Page 136 of What's Left of Us

I turn and head down the hall when he says, “I think there’s something you should know.”

“What?”

“The guys were called out to an unattended yesterday morning,” he begins, tucking a hand into the front pocket of his slacks. “Alleged overdose.”

What’s new? “Someone I know?”

“Michael Welsh.”

The name straightens my spine. “Why do you say ‘alleged’?”

“Because they didn’t find any new track marks on him, for one. We know he’s a repeat heroin user. There hasn’t been one time we’ve arrested him where we didn’t find needles. For two, they found him dumped on the side of an exit ramp. He suffered severe road rash and multiple broken bones.”

Somebody dumped his body from a moving vehicle. The question is, did they do it before or after he was dead? “How is it being treated?”

“We’re waiting on toxicology reports, but they’re expecting to find a cocktail of drugs. If I had to guess, someone needed to quiet him before he talked to us again. The day was coming, and they knew it.”

I don’t tell him about Georgia’s warning.

There’s no point now.

“Thanks for telling me.”

“If the feds do interview you and you tell them the truth, you do realize this could end in you getting a rip, right? They could decide that you intervening in this case damaged the investigation. They could take away your pension.”

Yeah, I kind of figured already.

“It’s for Conklin,” is all I tell him.

What do I have left to lose anyway?

*

My fists rapon the office door three times before tucking my hand into the front pocket of my jeans in wait. There isn’t any stirring behind the thick wood, or voices drowned out by the insulation of the old building.

Knocking again, I check my watch and glance out the entry window to see some late spring flurries in the sky.

It’s as I’m walking to the side exit that I hear a surprised, “Lincoln?”

Lincoln.

Not Mr. Danforth.

When I turn, I see Theresa Castro walking toward me with a bag draped over her shoulder and a coffee in her hands.

“Is everything all right?” she asks, stopping in front of me with concern pinching her expression.

It’s been twenty-four hours since Michael Welsh was found dead, and I put my notice in for work. After I left the station, I didn’t go to The Barrel or Marissa’s house or even my parents’ place to heed a distraction.

I went to see Conklin.

Because he was the one person I always confided in without feeling judged. We thought alike, which made our superiors nervous. They considered us loose cannons.

And they were right.

“If I needed you to sign the paperwork saying I was cleared to go back to work today, would you?”

The question arches her brows.

---