Page 66 of Sinful Reality

I swallow and glance across my office.

“More square,” she responds. “With stubble.”

Archer’s eyes flicker to mine, strong and sure. Glittering with anticipation while his jaw firms. He knows what she’s doing, and yet, he doesn’t take it personally. He doesn’t even seem mad.

So I twist in my seat again and split my focus between two halves of one screen.

“Chavez to bravo,” Pax orders on a quiet rumble. “Jackson and Tyson with me.”

The camera picks up the shadow of cops in Pax’s peripherals. The barrels of their guns. The high stretch of their boots when they step forward. Unlike Archer’s daily wardrobe of jeans and a shirt, these men wear bulletproof vests and helmets. Earpieces and, in Paxton’s case, gloves.

Their footsteps are like a march, synchronized and fast.

As one, they cut through the overgrown grassy yard of the neighbor next door, then over the low chain-link fence, their long strides making the climb easy.

The neighborhood is all but silent. Traffic has been diverted, and if there were kids playing in the park, the swings are still now.

Pax communicates instructions with just his hand. A gesture to the left, and then another toward the front. Two men break away to circle the house, while two others march ahead and stop at the Donohues’ front door.

The wood is chipped. The paint is flaking.

A window to the right is held together with gray masking tape, and beside it, ratty and torn fly screen flaps in the gentle breeze.

“We’re in place,” Chavez reports, his voice barely more than a hum through my speakers. “Ready on three.”

“Alright.” While Jackson and Tyler frame the door, their guns by their chests and their eyes pointed this way, it’s Paxton who steps forward in silence, carefully reaching out and testing the door handle.

I guess I expected it would be locked, which would mean kicking it in and entering the home amongst a barrage of noise and panic. But the handle twists easily, the catch releasing and the door inching open with a soft creak that may as well be the screech of a heavy train on rusting tracks.

“Soft entry,” Pax murmurs, stepping forward and gently pushing the door wider. “We’re not busting it in.”

“Confirmed,” Chavez murmurs. “Back door is locked. Give us twenty seconds and we’ll get it open.”

Pax enters the house first, the silence like a thousand cannons bursting overhead. His heart pounds and his breath is a constant whistle through the speakers. But there’s no hesitation in his steps. No concern for his own safety as he clears the door and emerges into a pristine kitchen. The countertops shine with cleanliness. The floors glisten from a fresh mop.

“Stinks of chemicals in here.” He sniffs quietly and looks toward the door on the far end of the room. The handle jiggles and the locks release, then two cops step in, nodding to confirm they see Pax andeveryone is on the same team. “Main floor is likely empty,” he reports back for the camera. “Jackson and Tyler on sweep.” He gestures through an archway that leads to the living room, reorienting my mind so now I understand we’re on the opposite side of what I saw on the phone a few nights ago.

Wordlessly, cops fan out, searching the living room, and then into a hall that, in theory, leads to bedrooms.

“Chavez,” Pax gestures in a different direction, “with me.”

They move through the home, passing an old box television and a couch covered in clean sheets. A row of shoes line the wall by the door, and a tub of dolls stands out like a flashlight in the night.

Wild hair cut at varying lengths. Some with messily drawn red lips. Others wear dresses, while a few are naked. One is missing an arm, while another seems perfectly cared for, including shoes, a clean outfit, ribbons in her hair, and a bonnet-type hat nestled on top.

Her perfection, in contrast to her tub-buddies, sends a bolt of nausea to the base of my belly.

“Main bedroom is clear,” one voice declares.

“Second bedroom is clear,” comes another. “Bed is made, closet is organized and clean. Floors are freshly vacuumed. Male occupant is not here.”

“Uh, Gilbert?” Chavez’s voice crackles with uncertainty. “You might wanna check this one.”

“How old do you think this man was?” The artist continues his task, asking questions, if only to stop Gloria from getting up and leaving. “Twenty-five? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-five, maybe?” Her eyes flicker between the paper and the artist’s body cam, her nervousness growing with each glimpse toward what is probably a glowing red dot. “Could be forty?”

“I don’t look nearly forty, do I?” In my peripherals, Archer looks down his body, attempting to break the tension holding the four of us captive. We’re inside a building brimming with medical examiners and dead bodies, and yet, we’re glued to a tiny screen and watching an operation take place on the other side of the country. “Forty is pushing it,” he murmurs. “Forty is unkind.”

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