1
Tyler
Eleanor Devero
Kace slams the door shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts and his sidearm. I wrap my fingers around the black metal and bring it closer. The smooth, shined surface conceals the ugliness of its power, and the weight is nothing compared to the heaviness in my soul. I can’t escape my thoughts; they follow me around, gnawing at the parts of me that want to forgive Kace for falling in love with me—for wanting a normal life with normal things.
We should’ve known better.
Not everyone has the luxury of a safe life, especially not law enforcement. Kace and I dedicated our lives to helping others feel safe, only to put our lives in danger. Well, not technically, our lives.
I glance down at my now flat belly and smooth my hands over the severely scarred skin, tracing the healing ridges. Tenderly, at first, over indents extending from my navel to my sides, then more abrasively until the beat of my heart pulses through the pads of my fingers.
I touch the loss.
It pumps through my full veins, leaving me vacant. I attempt to summon a trace of positivity, but all I can muster is guilt. Disasters don’t have a ‘bright side,’ nor is there healing in the aftermath. There’s just loss and hollowness and a shit ton of darkness to wade through. Time passes, sinking me deeper into the obscure depths of despair.
People keep telling me I’m going through a phase, and with time, I’ll somehow emerge from all the pain, healed and ready to move forward.
Bullshit! Every day my heart hurts worse than the day before. There’s no closure, no end—just a gaping hole inside me. One day, I went from crib shopping and ultrasounds to Kace bringing me in to help with an undercover case. They needed a pregnant cop to infiltrate the Pregnancy Center, and I was the only one at the precinct who fit those qualifications.
I shouldn’t have gone.
He shouldn’t have offered me the opportunity.
Every damn minute I tell myself both things, and his words haunt my thoughts: ‘It’s safe. All we need is a layout of the ultrasound room.’
It was safe. The baby was healthy and strong, and the doctor under investigation for drug trafficking was kind to me. Then again, the doctor also strapped women with hollowed-out rubber bellies to traffic drugs between dealers, so nice didn’t exactly fit him.
One way or the other, I walked out of the center perfectly fine, went to the bathroom at the bus stop where Kace was waiting for me, gave him the camera, and continued on with the plan. In case anyone had been following me, I was to go shopping for baby clothes downtown until I got the all-clear.
I didn’t make it to the store.
When I got off the second bus, I was shot.
In the stomach.
I didn’t see the shooter or hear the asshole coming. I was in a blissful bubble, daydreaming about names and godparents, wobbling my way down the steps. The next thing I knew, I was bleeding, and wave after wave of intense pain crumpled me to the ground before I passed out.
My son was murdered at twenty-nine weeks.
By who? I still have no clue. After I was released from the hospital and able to return to work, I obsessed over every detail of the case. Kace suspected the drug doctor, while his partner suspected one of the warring gangs at the time. Considering the doctor worked with both gangs, Kace and Frank pursued the angle together but yielded nothing. At least nothing about my shooting.
Me? I suspected everyone. Someone doesn’t randomly shoot an unborn infant. Whatever reason had to do with me, or with Kace, or with something we did. So, I questioned every detail of my life and Kace’s, dug into family members and friends, even investigated my neighbors and bridal party. Nothing resulted from it, except getting sent home on unpaid leave and mandatory counseling.
No son. No job. No love left to give.
I shut my eyes and find reprieve in the seconds between my aching heartbeats, longing for the moment when the pain becomes dull enough to breathe again.
I hold my breath.
And hold it.
And hold it until thoughts still.
My fingers roam over the area below my belly button. Just below the layers of skin there used to be a pear-shaped organ made of complete muscle, capable of stretching and forming a human life inside of it … but it had not been strong enough to stop a bullet.
The engagement ring on my finger serves as a reminder of a happier time, but it was so long ago I forget what a smile feels like.
The backdoor swings open. I aim the weapon at the person standing in my doorway.
“Put that down, Ellie!” Kace shakes his head and closes the door behind him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“How was I supposed to know you weren’t going to work?” I lower the gun and put it back in its holster, which is hanging on the chair beside me. Another piece of evidence I’m oblivious to. Kace goes nowhere without his gun. Had I been in my right mind and attentive to details, I would’ve noticed.
“I went to take out the trash.” He grabs the holder and secures it around his waist. “Today is Tuesday.” He avoids staring at the littered countertops, full of opened jars, dirty dishes, and pantry items.
I avoid looking at all the stuff I didn’t do too. “So you don’t work on Tuesdays?”
He runs his hand over his thick, dark hair and sighs in defeat. “We have our first therapy session in about an hour. Don’t you remember?”
I have my first mandatory session; he insists on couple’s counseling. “No amount of therapy will ever fix me, Kace.”
He slides into the seat beside me. “You don’t need to be fixed, Ellie. You’re grieving and angry … and pissed off. I am too. Someone took our baby from us, but you can’t do this to yourself anymore.” He points to the soggy cereal and untouched spoon. “You barely eat or talk or function. Ever since the captain sent you home, you’ve been…”
“Different? Depressed? Emotional?” I spit out words to finish his sentence. “Did you expect me to be the same?” My forehead, right above my left brow, aches. My migraines always seem to start there.
“I expected you to be more resilient.”
“Resilient?” The throbbing vein doesn’t ease, so I cradle my head on my hands and rest my elbows on the table. Resilience is for people who have hope.
“I mean…” He stops and shakes his head. “Babe, I don’t even know what to say anymore. Nothing I say is something you want to hear.”
Then. Stop. Talking.
“You walk around here like a ghost. You wear sweats all day, and how long has it been since you combed your hair? I’m worried about you.”
My gaze cuts to him, warning him to shut the hell up. I look better than I feel, that’s for damn sure.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Ellie. That’s what I’m trying to say.” His ordinarily strong voice is softer and needier than usual, but my heart is too hurt to give a shit. “I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”
Three months ago, I would’ve run my fingers through his dark hair and touched my forehead to his before placing a soft kiss on his lips. Today, I glance over my shoulder, through the open space, at the unmade sofa bed and visualize the separation between the two of us. Ever since getting back from the hospital, I couldn’t sleep with him beside me. I blamed him, and us, and it no longer felt right to fall asleep in his arms.