Page 27 of Long Way Down

Shit: she was power-walking down the hall. She forced herself to slow and took a measured breath. “Yeah. Just got overheated for a sec.”

He nodded. “Hey, it happens.” But she didn’t miss the quick, assessing glance he shot her way from the corner of his eye. “So, paint thinner,” he said, and somehow made what should have been an awkward segue sound easy.

“I’ll dig up a phone book and we can start calling every house painter in the ad section,” she quipped.

“Do they even still print phone books?”

“Probably not.”

They reached the elevator, and when the doors slid open, Contreras waved her in first. Not, she noted, with the elaborate gesture and shit-eating grin Pongo had used last night, the dumbass, but with a casual, automatic flex of his hand. This was normal behavior for him, she could tell.Ladies first. A habit. And far less offensive than when Pongo feigned gentlemanly manners.

“Dixon?”

“What? Oh.” They were onboard, now, the doors shut, and he’d asked her a question.

When she turned to him, he wore concern in the grooves around his mouth. Instead of repeating his question, he said, “Okay, now, maybe I’m overstepping. I know we haven’t worked together long. But I get the feeling something’s been on your mind the last couple of days.”

She started to protest, realized she couldn’t in any sort of way that would be convincing, and bit her lip instead.

“I won’t pry if it’s personal. Everybody’s entitled to a little personal drama. But if it’s about the case, I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve seen some things.” He tilted his head. “Might even have some advice on how to sleep through the night when the ghosts get too loud.”

Fuck off, was her first, knee-jerk thought. Fuck anyone who thought they could peel back her mask and read what was going on inside her head. It was what she would have said to Pongo, when she couldn’t bear his smile anymore, friendly and guileless and edged with a bright mischief that left her stomach turning somersaults. Was what she would have said to someone back home, just for the satisfaction of their appalled reaction. You couldn’t use words likefuckthere. On, no. A monster could hide in plain sight, supported by everyone around him, but cursing…bad manners…well, that just wouldn’t do.

She’d taken too long to respond. He frowned. “At first I felt like it was polite to ask – but now I’m actually concerned.” He said it with all the care and gentleness her own father had never shown her, and it was nearly her undoing; left her throat tight and stinging, her hackles raised. “You okay?”

She took a deep breath, and swallowed down all the poison that had pooled on her tongue. Glanced away from him and toward the doors – God, this was the slowest elevator ride ever – and said, “I guess this case – swapping to Sex Crimes in general – has brought up some old stuff I buried a long time ago.” She could be honest: the dreams of Mississippi had begun before the call came in last night about Lana Preston. Had started the night she’d dragged herself home from that crazy raid on the Beaumont Building and crashed face-first without bothering to undress. She’d woken an hour later in a cold sweat, Ivy’s voice chantingPissy Missy, Pissy Missyin the back of her mind.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Contreras nod. “This division’ll do that to you, no doubt. We wind up seeing a lot of bad shit. I know some of the guys wanna act like they’re all cool and unbothered, but those are the ones with drinking problems.”

She glanced over fully, surprised.

“We’ve got a great department therapist, if you ever want to talk to a pro. And Maria says I’m a damn good listener.” He grinned, and it was so genuine, so harmless, she felt an unexpected tug of longing. Not romantic…but the longing of friendship. Of confession. Of sharing secrets in order to get ait’s fine, it wasn’t your fault, you were just a kid.

Leslie had done some of that, over the years, because she knew the whole ugly backstory.

But even if it was tempting, she wasn’t ready to share any of that with Contreras. Not yet. Probably not ever.

“I appreciate the offer,” she said. “Really. But I’m okay. I’ll get my head outta my ass, I swear.” She squared her shoulders and offered a smile to prove the point. “I just…didn’t get enough sleep. I’ll get over it.”

He didn’t look convinced, but let it drop, thankfully. The elevator finally arrived and he said, “I’ve been taking these melatonin gummies. My kids swear by ‘em. I don’t know if they actually help, or if it’s more of a placebo thing, you know? But they taste good.”

“My friend swears by chamomile tea, but I’m not crazy about it,” Melissa said as they headed out of the cab and down the hall, and she realized it was the first thing she’d told him about her personal life.

Contreras realized it, too, if his small, pleased hum was anything to go by.

~*~

Pongo sent her a text around four asking if she wanted to “hang out 2nite.” The prospect tightened her belly with nerves, for some reason, and, thus rattled, she actually texted him back.We’ll see. He sent a smiley face and a thumbs up after that. Because he was a child.

She switched her phone to silent mode and ducked under Contreras’s arm into the too-warm, too-bright interior of Lana Preston’s favorite Starbucks. It smelled of all the good brewing and baking things that every coffeeshop did, but she much preferred the furniture, soft lighting, and overall vibe of her little indie shop closer to her apartment. The place was crowded, but not packed the way it had undoubtedly been earlier in the day, when the writers and lunch-breakers had left behind the crumbs and straw wrappers that now littered the floor.

She spotted Lana’s study group right away – or, rather, they spotted her. Lana’s classmate Valerie had said she’d be wearing a red hoodie, and Melissa noted the flash of color as soon as she turned her head.

Valerie was standing, and waving, her expression tight and uncertain: a slight girl with big glasses and a limp ponytail; Melissa could read the fright vibrating out of her from across the room. It happened so often: when violence touched someone, those close to them started wondering if they were next in line.

She was at a series of pushed-together tables in the front corner, with a view out the steam-fogged window and a mess of open laptops and notebooks spread out between them.

“Detective Dixon?” Valerie asked, as they drew up, voice hushed, like she didn’t want anyone around them to hear.

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