Page 58 of The Echo Man (Major Crimes)

She wonders at what brought her here. To this apartment, this man. And to this insane situation. She should leave. Nav’s right: she should hand herself in. That would be the sensible thing to do—but when has that ever applied to her? And something pulls her toward the mystery, an invisible cord headed for destruction. She’s always found solace in the darker things in life—those true crime documentaries, those murderers and outcasts making her feel less of an aberration. Her whole life she’s been fighting for the desire to be normal. A desire to be whole, somehow, to feel what other people feel. But now everything has been stripped away and she’s alone, she doesn’t feel that pretense. For the first time in her life, the macabre makes a perverse kind of sense. And Griffin’s a part of that.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“No.”

“Tired?”

He shakes his head. “I feel like I’ll never sleep again. All the time …” He flutters his hands above his face as he stares at the ceiling. “Just things going around and around. I just want to actually do something.”

Jess doesn’t speak, but slowly gets up from the sofa. She stands by his feet at the end of the bed. She feels a flush: nervousness after what happened last time. But also excitement.

“What do you want to do?” she asks.

He opens his mouth to speak, but stops as she takes her T-shirt and sweater off in one quick movement. He raises himself up off the bed on his elbows, watching as she wriggles out of her jeans until she’s standing in front of him in her underwear.

“What do you want to do?” she asks again.

“Jess …”

“Griffin. Shut up and take your clothes off.”

He hesitates for a moment, but she’s aware something has shifted between them. He won’t turn her down now. Sure enough, decision made, he pulls off his shirt and jeans. She takes the rest of her clothes off, then gets onto the bed, straddling him.

He reaches down, and in one quick movement, removes his boxer shorts. Then he pauses, their eyes meeting.

His hands go up to her waist, and she can feel the light touch of his fingers on her back. Neither of them moves; the room is quiet. Jess can hear rain falling outside, dripping down the gutters onto the pavement. She holds his gaze.

She moves back slightly, waiting as he reaches behind to the bedside table, swiftly opening the foil packet of a condom and putting it on. Then she raises herself up and onto him. She sees him take a deep breath in, then again, as she starts to move. His hands are still on her waist but he lets her do what she wants, moving slowly.

But then something switches in him. He can no longer hold back. He picks her up, her legs going around his waist, and he shoves her against the wall. She can feel the rough brickwork against her back—she knows it’s a bad idea, but she likes it—and he pushes into her, hard.

His head is still buried in her neck, and she pulls him up to face her. She wants to kiss him. She wants to feel his lips on hers, to remember they’re human, they’re alive, but he pauses, as if questioning what they’re doing.

“Don’t stop,” she says.

She kisses him, and he thrusts into her, harder this time.

She slips slightly, and their position changes. They shift, together, him resting her on the edge of the large wooden table, his fingers digging into her ass. She grips his shoulders, moving with him. She’s not thinking anymore. Except about this, about the feeling of him.

She can feel the sweat on his body, the rough of his stubble on her neck. This is what she wants, she thinks.

* * *

Afterward they lie on the bed, passing a cigarette between them. As the room grows colder, he pulls the duvet across, and Jess watches the shadows, headlights from the cars outside flickering across the ceiling.

“You can’t always use this to solve everything,” he says after a while.

“Use what?”

“Sex. This.” He uses the cigarette to gesture to her naked torso.

She’s quiet for a second. “Are you complaining?”

“No,” he says. “Fuck, no. Just at some point you’re going to have to work out a way to make yourself feel better without resorting to sleeping with someone.” He pauses. “Or what you were doing last night.”

She doesn’t like what he’s saying, but his manner, the bluntness, catches her off guard.

He leans over her, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table. “It’s not a criticism,” he adds. He stays propped up on his elbow, watching her through the darkness. “I’m not judging. You’re not so different from me. Better looking, maybe, but inside we’re the same. Just trying to get through the day.”

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