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I reach for the shoebox on the top shelf and wonder if Taya’s lack of clothes is by choice or if she simply has nothing to her name. If she’s down on her luck, it would explain her decision to join the program. I grab the box from its perch on the top shelf and step back, hating the idea of any person having so little.

A thump grabs my attention and I turn my head over my shoulder. Bear bends down to grab a scrapbook off the floor. He runs the tips of his fingers over the open pages with a couple of newspaper clippings taped to the pages. “Jim, check this out.”

The scrapbook is obviously Taya’s, as I made sure everything that belonged to Raychel was either thrown into a box for her to pick up or tossed in the trash. I take a couple of steps, but hesitate at first to take the book. Invading Taya’s privacy isn’t why I came into the room. Then I notice some of the headlines:

Officer Shot Down

Santoro Still At Large

Community Shaken by Grief

A fourth article is accompanied by a picture, a grainy black and white of a weeping woman dressed in all black. An older gentleman stands beside her, the arm across her shoulders. There’s something about the way the woman holds herself that’s familiar.

“Think that’s Taya?” Bear asks.

Taya’s father is a cop. Wouldn’t be out of the norm for her to have attended a funeral for a fallen officer. I step closer and scan the small lettering under the photograph, but no names are given. Quickly, I glance over the rest of the article. The officer, Thomas Byrne, was killed in the line of duty. “Article states the guy had a daughter, Irene. Must be her.”

The articles unsettle my stomach. Why would she be keeping this kind of stuff? I mean, I read the news. I’m aware about the rise in danger police officers face these days, stuck between criminals and communities that hate cops. Just the other day at work, the news broadcast was covering a story about two officers killed in the Bronx, shot to death in their squad car in broad daylight. And the boys in blue are just as tight as our brotherhood. But still doesn’t explain why Taya is collecting articles on these deaths.

I fight the urge to flip through more pages and grab the book to close it and replace it on a shelf, hoping I put it back in the right place before Taya thinks I’m snooping. After the book is in place, I reach up and grab a shoebox from the top shelf and tuck it under one arm, then shut the closet door.

Craiger knocks into the side table next to the bed, causing a bottle of skin cream to fall to the ground and spill onto the floor. “Why do you need to vandalize my house?”

“Vandalizeis a strong word,” Bear says, though there’s a smile on his face.

“What can I say? I’m a strong-language kind of guy.”

“Rated E for everyone?” Martinez asks as Craiger puts the bottle back in place and wipes up cream off the floor with a tissue.

I let out a huff of barely repressed humor. “Please. I get a T for ‘teen’ at least.”

“Throw in a few more F-bombs and a nipple and you could work yourself up to an M for mature,” Martinez pipes in, picking up a discarded pair of panties with a raised brow and aims them at me.

“I live for the day.” I snatch the impromptu slingshot from him and he winks. Unrepentant. I ball the silk in my fist and glare a hole in the back of Martinez’s head as he saunters out of the room.

When Bear comes closer, he shoves one of Taya’s comic books at me. “For the road. I figured it’s a better souvenir than her panties.”

Cursing, I toss the underwear back in the general direction Martinez found it. Bear’s booming laugh bounces down the hallway as he catches up with the other two.

She’s only been here for a short while, but already there’s a warmth to the room that was lacking before. The casual messiness is almost comforting even though the clutter gives me the chills. I shut the door and take a deep breath of apples and sandalwood lingering in the air.

A part of me wants it to disappear while the rest of me can’t seem to get enough.

Chapter Eight

Taya

Iblink mytired eyes rapidly, trying to chase away the dryness. Nightmares about the fire and Marco wake me up, causing my mind to race, especially after the news about the latest killing in the Bronx. I recognized one of the officers. He worked with my father on the task force put together to take down Santoro.

Shortly after I moved back in with my dad, he told me he volunteered to join the task force put together to take down the crime boss. My apartment building was being turned into condos and while I hated the idea of returning home, it made financial sense since I was still paying off my college loans. I felt the universe brought me home for a reason, and I believed if I was by his side, nothing would happen to him. I was naïve and idealistic until reality spit in my face.

My lips press tight together. How could Marco betray him? Betray a man who was like a father to him? And for what... money, power? Lyons and I never found out the reason, not that I would ever accept it.

The rising sun teases warmth through the blinds’ thin barrier and I swing my legs out of the bed in a spill of blankets. God, I haven’t been running down here yet, which is a shame, considering my new proximity to the ocean. The fresh air should help clear my head, calm me down.

I strip down before putting on a pair of azure-blue compression shorts and a white running tank with a patriotic rabbit in the middle. Tossing my hair up into a quick ponytail, I make my way downstairs and grab my keys before heading out the door.

Instinct sends me into a smooth canting trot. Riding is freedom itself, but running pushes me like my bike can’t. It leaves me sore in a way that’s reminiscent of good, hard sex. Satisfaction that can only be garnered from pushing myself past my limits. Pleasure that comes from a hard climb and an implosion of endorphins and sweat-slick skin.

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