Page 40 of Pitch Dark

“Why are we going in the back door?” he asks.

“I’ll explain later,” I throw over my shoulder and push open the door.

I lean against the counter with my arms crossed as Tavers makes himself at home by pouring a cup of coffee. This isn’t anything new: him treating my house as his own. He’s been here more times than I can count—not only since I’ve been back, but as a kid as well.

After he takes his first sip, he lets out a sigh. “Damn, that tastes good. Mindy bought the fucking decaf kind by accident yesterday.” He takes another swallow, and I almost laugh when his eyes roll back in his head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No,” he says, refilling his already half-empty cup. “What I am is caffeine deprived.”

I shake my head. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check the time. It’s been forty-five minutes since Mac called. What the fuck is taking so long? Anxiety eats at me from not knowing what the hell is going on. I put the phone on the counter and bring my eyes to Tavers.

“Aren’t you on the clock today?”

He nods and sets his cup down then turns to mimic my stance on the counter across from me, crossing his ankles. “How ya feeling this morning?”

“Like shit.” I scrub my hand down my face. “Was her body found?”

Anger lights his face when he answers. “Yes, and the condition we found her in makes me want to slice his dick up and force the fucker to eat it.”

I ball my hands into fists and fight back the urge to punch something. It takes me a minute, but the need to do damage lessens enough for me to talk again.

“Why wasn’t I told about the girl who was picked up the night of the shooting?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

He blows out a breath, looks to the side, and then brings his eyes back to me. “You were too fucked up, and I didn’t think you needed to add more to your plate at the moment.”

“That wasn’t your call to make,” I grit. I get why he didn’t want to tell me, but it still wasn’t his decision. I should have been told.

“Fuck, Niko,” he says, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You just had someone shoot up your front yard, had it out with your brother, got drunk off your ass, and thought you found the guy who took Aislin. How fucking much more could you have taken?”

A growl slips past my lips, and I push from the counter, pacing back and forth in front of Tavers. “I had a right to fucking know,” I growl, and swing my eyes to him, never breaking my strides. When I pass by him again, I stop. “Someone’s been breaking into my house. Not this one, but the one next door. I found footprints outside the basement window.”

“What?” he asks, his brow pulling down in confusion.

“I found bare footprints outside the basement window,” I say again. “The dust in the basement’s been disturbed too. I don’t know for how long, but someone’s been going in through that window.”

He picks up his coffee, chugs down the rest, and then sets the empty cup down before uncrossing his ankles.

“And you think this girl could be that person?”

“I don’t know.” I rub the back of my neck. “But it’s possible. The girl picked up was barefoot, right?” At his nod, I ask, “Where is she?”

“Taken to County General. She wasn’t in good shape and needed evaluation from the report I saw. I didn’t see her.” He pauses. “Think she might be the girl the shooter was after too?” he asks.

“Maybe. If not, it’s a big fucking coincidence, which just adds to the list of coincidences lately.”

I resume my pacing. On my way by my phone, I swipe it off the counter. I feel better knowing I have it with me. I know the damn device works; I just wish it would fucking ring already and give me the answers I want before I pull my goddamn hair out.

I turn back to Tavers. “Do me a favor. Get me a copy of the report. Not sure if Captain will let me step foot in the station before my forced vacay is up.”

“Why?”

I turn my back to him and open the fridge. My stomach feels like it’s trying to eat its lining, so I grab the carton of eggs then frown down at the carton. For some reason, the thought of the girl being the one who was sneaking in my house doesn’t bother me as much as it should. Had I suspected anyone else, I would have been livid, but Tavers’ description saying she was in bad shape doesn’t sit well with me. She obviously needed a safe place to stay. I’m curious to know why she was there, and what she was doing wandering the streets at night. And if the shooter was after her, why. What caused her to need to be medically evaluated? Was she shot? How bad off was she?

“Just do it,” I grunt.

Just then, my phone rings in my hand. My head snaps out of the fridge, and my eyes goes straight to the screen. Mac’s name appears, and sweat immediately breaks out on my forehead. I slam the fridge door shut and ignore Tavers’ raised brows as I answer.

---