Page 30 of Sinful Reality

“No, he wouldn’t! He would have had a moment of jealousy and thought,fuck that guy. Then he would have fucked you to remind you where home is.Thenhe’d have gotten on with life, and none of this would be happening.”

“This is happening becauseyouinserted yourself!” I want to hit her. Iwant to scream. I want to tear this van apart and release the rage furiously searing through my blood because my whole world ends the day Archer Malone says he’s done with us. My entire fucking soul dies the moment he accuses me of something I never did. “You created a fracture in what we have, and you had no right to do that.” Furious, I spin and shove the back doors open, only to skid to a stop when I find three sets of eyes pointed this way.

I focus only on one set. On the bright green glare of a man descended from the gods. Too selfless to be mortal, too perfect to be anything less than divine. But he watches me with doubt. For the first time since we’ve met, he stares like I’m the enemy.

That’s the expression my father used after he found out my mother’s secrets.

He, too, was too selfless to truly hate her and too perfect to split a functional family. He held on, instead, to an unfaithful woman, staying with us until he couldn’t, pretending until the truth was too heavy, and in the end, hung himself from a weight-bearing beam instead of facing the cold, harsh truth that his marriage was over.

Angry, I look back to Aubree. “You did this.” Then I turn back again and climb out of the van, snatching a shovel from the pile on the ground before stalking toward the hole. “Get off my scene!” I take Fletch’s shovel while he’s too stunned to hold on and toss it six feet from our perimeter so it lands amongst shrubs and weeds with a muffled thump. Finally, I circle and meet Archer’s glare. “You, too.”

“I’m digging,” he spits out. “This ismycase.”

“Actually, as chief medical examiner, I outrank you. This ismycase, and until I’m ready to release discovered remains to your department, you have no right to be here. Step outside the taped perimeter immediately, Detective, or I’ll have you written up and a note of insubordination added to your files. Your refusal to preserve a crime scene, as directed by someone with a rank higher than yours, is conduct punishable by the department and a memo IA would be interested in.” I hate myself. I hate this situation. In this moment, I hate Aubree Emeri, too, because she was the catalyst that put us here.

He stares at me like he caught me fucking his best friend.

Worst of all, I’m so broken inside that instead of taking ten minutes to talk things out, I double down and make it all so much worse.

So I step closer until our chests almost touch. “Now.”

“Arch.” Fletch grabs his shirt, gently tugging him back when it’s clear by his stance that he doesn’t intend to go anywhere. Fletch is smart enough to know my badge does, in fact, outrank theirs. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Other side of the tape.”

“I’m just digging,” he snarls, his stare boring into mine. “You still have five feet to go. You’re tired, wet, and the mud is like slinging concrete.”

“This is my job.”Stubborn, mulish bitch.I extend my hand and wait for him to relinquish his shovel. “It’s also my job to document a scene and report a detective’s poor conduct.” I gesture to the cameras that catch every angle of our spat. “Step back now, so this doesn’t become a thing.”

He tosses the shovel to the ground, metal pinging against rock and the heavy wooden handle landing in the wet mud. Then he stumbles back a step when Fletch pulls him. “Five feet, Mayet. You’ll wish you weren’t so fucking pig-headed when you’re home, sore, and sick. But what the fuck do I know?” He throws Fletch’s hand off and turns to lift a leg over the tape. “I’m just a footnote on your priority list, it seems.”

“Come on.” Fletch tries again, stepping between us and attempting, but failing, to take up enough space to break the stare between me and Archer. “Sometimes, we gotta know when to fold. Save your resources for the next round.”

I guess that makes me a deck of cards in this analogy. Or money, maybe.

Definitely not a penguin anymore.

Alone within the tape, I look down at my feet, my mud-covered boots, and the moisture climbing my legs on its way toward my knees. Then I lick my lips and stab the shovel into the ground.

A little manual labor to keep the tears at bay never hurt anybody.

So I dig.

And dig.

And dig.

For more than two hours, I stab the earth with a sharp shovel under the glare of an audience of four since I suppose Aubree’s too stubbornto help. Or perhaps, smart enough to stay away. I take care not to slam the shovel in too deep, for fear of hitting a vital piece of evidence, but caution makes my progress slower. The pile of mud growing on one side of the burial site, half of what it could be if not for my constraints.

My throat burns impossibly dry despite the rain pounding on the pop-up tent above, the runoff from the mountain funneling right to where I stand, but not before cutting through the dirt mound and creating more mud.

More mess.

More frustration while the other four stand back and witness my stubborn streak on full display. Archer’s muscles bulge, and his jaw flexes with a rage I rarely ever see, and never, ever pointed my way. His eyes burn my skin and leave behind a warmth I come to rely on, since the mud is so damned cold. My entire body shivers, my teeth chattering, my face aching, and my toes burning from what I know, scientifically, is likely the onset of frostbite.

But I keep digging, because I walked my ass into this hole—physically and metaphorically—and I’m too much of a bitch to allow anyone to help me out.

All I had to do was tell Archer I knew Detective Gilbert on a personal level.

It didn’t have to be a whole thing. It didn’t have to be a fight.

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