She chokes on a sob. Or was it a laugh? “You’re a murderer.”
It was a laugh. And, yes, okay, it’s quite fucking laughable. If it wasn’t so fucking tragic. “Not by nature,” I say, and then frown at myself. Am I going to just keep saying stupid shit? “I mean it’s not something I want to do.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because there was nothing else but that need.”
“And now?”
“Now there’s you.” I reach blindly for the vanity unit and pull down the test, holding it between us. She looks at it. “And maybe someone else,” I add.
Her shoulders jerk, her eyes round and surprised. But not happy. Not relieved. “I’m not mother material.” She hiccups over each word, and it shocks me that I feel hurt by that statement. And annoyed. “I can’t do it.” She’s suddenly up, standing over me.
“Do what, Beau?” I stand too, making sure she can’t get past me.
She points at the test in my hand, and I take the tops of her arms, moving her to the toilet and sitting her down on the lid. I crouch, holding the test up. She’s looking at it like it could be her end. “You don’t have a choice this time, Beau. No running.” I take her hand and put the test in her grasp, squeezing her fist around it. “I can stay, or I can wait outside. What’s it to be?” I know what I want to do, but what I want has to take a back seat for the time being.
“Stay. No, go. Stay.” She growls and stands, nearly knocking me back to my arse. “Go,” she says, resolute. “I need to be on my own.”
I don’t like it, but I give her what she thinks she wants and leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I turn around and find her on the other side, the now clear glass not giving her the privacy she’s requested. She shows the ceiling her palms, and I reluctantly switch this pane of glass, and this one only, back to frosted. The lock engages, telling me she’ll only let me back in when she’s ready. It doesn’t matter that one shoulder barge could put me back in the bathroom. Or that with another press of a button, I would be able to see her. I’ll give her space.
I start to pace outside the door, walking in circles for what feels like forever, intermittently checking the security cameras while my head tangles more with every circuit.
Ten minutes pass, and there’s not been one sound from beyond the door. Nothing. How long do these things take? I lift my fist to knock but withdraw again when movement on one of the cameras catches my eye. I tap on the screen, bringing up that one camera’s live footage. My blood runs cold. “Fuck,” I hiss quietly, looking at the bathroom door, torn between speaking up or not. But I know Beau, and if I tell her to keep the door locked and stay put, she’ll do the exact opposite. So I mentally beg her to stay in the bathroom for another few minutes. Just a few minutes.
Because that’s all I need.
I haven’t got time to arm myself fully. Or even fucking dress myself. I take the stairs silently, three at a time, and sprint to the kitchen, pulling open a cupboard and feeling around the back of some books. I pull out the Heckler, grab the biggest kitchen knife I have, and head for the lift. I look down at the screen of my phone as I go, wondering how the fuck they got past Otto and Goldie. Where the fuck are they?
I pull up the rest of the cameras and scan them all. Nothing, except for the fucker in the stairwell. I board the elevator and smack the button for the next floor down.
And as the cart starts moving, something sounds above me.
I look up to the ceiling.
“You fucker,” I growl.
57
BEAU
My eyes won’t move from the white stick. My mind won’t stop praying for one line. It feels like I’ve been standing here for years, waiting and praying. He’s outside the door. Close but giving me space. I can feel him there. Tense. Stressed.
He has nothing on me.
I’m staring at the test on the back of the toilet so hard, my eyes are burning. One line. Please, just one line. One little li—
I hear a thud and dart my eyes to the door. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was James’s big body hitting the floor after passing out from stress. I laugh nervously. And stop in a heartbeat when I realize that could be a very real possibility.
I rush to the door and unlock it, swinging it open. He’s not there.
Another thud.
“James?” I take small, tentative steps to the top of the stairs, and when I make it there, it’s me who nearly passes out. “Jesus,” I gasp, grabbing at the rail to hold myself up.
James looks up at me, his eyes filled with a wildness I’ve never seen before. Not in any man. Not in any criminal or crazy bastard I’ve dealt with while in uniform. His naked body is covered in blood, the knife in his hand glistening, the towel that was covering him nearby on the floor.
“Stay exactly where you are,” he says quietly, going to his phone and staring at the screen for an eternity. I lower to the top step, not challenging him, not daring. There are times when you simply trust in the skill of your partner. And, strangely, I know to completely trust James now. My gaze drops to the body at his feet. To the gun in the man’s limp, dead hand. I’ve lost the power of speech. I can’t ask who it is or what the hell is happening. I’m numb. Shocked.
James’s phone rings and he’s quick to answer, splitting his attention between the open elevator doors and me. “One in the stairwell. One dead on my apartment floor.” He paces to the elevator and steps inside, smacking a few buttons and looking up before stepping out. The doors close. “The elevator’s coming down.” He goes back to the man, crouching down by his body and patting at his pockets. He pulls out a cell and hits a few buttons before setting it aside and rising to his full height. He casts his eyes my way. The wildness has subsided. But it doesn’t ease me, because in its place is worry.
“What’s going on?” It feels like a crazy thing to ask. I know what’s going on. An ambush. A murder. But why? And who?
James says nothing, just raises his finger to his lips in a silent sign to quieten me. Then he mouths, “It’s okay.”
Okay? Am I not staring at a dead body at his feet? Am I imagining the blood covering him?
I startle when the elevator dings, jumping out of my skin, and James flies around, his naked body poised and ready as the doors slide open. Goldie appears, and he relaxes. I don’t know why. She looks fucking murderous, and above her eyebrow, a nasty gash. “Otto took care of the stairwell,” she grates, reaching up and wiping the blood with the cuff of her suit jacket. “The building is clear.”
At those words, James drops the knife and collects the towel, covering himself before pulling up one corner and wiping his hands. “Find out who it is,” he orders shortly, looking at the corpse like he wants to kill him all over again. Goldie approaches and pulls out her phone, taking a picture of the man’s face and tapping out a message.
Within a few seconds, she looks at James and shakes her head, and he curses, turning and stalking toward the stairs. I slowly rise as he climbs the steps, his eyes drilling into me. “Do you have a passport?” he asks, and while I’m scared, concerned, and many other emotions that I’m trying to contain, I know it wouldn’t be wise right now to question him.