Page 52 of Copper

I taped my basement wall just like my father showed me and covered the hole, finally finishing at two in the morning, tears running down my face the entire time.

I still don’t know why I cried. I bawled like a child for days when we broke up in college. I cried harder the other night for the innocence she lost. She’s no longer my sweet Lucy with nothing staining her life. Blood will forever stain her hands, but now we’ll both have to live with it.

Does it make me culpable? An accomplice? Maybe. Either way, the toolbox was in my house. The killer was in my bed all along.

In my heart all along.

The toolbox is still in my house, and it’ll stay there. My heart still belongs to Lucy, and that won’t change, either.

What was I going to do that day in the basement when she came clean? Cuff the woman I’ve loved for over half my life? Take in and question the girl I lost my virginity to because she offed her shit ex-husband, killed a child trafficker, and took care of some mafia henchmen that threatened her life? She also told me that Geoffrey threatened my girls. That shook me to the core, and a shaken man doesn’t take any shit when his daughters are at stake.

In the end, George Cannon, Beck Lenin, and Murphy Beckett were boils on the ass of humanity. If you look it at from a societal standpoint, my girl saved innocent lives down the road. She also saved the taxpayers of this county and state from having to pay for life imprisonment, death penalty fees, lawyer fees, and appeal costs. The lawman in me knows vigilantism is wrong. But when it’s your own girl killing the feces of my county, especially when it’s to protect my own children, I’ll sure as shit turn a blind eye.

I should have been her hero a long time ago. She was bent and broken by Beck, and she put herself back together again as her own hero. How can I fault her for that?

I went to bed with her that night – climbed into bed next to a woman who brutally murdered five men without a drop of remorse. She rolled over and asked if I was going to turn her in the next day, a tear trailing down her face.

I didn't even think twice about it with her in my arms.

The answer is never. I whispered that word into her ear and then fucked her raw. I fucked a killer, this time knowing she was a killer when I did it. Over and over, I thrust into her that night, and I loved every inch of her. My hands roamed every place on her body. Her hips. Her ass. Every crease and crevice I could touch. I came hard, moaning the name of the woman I love more than my own life and career.

I’ve forgiven her for all of it. I knew I would eventually, but I can’t be mad at her for Beck, and I can’t be mad at her for the others. Hell, I wanted to kill Beck. The only emotional butthurt I have about it is that I feel stupid for not seeing it earlier, but that’s just my ego talking. She did what she had to do, and I don’t, for one second, think she’d hurt me or my kids. I saw her protect Ruby that night in the kitchen. She’ll scoop a man’s intestines out with a spoon before she lets someone hurt the family she finally has.

The family she deserves.

“What you got there?” Mitchell asks, knocking on the door frame of my office. He’s holding a stack of folders. “Jewelry?”

I look down at the small black box I’ve been turning over in my hands. It’s the same black box I bought two weeks ago. I was saving it for a special night. The special night I had in mind involved flowers and getting down on one knee on the Chicago lakefront on a star-filled night. Who knew a special night of finding my girlfriend’s murder weapons in my drywall would happen before then?

“I was going to ask Lucy to marry me.” I say it deadpan, finally saying the words I’ve thought for weeks out loud.

Mitchell leans against the door frame. “Was? Shit, boss, you make it sound like you changed your mind. Everything OK?”

“Fine. What you got for me?” I nod to the folders tucked into his armpit.

“Todd Daniel’s case.”

I straighten in my chair. Did Coleson find something? Then again, they won’t find a murder weapon unless they look through their boss’s basement wall, and Lucy doesn’t have a clear motive for anything. The only thing linking George Cannon and Beck Lenin was some borrowed money no soul alive, save Lucy and me, knows about. Without Beck’s body and with Lucy’s texts and calls to his phone over months trying to find him, would anyone really question her? She reported him missing. To say nothing of Jalen Quarry willing to tell everyone that Beck talked about leaving all the time. I often wonder exactly how much he really knows. Has Ellen ever cracked and told him everything?

“What do you think about this case?” He hands me the top folder, and I open it like I’m actually looking for something. “I’m fascinated by it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Coleson so turned around. He has some minuscule evidence, but we can’t do much without a suspect to get a warrant to check their clothes and shoes. Nothing in the system. Pretty scary, if you ask me.”

I’m not scared at all. Mitchell and Coleson have nothing to fear from a five-foot-seven stripper who was only protecting herself and the people she loves.

“I’m at a loss. Talk through it with him.”

“I want to hear your opinion. You’re the sheriff. Coleson still doesn’t know what to do with it, and we need direction here, sir.”

I bite my lip and stare at my desk, crossing my arms in front of me. “I think Murphy Beckett either killed or had those men killed. They all had ties to him. Maybe he had remorse. I don’t know, and I don’t give a shit. He offed himself, and we haven’t had a dead body show up in this county since he slit his wrists. That tells me all I need to know. It’s not a coincidence.”

“Coleson mentioned the same theory, but it’s the evidence that’s bothering him.”

“We can’t get a warrant to go through the closets and carpet of every citizen in the county to look for some collected fibers that could have been completely benign. It’s a witch hunt, and it’s a waste of taxpayer money and a waste of resources. We have no murder weapon, no matching prints in the system, no matching DNA in the system, no video evidence, and no suspect with a motive other than the one dickhead that killed himself. We had a warrant for Murphy because of his ties. This case is shut as far as I’m concerned. Done.”

Mitchell sighs and leans against the door frame. “It was lucky, really.”

“What was?” I ask.

“That a bunch of trafficking, drug-dealing dickheads took each other out, and the head fucker of them all killed himself. It’s kind of a neat little bow. Practically a gift from the universe.”

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