Page 15 of All For You Duet

And I can drill new screws into a board or whatever else she needs to give her small relief.

Setting the power drill down, I suddenly hear dispatch crack over my police radio by my backpack on the porch steps.

The number calls out across the humid morning, shooting shivers down my spine.

“Ten-ninety-five.”

A sex crime.

My boots take off across the dock, up the backyard hearing the rest of the call.

Suddenly, a rut in the ground traps my left foot, twisting my ankle and slamming me to the ground.

The pain is instant, but I ignore it, crawling toward my radio.

Jameson’s voice cracks back, taking the call.

I hear the location—the parking lot by the vacation club hotel on the beach. Grabbing my radio, I accept as the second response vehicle.

“Oh! Bless your heart!” Ms. Ryan rushes out, shocked by my sprawl over the stairs. “What did you do?”

“Just rolled my ankle a bit. No biggie.” I hop up on my right foot, my left foot screaming “hell no!” to any weight I threaten it with.

“We need to get you to the emergency room.”

“No, ma’am. I’m fine.” I smile through the pain. “I gotta get to work.” Cringing through a hop and a shuffle, I grab my bag. “I’ll finish up later. I promise.”

Hobbling to my car, thank God I didn’t fuck up my right foot. I need it to press the gas pedal down and race across the island. Killing my blue response lights three blocks before the resort; I never draw attention to the victim.

By the time I’m on the scene, my ankle is swollen like a stuffed pork loin, and I don’t care.

Jameson has the victim in the passenger seat of his patrol car, trying to protect her from the onlookers craning their necks.

“Her name is Natalie.” He fills me in. “Twenty-one and from Ohio. Here with her family. She’s not remembering much and doesn’t want to go inside to let her parents know.” His eyebrow raises to my lop-sided stance. “Jesus, Bryant. What did you do?”

“Nothing. I just twisted my ankle.” I focus on Natalie in the car. “Lemme talk to her.”

I slide into the driver’s seat. “Hi, Natalie. I’m Sergeant Cade Bryant.” She glances at me, wary. “I’m here to help. You’re safe now. Would you like for me to take you to the hospital? I’ll stay with you. You’re in control. Just tell me what you need.”

“Can we just sit for a minute?” Natalie’s hands are shaking. “I need to think.”

There’s an empty lot down the street. The gathering crowd in this one pisses me off. Natalie deserves privacy, so I aim the car that way.

“I don’t remember anything.” She shakes her head while I drive. “I went out with my cousin. We were having drinks at The Pelican and got separated in the crowd. I tried to find her. I remember walking to the restroom, looking for her, and then… nothing. I woke up in the parking lot to some nice lady walking her dog, and she let me use her phone to call 911.”

I know that bar—The Pelican.

It’s the same as many on this island, pouring drink specials and dollar drafts with people packed to the rafters—normal vacation revelry.

But what happened to Natalie?

That’s never okay.

“I shouldn’t have been drinking like that.” She stares out the window, her face stunned. “I know better. It’s all my fault.”

I draw a deep breath, parking the car before turning to her.

“Natalie, you’re not the criminal here. You have every right to drink. You can get drunk as hell just as long as you don’t drive. It’s not your fault.”

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