Page 75 of The Writer

Cordova hasn’t considered that, and he should have. He blames it on his lack of sleep. He makes a mental note to send those Polaroids to the lab when they get back to the precinct.

Declan finishes shaving, washes the remaining foam from his face, and begins popping pills from the slew of supplements in his medicine cabinet. Cordova remembers the prescription bottle he found in Hoffman’s safe. “You know, if you stopped living off takeout and learned to cook a real meal, you probably wouldn’t need that prescription. You’re too young to have high cholesterol.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like you’re the picture of health.” Declandries his face and steps into the living room. He kicks through a pile of clothes on the floor, grabs a pair of jeans, tugs them on under his towel, and starts picking through shirts. “Look, I want to be sure we—”

Declan coughs.

A puzzled look crosses his face.

“Dec, what—”

Declan coughs again. His hand goes to his throat, and his eyes go wide. He starts to gasp.

Is he choking on the pills?

Declan gasps again, a harsh rush of air.

He stumbles back into the bathroom and yanks open the medicine cabinet. Searches. Starts slapping the pill bottles off the shelves, looking for something that apparently isn’t there.

When Cordova gets to Declan, he’s clasping his throat with swollen fingers.

He’s not choking—he’s having an allergic reaction.

“Where’s your EpiPen?” Cordova shouts.

Declan doesn’t answer. Can’t.

He pushes by Cordova, goes to his nightstand, and yanks the drawer open. His eyes are so large, they look like they might pop out of his head. He rifles through the drawer, but his movements are growing thick and sluggish.

Cordova jerks the drawer all the way out, tips it over, and spreads out the contents. There’s no EpiPen; there’s nothing but junk.

Declan makes a horrible noise—it sounds like he’s trying to suck through a clogged straw. His body jerks, spasms, and he drops onto his back.

Cordova gets his phone out, dials 911 on speaker. “This isDetective Jarod Cordova. I’ve got an officer down! I need an ambulance at—”

Silence.

Declan is no longer moving.

He’s not breathing.

He’s looking up at Cordova with vacant eyes from a face so swollen, it’s unrecognizable.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Cordova is sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, every inch of his body still trembling.

The paramedics arrived in under four minutes, record time in this part of the city, but it wasn’t fast enough. Although they got a breathing tube down Declan’s throat, started CPR, and administered a series of medications—epinephrine and others Cordova didn’t recognize—they did so with practiced robotic movements that suggested they were going down a checklist but knew it would do no good. At one point, the female paramedic called out that she’d gotten a pulse, but herpartner checked Declan’s neck and slowly shook his head. Eventually, they sat back on their heels, panting, and after a brief phone conversation with the ER physician, the male paramedic said the words still echoing through Cordova’s head:Time of death, 11:43 a.m.

He closed Declan’s eyes, and Cordova is thankful for that, because he had never seen anyone look so afraid.

“Detective, would you like me to call someone for you?”

It’s the female paramedic. He didn’t notice her approach. Her large brown eyes are moist; her face is filled with the empathy and understanding of someone who sees far too many people in their final moments.

“I’ll call our lieutenant,” he manages, his voice gravelly.

“What about family?”

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