Page 42 of Throne of Secrets

“What, that Samson’s a clean freak, or that your neighbor redecorated his shoes?” Bartholomew teased.

“Both,” Ethan admitted, enjoying the detective’s easy humor.

The detective led them through a maze of desks and chatter, up a flight of stairs, and into the heart of the precinct. The wide-open bullpen hummed with activity, officers moving from desk to desk.

Ethan’s eyes locked on Star—disheveled but upright, standing by a cluster of desks. She saw him and closed the distance, throwing her arms around him. The stench hit first—foul and undeniable.

Ethan’s eyes watered as he choked, “Dear God, I should’ve brought soap, too.”

Star instantly recoiled, mortification flooding her face. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Ethan pulled Star into his embrace, his voice a low murmur against her hair. “Never be sorry for calling me when you need help. Never.”

He stepped back, lifting her gym bag. “Clothes.”

Star’s eyes flicked to Detective Bartholomew. “Bathroom?”

He gestured toward a door marked “Women.” “Hold up—I’ll get a female officer.”

Star frowned. “Why? I can change on my own.”

“There’s a shower in there. She’ll take your clothes as you change and stand guard so you can shower without interruption.”

Relief softened Star’s expression. “Oh my God, thank you. I was dreading this stench. Who knew a dead body could smell so vile?” She shot Ethan a glance. “Did you?”

Ethan, sparing her pride, shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve experienced it firsthand, though I assumed it’d be … unpleasant.”

Her face darkened, eyes wide with memory. “His face, his eyes—frozen in a scream.” She shuddered, her voice cracking. “I’ll never unsee it.”

A sharp whistle from Bartholomew summoned a female officer. “Hey,” she grumbled. “I’m not a dog. No offense, buddy,” she added, flashing Thor a wink.

“Krista,” Bartholomew said. “Please take her clothes when she gets out of them. The ME wants them, and please secure the bathroom for her.”

“Sure. Follow me,” Krista said, leading Star away.

Thor whimpered softly, and Ethan gave his head a reassuring pat. “She’ll be back, bud.”

Bartholomew waved Ethan toward the desk. “Coffee? Warning—it’s sludge with a side of motor oil, but it keeps us upright.”

Ethan smirked. “Black, thanks.”

The detective grinned, offering a high-five. “My kind of guy. None of that frothy latte nonsense.” Ethan returned the high-five.

A weary voice chimed in. “Some of us prefer our stomach lining intact.” The speaker, a gruff man, rose from his chair.

Bartholomew chuckled. “Ethan, meet Detective Samson.”

Ethan accepted the handshake, firm and steady.

Samson’s eyes narrowed in surprise. “Not the computer geek I expected.”

“Yeah,” Ethan replied dryly. “I got that from Bartholomew.”

Samson offered a chair, and Ethan settled in, Thor flopping beside him.

“I’m shocked they let him up here,” Samson said.

“Emotional support dog,” Ethan replied, amusement flickering in his eyes.

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