Page 4 of Darkness

Will pulled the car to the curb in front of the precinct. Morrisey got out, clutching his sketch pad. He stretched to unkink his back and forced a—not a smile, but slightly short of a scowl. “See you tomorrow. Give my love to Linda and kids, okay?”

Will didn’t answer, staring straight ahead through the windshield. Yeah, Morrisey would speak with the captain. He strode up the walkway toward the precinct’s front door, then turned to wave.

The car hadn’t moved. Was Will all right? Morrisey retraced his steps to the car, a sense of unease twisting in his gut. “Will?” Maybe he’d been less okay than he’d seemed.

Morrisey took in the scene in slow motion: Will raising his gun, putting the muzzle into his mouth. The shot.

“Will!” Morrisey ran the last few feet and flung open the car door.

Too fucking late.

Chapter Two

Slamming the door didn’t fucking relieve enough stress. Nor did the second time. Or third. Morrisey drew the line at five when busybody Mrs. Christy next door usually resorted to calling the landlord.

Not that the landlord did much, having a strong instinct for self-preservation. The bad-tempered old bastard mostly grumbled under his breath and threatened to call the law.

Morrisey was the law. Also, one hell of a lot more bad-tempered.

The precinct’s assigned counselor suggested throwing soft things like stress balls or pillows. Bullshit. Not the same satisfaction as a slamming door or breaking glass, as the shards from a picture frame littering the floor could attest.

Sometimes, even driving a car through a building wouldn’t help. Which had only happened once. And had also been considered an accident. Morrisey still wasn’t sure about the accident part. He’d been behind the wheel during a high-speed chase.

But smashing inanimate objects relieved stress.

He ripped off his tie and jacket, flinging them down to the floor. No one was left to complain about his sloppy ways but him, and he didn’t rightly give a shit. The clothes joined various piles of jeans, T-shirts, underwear, and beer cans.

Cleaning wouldn’t happen today. Tomorrow didn’t look promising, either. It hadn’t been a good month.

Or a good life.

Three empty liquor bottles had long ago become one with the coffee table, lined up by quality, along with a partial bottle of dubious rotgut likely effective as paint thinner. The top-shelf shit died a brutal death a week ago. The mostly full bottle of rotgut would have to do. Morrisey dropped onto the couch—the only piece of furniture not covered by debris—and lifted the bottle. A quick perusal of the general area showed not a glass in sight. Not an intact one, anyway.

Hell, the bottle was glass. Close enough.

He’d left the lid off at some point, making the booze more accessible. The bottle rim kissed his lips, the only kiss he’d had in far too long. He tipped the bottle upward for the sweet relief of alcohol-induced oblivion.

The whiskey scorched going down, but not hot enough to burn out the memories or ease the heartache.

Linda Murphy had stood with her three kids at Will’s graveside. The look she’d given Morrisey might’ve been an accusing one, but he couldn’t be sure. Too many deaths. Too many causes for mourning.

Only May, and already he’d attended three funerals of cops he actually knew, not counting the two from other precincts he’d only met in passing. He’d still attended to show support for the families left behind.

Mainly because the captain suggested he do so.

Strongly suggested.

Today? Fuck. Today, Morrisey buried his partner, the man he’d depended on for six years to have his back. Will, of bright smiles, lousy coffee, and even worse Dad jokes. Unlike the others, he hadn’t died during a drug bust, traffic stop, or being shot during a robbery.

Will gave in to despair. His own damned bullet. His own damned gun.

His own damned choice.

Morrisey should have been the one to make a premature exit, with a life in shambles and little to live for. Suicide should be reserved for grouchy old detectives who’d seen too much and done even more. Not a young guy like Will Murphy, who was married with kids, in line for a promotion, and whose number of commendations rivaled Morrisey’s reprimands.

Not enough alcohol anywhere to wash away the reason. A homicide call, which, sad to say, had become pretty routine. Until they’d seen the bodies.

The cop retching into the bushes at their arrival had been their first clue.

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