Page 74 of What's Left of Us

I’d call her beautiful, but something tells me she wouldn’t like that.

“You’re not wearing glasses,” I note, scanning over her face again.

She readjusts the drink in her hands, shifting her weight. I make her nervous. Interesting. “I only need them to read and write.”

“Have you ever considered Lasik?”

“Once or twice,” is all she replies, clearly not wanting to continue the subject.

“Sweet tooth?” I ask instead, nodding toward her drink of choice. “I’ve never been able to drink the sweet shit without getting a horrible hangover.”

Georgia loved sweet wine. I’d had her try a few different types when she admitted she only ever drank whiskey from her father’s office. I’d indulge in a glass or two with her when we went out, but it wasn’t my favorite.

There’s hesitation only a moment before she sighs. “It’s one of my many vices.”

Interest has me studying her. “Care to share what your other ones are?”

Her eyes scan over my face, then lower to the twelve-pack in my hand. She takes a step back, smiles that professional smile, and says, “You should get back to your friends.”

“You’re not big on small talk, are you?”

There’s a brief pause. “Only with some people. Have a good night, Mr. Danforth.”

She’s drawing a line between us and being sure to stay on one side of it.

But a nudging in my gut urges me to try walking over it.

I don’t.

Because I like the good doc.

Respect her.

So, I say, “Good night, doc.”

And watch her walk away with an extra tight grip on her daiquiri.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Lincoln / Present

The balding mancussing out everybody in the station has three yellow, rotting teeth in his mouth, patches of scaly skin on his face, and track marks near the crooks of both his arms. “I didn’t do anything, fucker,” he snarls as Dickers processes his fingerprints and gets his mugshot.

“That’s not what you said five minutes ago when you claimed you didn’t mean to hit your girlfriend, Mikey,” Dickers says. “Now turn to your left. Your other left. You should know the drill by now, man. Come on.”

Michael Welsh is a regular at the station, and it’s always the same story. “I didn’t! The bitch fell on her own.”

“Onto your fist?” I ask, rolling my eyes at the man’s contradictions.

He spits at my newly polished shoe, making my eye twitch. “You being a wiseass?” he asks.

“You want to add assaulting a police officer to your list of charges, or are you good?” I return, staring at the wad of spit in front of my foot.

It’s three in the morning, and I have no patience left for people like him—repeat drug offenders who are constantly getting reported for something. Domestic abuse. Criminal mischief. Possession. This is the fourth time in the past month and a half that someone from the station has had to bring him in for going off on his old woman. Right now, I’m running on coffee fumes and a prayer since being called in to help with the staffing shortage, which doesn’t bode well for the guy runninghis mouth. I don’t mind going outside of a regular detective’s nine-to-five schedule, because I’ve got nothing better to do. But the exhaustion weighing on my bones is increasing by the fucking second.

Once he’s secured to the bench, I start heading to my office to finish some paperwork when he stops me in my tracks. “I have information on Del Rossi,” he blurts out.

Dickers gives me a nervous look as my fingers grip the doorjamb.

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