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Twelve

Chantelle was a nice enough lady, but…” Theo Green, the building manager, seemed hesitant to say what he was thinking, as if it would somehow be speaking ill of the dead.

Madison and Terry were in his living room, sitting on a leather couch that smelled brand new, but thankfully overpowered the cacophony of other odors she’d concluded were inherent to the building itself. Green’s apartment was a tad more spacious than Carson’s but still dated and stinky. The walls were painted a neutral beige and were scuffed and dirty.

Green was a sixty-something single man with dark skin, a genuine smile, and a calm spirit. He was seated in a rocker recliner, and for a man used to going to bed early, his eyes were bright, and he seemed wide awake. Ah, the power of coffee.

It was just after ten by the time they’d knocked on his door and he’d opened it wide and welcomed them into his “humble home.” She kept glancing at the plastic wall clock. For her other plans, she had to get into position preferably by eleven. Any later and she might as well wait until next week.

“I understand that this may be difficult for you,” Madison began. “But whatever it is that you have to say about Chantelle, we need to hear it. No matter how bad it might sound.” She wanted to add that he couldn’t hurt her anymore but didn’t think the older man needed a reminder that his tenant was dead.

Green fussed with the arm of his chair, appearing to tug at invisible threads. “She had a problem covering her rent.”

“She wasn’t living here long, was she?” Madison wanted him to tell them.

“Two months. She paid first and last, but she made it sound like scraping that together was an effort. Actually, she was a hundred bucks short, but I gave her an extension. She was supposed to make it up in the next few months, added to her rent. Guess that won’t be happening now. But I feel for her. Life really seemed to have taken the wind out of her sails.”

Madison licked her lips, pushed the cliché from mind. Her mother had murdered colloquialisms for her. “Did she ever tell you what had her down on her luck?” Gah! “You know, desperate?” Madison rephrased.

“No, she wasn’t open about her personal life—at least not with me. Just appealed to my humanity to give her a break. She said she needed one.”

Madison glanced at the clock again. She really had to get moving.

Green followed the direction of her gaze, then met her eyes. “She’s really dead?”

“She is,” Madison confirmed, even though Barrett hadn’t officially ID’d Carson. Shock and disbelief were common in the wake of death in general, murder or otherwise. But with the former, people tended to have an extra hard time processing the fact that a life was snuffed out by another’s hand.

“I was trying to get my head around how I was going to tell her that I’d have to evict her if she didn’t get caught up. Guess that problem is solved.” Green’s voice was solemn, and there was a whisper of hope that testified he’d rather have that difficult conversation than the one he was having now.

Rationalization was another thing that came up after someone died, as if there was a hidden nugget of positivity to be found in the horror of loss. Theo Green, in Madison’s opinion, was a man who sincerely cared about other people—even to his own detriment. And it was obvious he had a soft spot for the underdog. “We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Green.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Just find who did this to her.”

“That’s our intention.” She wasn’t going to promise as much out loud, but she would find justice. It was a vow she made with every case.

Madison was behind the wheel again as she and Terry headed back to the station. She saw every minute turn over on the dash clock.

“I assume you want to see if we can find Carl Long tonight?” Terry asked, getting out of the car once she’d parked.

“Normally, I’d say yes, but—”

“Really?” Terry bugged his eyes out. “You’re calling it a day already? It’s not even midnight.”

“Guess I’m learning from you that I need food and rest.” She wasn’t going to feign illness, and she certainly wasn’t going to fill him on her plans.

“Hey, I’m not going to stand here arguing with you.” He headed toward his van.

“We start early, though,” she called after him.

“Eight. For the autopsy.”

“Before eight so we’re not late.”

“You got it, boss.”

She hustled toward her Mazda, and on the way, her phone rang. Troy. She couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Hello,” she answered after the third ring.

“I was starting to wonder if you dropped off the surface of the earth.”

“I told you when I left that I was likely going to be late.”

There was a pocket of silence that was painful for her. Lulls in conversations between them never used to be awkward. Now they seemed filled with assumptions about what the other was thinking and not saying.

“So the woman was murdered?”

Madison had given Troy the basics after Estelle’s call. “Yeah, she was. I probably won’t be home until really late if you want to go to bed without—”

“Yeah, no problem. Thanks for letting me know.”

She took a deep breath. Before Troy, she easily let relationships go—no point to getting trapped by drama. She operated on the theory that if a relationship was work it wasn’t worth the effort or meant to be. But with Troy, there was a damn part of her that wanted to fight, claw, scratch her way. Then, if it didn’t meld, well, she’d have to rethink things. “I should have called you earlier or—”

“I tried calling.”

She wasn’t sure if his tone accused her of ignoring him or not. “Did you leave a voicemail?” She winced, guilt slicing through her for shifting the blame for the communication breakdown onto him.

“No. I figured you’d see my missed calls. You could have shot me a quick text.”

She hesitated just a few seconds too long.

“Then again, I should know better. You’re on a case and me, Hershey, everything else disappears. At least I know where I stand.”

She pinched her eyes shut and clamped her mouth closed. Heat spiked through her. He didn’t own her; they weren’t even engaged, let alone married. And why should she have to explain the minutia of her day?

“Do you know when you’ll be home?”

He rarely pushed her when she was working a case, and with the direct question, she was stabbed with sadness. For the sake of their relationship, she should head straight home but— “Probably about two, maybe earlier.”

“Two? In the morning?”

“What do you want from me, Troy?” she spat. “It’s a fresh case. You know the first twenty-four are important.”

“Yeah, I know.” He hung up.

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she cursed the warm liquid. She hated hiding this other side of her life from him, but it was for his own good. His claims of them being a team were nothing more than the offering of a kind man, saying the right thing, but not really intending any follow-through. And, sure they were a partnership, a united front—at least on some things. But he didn’t quite get her obsession with ridding the police department of corrupt cops. He certainly wouldn’t understand her using every spare second to gather intel before going to Internal Affairs. He’d tell her it was too dangerous or she was taking risks she didn’t need to. What he didn’t understand and maybe never would was that her vow to protect and serve the city of Stiles meant something to her down to her marrow. To start with, her vendetta against the Russian Mafia itself was personal; she blamed them for her grandfather’s murder. To add to this, seeing her fellow officers betraying the badge drove her desire to serve justice even more. It was time for the mob and anyone on their payroll to live behind bars. It was the least of what they deserved.