"

"Probably."

"You could look."

"I know who it is."

Except I do not.

I press the side button through my jacket and silence the call without taking the phone out.

Callahan studies me, but she does not push.

"You working this weekend?" she asks instead.

"Sunday."

"I heard you signed up for both."

"Rhodes crossed one out."

"Smart man."

"Controlling."

"Somebody has to keep you from working yourself into an early grave."

I look at her.

She lifts both hands. "That wasn't an invitation to discuss your feelings. Calm down."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The cab arrives several minutes later, an old sedan with cracked vinyl seats and a pine-tree air freshener swinging beneath the mirror. Callahan slides into the back first, and I follow.

The city moves past in streaks of red and gold. I rest my head against the seat, and Callahan's thigh presses against mine every time the driver takes a turn.

"Don't fall asleep," she says.

"I'm resting my eyes."

"You snore."

"You've never complained before."

"You're not usually wearing this many clothes."

I open my eyes.

She is watching me beneath the passing streetlights, one corner of her mouth raised. The job, Mercer, Rhodes, and Brendon's voicemail all retreat a few steps.

They are not gone. They are simply farther away.

The cab turns into my driveway ten minutes later. I pay while Callahan gets out and walks toward the porch without waiting. She has been here often enough to know which paving stone shifts beneath her heel and how hard the screen door needs to be pulled before it catches.

By the time I reach her, she is standing beneath the porch light with her arms folded.

"You look rough, Lieutenant."

"You came home with me anyway."

"I have questionable judgment."

"Apparently."

I reach for her waist. She catches the front of my shirt and pulls me down before my hands get there.

Her mouth tastes like whiskey. The kiss sends my shoulder into the door hard enough to rattle the frame, and she laughs when I miss the first number on the keypad.

"Elite police work."

"You're distracting me."

"You used that excuse last time."

I get the code right on the second try. The lock releases, and Callahan backs through the door while pulling me with her.

There is no pause to define what this is. We settled that years ago, probably the first morning she walked through my kitchen wearing my academy shirt, drank half my coffee, and told me not to make things weird.

She knows which cabinet holds the glasses and where I keep an extra toothbrush. She knows I sleep on the left side of the bed and that I will wake before her even after barely sleeping at all.

She also knows there are nights when I do not want comfort. I want noise strong enough to drown everything else out.

I kick the door shut behind us. Callahan drags my shirt free of my jeans, and we stumble into the living room, knocking a stack of mail from the end table.

My phone begins vibrating somewhere inside my jacket.

Callahan glances toward the sound as I toss the jacket onto the floor.

"Brendon again?"

"Probably."

"This might be his last chance to call for a while."

The reminder cuts through the alcohol more cleanly than I want it to.

I look toward the jacket. The phone keeps vibrating.

For half a second, I picture answering. Hearing the static behind his voice. Letting him say whatever he keeps crossing the world to say to me.

Then I remember his fist connecting with my jaw. The blood on his mouth. The things he said about Dad and the way he looked at me when I told him forgiveness did not make him better than me.

"I'll listen to the message."

Callahan's eyes stay on mine. "Sure."

"Leave it, Lauren."

The name sounds different here, low and rough and familiar. Whatever argument she might have made disappears before it reaches her mouth.

She grips the back of my neck and pulls me close.

For a while, everything disappears beneath heat, breathless laughter, and the familiar urgency between us. There is no promise in it, but there is trust. Lauren knows where to touch me and where not to. She knows when I need her to take control and when I need something hard enough to drive every thought from my head.

The phone continues vibrating beneath my discarded jacket.

I hear it.

I kiss her harder and pretend I do not.

Mercer's report disappears. The overtime sheet disappears. The nightmare loosens its hold, and Brendon's careful voice fades beneath the sound of Lauren breathing my name.

The phone eventually falls silent.

Morning will bring everything back—the dream, the job, the prescription bottle, Brendon's voicemail, and the framed picture waiting beside my bed.

For now, I close my eyes and pretend silence is the same thing as peace.