Page 170 of Only for Him
I walk the precinct, slow, letting the humiliation wash over me. When I pass my desk, my drawers are open, files rearranged, even my mug turned upside down. They searched everything, right down to my last stick of gum.
My hands shake a little, but I clench them into fists.
Stay professional. Stay above it.
Two uniforms pass behind me. I catch the tail end of a whisper: “Always thought she was hiding something.”
The other one snorts. “I don’t see what her boyfriend sees in her. That pussy can’t be worth all those bodies.”
I turn to go, but something on the bulletin board stops me. It’s a photo me and Russo the first day he brought me here. He’s got his arm around me, both of us grinning like idiots. Someone circled our heads with a red marker and drew a giant question mark over the whole thing.
I rip the photo from the board, crumple it, and drop it in the trash. I think about what Lawson said, about the blue shield. There’s no shield for me. Not anymore.
I’m not trapped in Roman’s mansion, but I’m not trapped in NYPD protocol anymore, either. It’s only a matter of time before they tell me to turn in my badge and gun.
Neither of those cages were locked, though. You could have walked away at any time. You didn’t, because they held the only things you really care about: justice, and revenge.
Freedom has never felt so much like a death sentence.
I’ve been walkingdowntown Manhattan for a while now, trying to see the city as a civilian would. Just people. All of these people are just people. Not killers or victims. Not shadows, monsters, angels or ghosts.
I miss Serena. I miss Roman. I miss a version of myself I’ve never met. It’s past sunset, the blue gone gray, every streetlight flickering like it wants to die.
My phone buzzes and my pulse goes ballistic.
Because it’s notmyphone that’s going off. It’s the burner.
The one I shouldn’t have brought with me today, because it does nothing butassociateme even further with Roman. But I couldn’t leave it home.
What if the world ended and I need to speak to him one more time? Tell him the words that have been percolating inside me since last night with Ida? Three words I never wanted to be true, and think I’ll only ever be able to say when death is at my door and I know there won’t be any more words, ever.
“Roman?” My voice is breathy and sharp, optimistic enough that I cringe at myself.
A slow, thick silence, then a voice I don’t know.
“Detective Cantiano.”
Male. Russian accent. Tight, like the hiss of a fuse burning down.
I don’t break stride. “Who is this?”
“A man with your best interests at heart.”
The world blurs and someone bumps past me with a curse.
It’s not Roman, and not Afanasy either.
It couldn’t be… why would he… how would he even have this number?
Pavel fucking Starkov.
My heart should pound at the knowledge that this dangerous man is calling me on my phone. But it isn’t. Now, it’s just a cold-blooded thing with no heat left.
“Do you need a clue? Detectives like clues, don’t they?”
“I know who you are,” I snap.
“I see you’re out of work,” he says, like he’s reading headlines off the ticker. “Suspended. Under investigation. The American dream.”
