29

Night has fallen by the time I get back home. It's been a day since we processed Hyde's copycat killer. Hawkins ordered me to deliver part of the televised press conference to the media last night.

All I could think about was whether Hyde was somewhere out there watching me on the screen.

I usually hate coming home after work, but foronceI'm longing to get into my apartment. My brain and body are aching with exhaustion. All I want to do is eat a lot of ice cream, then fall asleep to my thousandth rewatch of When Harry Met Sally.

I reach my door. But a sound freezes me to the spot before I can unlock it. These days, I'm constantly watching my back. I'm always half-waiting for Hyde to jump out from the shadows.

Footsteps.

I turn, a shiver rolling down my spine. The lights in the grimy hallway on the third floor have been out for a week. The stairwell is quiet. There's only the sound of light rain picking up outside.

Maybe it's my imagination. Everything feels like a haze through the intensity of my exhaustion.

I've just turned the key in the lock when I hear my nickname. The one only one boy ever used and immediately ruined.

"Avie."

How can a voice you haven't heard for over a decadestillseem so familiar?

I slowly turn, my back pressed against my apartment door.

Frank Newman.

After my foster father Harvey broke his neck on the stairs, I was sent to live with the Newmans. They were inattentive, but that didn't bother me. By that point, I was sixteen and preferred to be left alone. But their biological son was a different matter.

He had a bad temper. He would drink with his high school buddiesthencome home and shove me around. I tried not to let it get to me. After Harvey, I knew I could handle much worse. But I had to face him on my own. By that point, Lily had been moved onto another family.

Frank is just another reminder of what I escaped and what it cost. I'dratherrun a marathon in heels than ever speak to him again.

He's a few paces away from me. He's disheveled, wearing a faded flannel shirt and grimy jeans. A trucker's cap covers the hair that's faded from bright blond to dirty beige.

He looks much older; he has the same hint of malice in his eyes, but his weathered face is marked by lines. I don't know why that surprises me after ten years. In my head, every cruel figure from my childhood is frozen in time.

I hear Jackson's low, warm voice in my head. Trauma has a way of stopping time. The past isn't gone; it's the eternal present.

Anxiety rolls through me. "What the hell are you doing here, Frank?"

"Can't check in on my little sister without you gettingallsuspicious?"

I feel my fingers ball into fists at my side. "I'm not your sister. You didn't even check in on me when I lived with you, so why would you start now?"

He smiles, his tobacco-stained teeth showing. "I saw you on TV last night, Avie. You did good for yourself. A big-shot detective. It's been so long, but I knew you'd remember me."

The press conference for the Hyde murders. Of course. Nowit'sdragged a ghost out from my past.

"It's Ava. Not Avie. It was never Avie, Frank. And how did you get my address, anyway?"

"One of your little friends at the station gave it to me. Said I was your big brotherandI was looking for you."

I exhale hard. No one at the station should be giving out the home addresses of police officers. Especially not when there's a serial killer running around Brookhaven.

"What do you want from me?"

His smile widens, as if he thinks it's charming. "Well, I've gotmyselfinto a bit of a legal mess. I could do with some help. Seemed like too good of a coincidence that youjusthappen to be a cop now."

Ah, there it is.

As a teenager back in my foster home, this was the kind of situation I dreamed about. My fosterfamilypleading for help now I'm grown up and independent. I imagined the speech I'd give, making them finally regret how they treated me before slamming the door in their face.

But now, in reality, my mindjustfeels numb.

"You must not remember the details of our time together ifyou're expecting anysympathy or goodwill from me."

He leans closerandI wince at his breath, stale with the scent of cigarettes and alcohol. "You owe my family for all that time we put up with you. We gave you a home. A roof over your head."

"You slapped me around every time you had too many drinks." My voice is firm, but it has a tremble of anger. "Whatever mess you're in, I'm sure it's well deserved."

He leans back again, his eyes narrowing. "You always were a stubborn one. I still remember what happened to the last foster dad you were with before us. Didn't end up so well for him, huh? But you came out of it just fine. Always thought that was mighty suspicious."

The blood in my veins turns to ice. "I—I don't know what you're talking about."

He laughs, then gets caught in a coughing fit. "Guess that's ancient history. But right now,you're going tohelp me whether you like it or not. My ex-girlfriend is accusing me of some stuff I didn't do. You're a freakin' detective. I know you can make my problem go away."

He steps forward. I shouldn't be afraid of Frank. He's barely taller than meandhis body has been ravaged by a decade of booze and cigarettes. He's got nothing on some of the criminals I've faced.

But something about his face is bringing me back to being sixteen again. Defenseless and alone. Trying to forget the terrible thing I did and somehow survive the present.

My voice is barely above a whisper,butit'slaced with steel."Leave, Frank. I'm not helping you. You're just a bitter, washed-up loser."

His expression cracks into a snarl. "Bitch."

He lurches forward, arm outstretched.

Smack.

He's not fast, but the slap still catches me off guard. Pain sears across my left cheekboneandI stumble backward, clutching my face.

When I look up at him, he's grinning. Anger rushes through meandI fightoffthe urge to dive at him.

With the last ounce of strength in my body, I calmly speak.

"Get out of here, Frank. You just assaulted a police officer. Whatever legal problem you're in, it's about to geta hell ofa lot worse if you don't leave right now."

He spits on the ground but doesn't try to hit me again. With one last lingering glare, he turns and heads down the stairs in an unsteady jog.

I'm left alone outside my apartment. I slowly sink down to the ground. The firm door against my back isthe only thingholding me up right now.

Broken.

Adrenaline courses through me. My heart rate should be slowing down, but it's only crashing harder and harder in my veins.

I wasn't prepared to see someone from my past. What didhemean about the family I was with before him? Did he somehow find out about what I did to Harvey?

Everything I buried has just been resurfaced. Like a graverobber shoveling away the dirt.

I scramble to my feet and stumble away from the door, my breath coming in short, painful gasps. Panic is tightening its grip around my chest, nearly suffocating me. It feels like knives are stabbing into my lungs.

Cops aren't supposed to have panic attacks.

But lately, I've been doinga lot ofthings that cops aren't supposed to do.

My heart is pounding as my feet carry me back down the stairs into the street. I'm barely aware of whatI'm doingwhen I hail a cab and tumble into the backseat.

All I feel is the need to run from the memories haunting my mind. I want to run somewhere that might have a chance at saving me.

Harvey's voice echoes in my head. You're broken, Ava. You think I'm ruining you? Can't break something that's already worthless.

I gasp for air.

Everything feels cold and numb.

I stumble out of the cab into the darkness and feel myself moving down the pathway like a dream.

I knock hard on the front door.

Please answer. Please. I don't know how to say it out loud. I don't even understand why I'm feeling it. But I need you.

The door swings open.

Jackson looks at me in surprise.

"Ava?"