Page 51 of Pure Killers

"And did you?" I press.

"What?"

"Hear anything?" I want to know how much he'll lie to me. As though I have the right to be angry with everything I'm lying to him about.

"Yeah, I heard these lot were having some kind of supremacy convention on the beach."

Like a herd of elephants, the backup arrives, moving quickly to arrest our men, taking them away so the forensics can do what little they can do. Dirk and I are pulled in different directions, but I'm far from satisfied. He's already lying about the deals with the clubs. Why not more?

"Tawill wants to see you both back at the station," Officer Andrea stops directing the operation long enough to tell us.

Dirk grimaces. "News travels fast. Come on, I'll call a cab."

***

Tawill is both unimpressed and unsurprised by the outcome of our little mission. Or at least that’s the vibe I'm getting as we sit across from her. The clock ticked past midnight long ago, and she looks no different now from how she does first thing in the morning. It’s a superpower, being able to look the same level of put-together no matter the time of day or night or circumstance.

"So not only," she says, concluding our briefing which was related in excruciating detail, all the way to Dirk paddling his way out of the lake while we chased Needler through traffic, "Did you not catch your target, you also failed to prevent a murder by said target at the very event you were attending."

"The grounds were pretty big…" Dirk starts, then cuts himself off as she fixes him with a withering look. He's still damp, dripping a little off the seat and smelling richly of lake water.

Her withering look then cuts to me. "And you pulled your gun on a group of witnesses within three sentences of your interaction with them."

"I uh, suspected them to be involved in a gang…"

"Three. Sentences," Tawill repeats. "You were able to gather enough information within three sentences to make that assumption? You really are a super detective." The sarcasm dripping off the last line is enough to make me cringe. “They werenotpart of a gang, just on an online forum.”

"I'll admit I'd had a long night."

"Really?" she asks in mock sincerity. "A long night? That’s funny. By my watch you were both there barely two hours before managing to conclude this disaster."

Neither of us has the guts to answer that, and Tawill sighs, sitting back in her chair. "The line of duty memorial is tomorrow… today, now," she amends, glancing at the clock. Her expression softens slightly as it comes back down to me, an acknowledgement of the extra meaning the day has to me. The extra meaning it has to everyone who has lost a loved one in the line of duty. "I expect you both to be there at the start of service and to be positively bushy-tailed. That means the crack of dawn. And youwillbe on your best behaviour and youwillsmooth over this mess when the press asks you about it. Understood?"

"Yes, ma’am."

***

Of course, Needler is in my apartment when I arrive home, sitting patiently on the arm of my couch, the lights off. He’s worked out that Olivia is out of town. And he’s still wearing that black hood, ragged at the edges, but it’s fallen back from his head now. I lock the door behind me. I was just chasing thisman through a party. Now he's here, and there's shit-all I can do about it.

"Nice dress," Needler says with a smirk.

I glance down at myself. My day clothes are in the bag I drop as I step in since I couldn’t be bothered working my way out of this sodden dress in a closet at the station. "Was it you who got on the train?"

The mask tilts. "Why? Working things out for yourself?"

"Trying to eliminate some possibilities, actually."

"Ah, you must bedyingto know."

That serves as a harsh reminder. "You hanged a man."

He stands, stepping towards me. "A racist and a coward. Some loss."

"It’s not for you to decide."

"Then whose choice is it?" he asks, following my step as I back up and come against the wall next to the closed door. "Yours? Tawill's?"

Closing the gap, his hips press to mine, promising moments of thoughtlessness—bliss. But it shouldn’t be blissful, I shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t be so weak. There’s no future here, not one I can see for myself. It might not have worked out when I thought it would, but I still want a life, and a husband one day, even children. “I’m seeing someone,” I say quickly, though it comes out breathy, my hands braced on his biceps.

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