Page 8 of Darkness

“He could have come to me for that matter,” Gaskins muttered. “But the fact is, he didn’t. We can sit around wondering all day long about what happened and why, and we’ll never know. Life sometimes just throws a little more at us than we can handle.”

Yeah, but Morrisey had been sitting with Will inside the vehicle not thirty seconds before.

Gaskins abruptly changed the subject. “We want you back. We need you back, but not if it means you being next.”

Nodding seemed easier than trying to answer with words. The world kept turning around them in the lagging silence: voices from outside the door, the tinkle of laughter. Who on earth would laugh at a time like this? Morrisey nearly flung the door wide open and screamed, Shut the fuck up! Ain’t you got no respect?

A public meltdown wouldn’t help him return to work. But if he returned, he’d have to sit in the damned office staring at a Will-shaped void until someone else filled the space. Then he’d see someone else where Will belonged.

Good thing Morrisey already drank, or recent events would have made him start.

Gaskins finally broke the uncomfortable silence. “I expect you to keep going to counseling.”

“But—” Will had attended counseling for all the good it did him.

“But nothing. You're not alone. And Morse?”

The captain’s use of “Morse” meant an attempt at coming across as a friend, not a boss. Despite his better judgment, Morrisey ventured, “Yeah?”

The pause before Gaskins's next word wasn't a good sign. “If the situation ever gets too bad for you to handle alone, you come to me, okay? If not me, one of your brothers or sisters on the force, or your counselor. Promise me?”

“Yeah,” Morrisey lied. He’d never dump his problems on anyone else. They had their own fucked-up shit to deal with. "Can you explain to me why the caseloads have gotten so bad?" Are the other precincts seeing this much increase?”

Gaskins ran a hand over his head that once easily palmed a football. “It’s city-wide. Violent crimes increased by fifty-four percent over the last year. So did prostitution, petty crimes, and even parking tickets. No one can say why.”

“That’s what I figured.” The world just one day went to shit. Soon, it would be sitting on a couch hitting shots with Morrisey, wondering where the hell it went wrong.

“Now, you go on home, get some rest. Call me when you’re ready to come back—really ready.” Gaskins’s fiery glare made Morrisey squirm. Of course, what could anyone expect from someone whose superpower was making others feel like a bug under a microscope?

“I will.” Eventually.

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

This wasn’t the best of neighborhoods, especially after sundown, but certainly not the worst. Then again, rising crime left few places safe. Most importantly, no one knew Morrisey around these parts except the owner and employees. Or if they did, they considered it none of their business. Hiding buying booze might be a warning sign of alcoholism, the ghost of Will whispered into Morrisey’s ear.

Morrisey would quit drinking. Just as soon as he got past the current shitstorm.

If another shitstorm didn’t take its place.

Ah, a parking space right out front. Could the universe be giving a tiny, tentative smile?

The windows displayed various signs, both old school and neon, advertising beer, wine, and liquor.

Morrisey could nearly taste a drink of whiskey already.

Three men loitered on the corner, passing a joint. Not worth the bust. A woman he swore he’d seen at a twelve-step meeting sat in an idling car, contemplating the door.

Morrisey had no reservations and hadn’t seen his Alcoholics Anonymous chip in days. Maybe he should’ve buried the chip with Will. He placed his palm on the door handle of the place he’d frequented so often he never had to peruse the shelves. Nope, the clerks saw him coming and loaded the counter with bottles of tequila and whiskey, never asking questions and not calling him by name when they checked his driver’s license as so many places did. Two full, dusty bottles of vodka remained back home. Morrisey couldn’t bring himself to drink them. They weren’t his.

Vodka martinis had been a Craig thing.

Morrisey jumped back, the door nearly smacking him square in the face. “Hey! What the hell?”

A short man in a green T-shirt and faded jeans ran past, heavy work boots stomping out a cadence on the asphalt parking lot. Asshole nearly knocked Morrisey down!

“Stop him!” a woman shrieked from inside the building. “He shot Bob!”

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