Page 90 of Stay Baby Stay

For the record, I didn’t become a cop to bring justice to the man who killed my sister. He’d been locked up for years for the rape and murder of another girl long before I joined the force.

I became a cop so I could put men like him away before they had a chance to hurt others. So far, I’ve got a pretty good track record doing just that.

However, asking Holly what she wants out of life has me asking myself the same questions.

Vicki had dreams. She was going places. She would’ve wantedmeto go places. To have a life and a loving family. If she could see the way I’ve been living, I’m sure she’d be damn disappointed.

Maybe it’s time to do the unthinkable, as in take a voluntary vacation. I could take Holly on a long, relaxing trip to wherever she wants to go. Preferably somewhere far away from all this awfulness.

But even if we went away for a few weeks, she’d have to come back and relive it all for the trial. And whatever cases might be waiting for me upon my return could pull me away from her for days at time.

If my divorce taught me anything, it’s that the way I do my job is not conducive to a healthy relationship. These past few days, I’ve made more promises to Holly than I’ve ever made to any other woman.

Now I’m wondering how good I am for those promises.

My whole life has been a cautionary tale about how what happens when you fail to achieve a proper work-life balance. Then there’s the inherent risk that comes with being a homicide detective. I hunt murderers for a living, which often pits me against the worst of the worst. I haven’t been accountable to anyone besides myself in a long time.

Now I’ve got Holly’s life, her health, her happiness to consider.

If something were to happen to me, who’s gonna take care of her?

A soft creak from outside snares my attention. My train of thought halts in its tracks. There’s another creak, and then a dull thump.

Footsteps on the wooden planks outside.

The jangle of the back doorknob being tested.

More creaks and the purr of a blade slicing through the screen on the open kitchen window.

I keep still as a statue, shrouded in shadow, as gloved hands push the window open a few more inches.

Light from the microwave clock reflects off the intruder’s bald head.

My mouth goes dry. He’s here. Hoyt Renier.

And my gun is in the other room.

Bit by bit, Hoyt eases his long, insect-like form through the window, expertly avoiding the few plates from dinner still in the sink. He gathers himself inside and then lowers his boots to the hardwood.

I know he’s got a knife, but he wouldn’t have broken into an army vet’s house if he wasn’t also packing a gun.

My whole body feels like a live-fucking-wire. Edgy, anxious, ready to spark and start a fire. I wait for Hoyt to turn and face the other way before I say a word.

“Steady now,” I tell him. “Not another step.”

Hoyt stands stock still. I speak forcefully enough that I hope Austin can hear me from the living room.

“Drop the knife and put your hands on your head,” I say. “Do it now.”

My heart pounds at my temples. He doesn’t know I don’t actually have a gun yet, so I have to keep him facing the sink for as long as I can. Long enough to hopefully rouse Austin, or until I can get my own hands on a weapon.

“I know she’s here, detective,” Hoyt says quietly. “I can smell her.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I slowly push up from the table, my pulse rioting in my neck. “Toss the knife on the floor and put your hands on your head.”

He doesn’t move.

“I said drop the fucking knife, asshole.”

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