Chapter Fifteen

Iwalked around the gallery where we”d spent the morning transporting all of Tatiana”s artwork. The tall, white-walled, geometric building design overwhelmed me with its vastness. I never understood why they made ceilings so high sometimes. All that empty space served no purpose save to amplify echoes and drive me insane. Even with just four people in the space, the sound killed me. I could barely manage it when Reagan shrieked in between her giggles. Wyatt chased her about, the two of them neck-deep in fun and frivolity while I covered my ears in the corner. Tatiana narrowed her brow when she met my gaze.

”I”m fine,” I offered.

”I mean, yeah. How do you handle gunshots and policing if echoes make you nuts?”

”Not sure.” I dropped my hands when the playful duo ran off. ”It”s different. Plus, we rarely fire weapons outside of a range. As it should be.”

”Noted.” She smiled and handed me one of her smaller paintings. ”Where should that go?”

”In between the two big ones. The symmetry will make it stand out more.”

”Good idea.” She bounced on her toes then hopped over to the spot I indicated. One of the gallery workers took it from me and we watched as she climbed the ladder to secure it.

”Are you bringing Clem to the opening?” Tati asked while we watched her collection fall into place.

”Yeah. She”s looking forward to it.” I took a step back, allowing myself to absorb the full vision of the gallery surrounding us. ”Look around, Tati.”

”I know.” She smiled when her hands fell to her hips. ”It”s surreal.”

”It shouldn”t be. You”re incredible.”

”Well, a show and sales are two different things.” She leaned against me, and I dropped my arm around her shoulders.

”It”s gonna happen.”

”You can”t know that—”

”It”s gonna happen.” I squeezed her to me, then nodded toward the piece directly ahead of us.

The autumn-like colors swirled to form the curves of a woman, brown skin, braided hair, with vibrant cloths encircling parts of her naked form. It was abstract, for all intents and purposes, but it wasn”t at the same time. ”That is going to hang on someone”s wall. It”s going to be the first one sold.”

”How can you be so sure?”

”I have a feeling.” Pride radiated through as broad as the smile that made it to my lips.

”You and your feelings.”

”Sometimes I have them.”

”So I”ve heard…”

We spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening directing, observing, and pondering the placements of Tatiana”s work. The gallery owner”s crew honored her requests and when the owner arrived, she approved the setup after the walkthrough. By that time, my burnout level hit its peak and so I sat up front, on the floor with my back against wall, while staring at my phone. I hadn”t a clue what I looked at in all that time, but I managed to use a third of the battery. The owner, whose name I eventually learned was Kanika, stood alone in the space with her chin pinched between her fingers. Her bare feet padded softly on the cold tile, and I noticed that, when she turned the corner to where my piece hung, she paused. I watched as her brow furrowed, and her hands fell to her hips as she gazed at my work. She said nothing, made not a sound, before sauntering off down the hall.

My mind ruminated on that moment for a bit over the next few days, until the evening when Tatiana”s opening reception rolled around. Instead, my thoughts lingered on what I would wear that wouldn”t make me stand out like a sore thumb. I peeked my head out of my room to see Tati dressed in a long, flowy boho style dress that matched the temperate but humid weather. She chatted with Wyatt while lacing up some fancy sandals. Her style wouldn”t help mine one bit. I looked to Wyatt then, noting he wore a black pair of cargo pants and a nice blue-green sweater. Nothing too fancy, save for the freshly purchased pair of Vans. I smirked, nodding to myself as if he told me what to do directly. I swung around, chose a pair of nicer black jeans, one of my comfortable, but slimmer fitting Blink 182 T-shirts, and a black blazer. My shoes, almost the same as Wyatt”s, felt appropriate.

When I emerged, dressed and ready to go, Tati”s smile broadened. ”Looking fresh, girl.”

”You”re looking very airy, too.”

They both laughed.

”What about me? How do I look?” chimed in Wyatt.

”Crisp,” Tati and I said at the same time.

We all laughed at that.

The rideshare showed up almost immediately when our feet hit the sidewalk out front. I wouldn”t normally catch a ride, but Tati refused to walk more than ten feet in her fancy-pants shoes.

We arrived at the gallery, greeted first by the twinkling lights of the strategically placed illumination of Gallery Row. People lazed up and down the sidewalks, some with arms linked in others, some alone, many on their phones, a few snapping photos. During the day, this was a place like any other, but in the evening, it became a playing field for the upper-crust and posh. The city”s highest members of society funded this area, just by their existence alone. No one fit in here, at least no one I knew anyway, and at least it didn”t leave me feeling too much like an other. We were all the others, and these millionaires were the absolute minority.

”Ugly clothes,” muttered Wyatt against my ear as we followed behind the sure-footed Tatiana. She played it well, masking up enough to fit in but also maintaining her artist presence. Or maybe that”s just how she came across to me.

”Totally. So much bling.”

”Ugly bling.”

”Will you two learn to whisper?” Tati rounded on us, but the playfulness in her eyes told me she agreed with every word of it.

The door to the gallery wasn”t open yet, but Kanika let us in, locking it behind us. She led Tatiana over to the podium up front where a tablet lay face up. Wyatt and I wandered away, and I took in the sights.

It was nothing like it was before when we set everything up. Bright, clean light filled the space, lending no shadows to any of Tatiana”s incredible collection. Cocktail tables, clothed in white, stood like small pillars around the space. Gallery attendants dressed in black, prepared glasses of champagne and charcuterie, and set tiny little napkins down on the tables.

”Fancy,” I muttered.

”Way above my paygrade.”

”Above the paygrade of everyone I know. Combined.” I glanced over at Tatiana when she reappeared and, as soon as Kanika turned her back, Tatiana grimaced, and mouthed help me. I stifled a chuckle.

”I guess we aren”t the only ones who feel that way.”

”Nope.” I smiled at her, and she tossed me a wink before returning her attention to Kanika.

When the doors opened, people began flooding in. When I say flooding, I mean a slow, meandering pace that made everyone appear to hover. I never realized Louboutin and Versace shoes made people float. Just float.

Wyatt”s eyes stared down at a pair of gold stilettos embroidered with glittering crystals and metallic accents. I elbowed him and we shared one heck of an eyeroll.

Despite thehighfalutin guest count, it was only a matter of time before the regular humans joined the fray. Mrs. Silva, with a sparkly dress-clad Reagan in tow, entered behind the tattoo shop crew. Some of Jordan”s folks wandered in as well, and a few faces I recognized from Wildrose. The barista from The Crystal Mug joined, and two uniformed police officers from my precinct followed. I couldn”t tell if they were there as a part of on-duty security, or just for a visit. Dozens of people filled the space, and as soon as the echoing met a certain decibel, my ears rang to high hell.

”I have a solution for that,” Clementine chirped from over my shoulder. I started, but turned to face her right away.

”Hi.” I couldn”t fight the smile as I leaned in to kiss her cheek. ”Solution for what?”

She waved at Wyatt, then looked back at me. ”I saw you about to cover your ears.”

”This is true.” I squinted as if that would help me hear less.

Clem turned her head and showed me the tiny round fleshy toned things poking out of her ears. ”I have a backup pair, want them?”

”But how can I hear you then?”

”Trust me.” She dug in her purse and plucked out a tiny purple box. ”You can.”

It was then that I noticed her silky pantsuit, burgundy and rose, with a pair of black Oxfords with hints of the same colors in the stitching. My stomach flip-flopped as I accepted the box, and she showed me how to use them. As soon as they fell in place, the background noise faded to a low garble rather than a loud nightmare, and I blinked a few times while looking around.

”Whoa.” I flinched when my voice sounded strange. ”Hello.”

”Hi.” She grinned and nodded. ”See?”

”Wow. These are so much better.”

Wyatt looked on with wide eyes, appearing as overwhelmed with the crowd as we were, except way calmer about it.

”Yup. I almost always have them in if I”m around people. Most of the time no one can tell.” She smiled and held her hand to me. ”Let”s walk around. I have a time limit on my burn out.”

”Me too.” I laughed and motioned to Wyatt. ”Care for a gander?”

”Yup.” He nodded, his hands tucked deep into his pockets as we followed the crowd around the perimeter.

In time, Tati returned to Wyatt”s side, and she guided him toward the front of the gallery where Kanika stood. People approached them every so often, sharing conversation, and passing little cards back and forth. After an hour or so, Clem and I found a less populated place at the back of the gallery near the bathrooms.

”Tati”s work is incredible,” she said after a while.

”It is. Seeing it like this is just…breathtaking. Did you see the price points? My god.”

”Oh yeah. And that”s low from what I”ve seen, but I suppose her first gallery show has to be that way. People will bid though, from my understanding. So nothing is a done-deal sort of price until the end.”

”I am clearly not a cultured person.”

”Nor am I, save for the fact I overheard people talking on my way in. I usually visit galleries or museums on their off hours when hardly anyone is around.”

”Same. I mean, rarely inside though. Unless there is a policing emergency.” I smirked after I said it.

Clem laughed and gave my hand a squeeze. ”Fair enough!”

”This is pretty amazing though, I have to say.” I drew in a slow breath as I looked around, feeling better able to take in the experience now that my head wasn”t trying to explode. ”I”m so happy for her. So happy. And proud.”

”My experience of happiness for others sometimes dims my own personal contentment and I am absolutely aware of the neurodiversity evident in that cognitive pattern,” Clem said, her expression rather stoic. ”But I, too, feel happy for Tatiana. Her gift is incredible, and I am honored to be here.”

”I think I feel that way sometimes, too. Someone else excels at something, and I feel a little left behind. It doesn”t stop me from being happy or excited for them, I just sometimes feel a little less happy for myself.” I shrugged, matching her sentiment, at least partly, as she wandered over to one of the paintings closest to us.

”I really like this one.”

”I remember when she painted it. This is an older piece.” I motioned to the title pinned to the wall beside it.

”What does Feli Aci, mean?”

”Felicidade acidental, in Portuguese. I remember that one. Found Tati painting this while crying, on and off for days. It took me awhile to approach her. Honoring her process and all.” I paused, my thoughts in the memory while I gazed at the wild slashes of paint here and there. ”She worked on this after she found out she was pregnant with Reagan, and she told me when it was finished.”

”I can see the emotions in here of a happy accident. The despair and the joy.” Clem pointed to the yellows that swirled in craters around the bolder blues. ”Here.”

”Yes.” I smiled at that. ”I can see that.”

Our attention to the work appeared to draw a crowd, one of which seemed to have been eaves dropping on our conversation. The downside of earplugs was being unable to tell how loud I was talking. One woman pinched her chin between her fingers while staring at the painting as the diamond engagement ring on her finger glinted in the vibrant light. I glanced at Clem, who didn”t seem to notice anyone as she stared down at the book in her palms all of a sudden.

”I think it”s this one,” the woman said to another, before walking off, and pulling one of the small cards from her purse.

”I reckon Tati just sold something,” I muttered to Clem.

”This is what it reminds me of.” She gave the impression that she didn”t hear what I said as she showed me a color photo in her book.

”Who”s the artist?”

”Julie Mehretu. She”s an Ethiopian American contemporary artist. Her paintings are multi-layered and abstract landscapes. Many of them reflect urban sociopolitical changes.” Clem flipped through a few of them. ”I saw her work at the Whitney in New York back in 2021.”

I listened to her while checking out the images. My thoughts wandered a bit, not quite able to make the connection between the works but I appreciated that Clem did. ”It”s unique.”

”Yes. Tatiana”s is unique, too. They”re not close in style, but it just reminded me.”

”I understand.”

Her gaze flickered to mine for a moment, but she didn”t say anything at first.

”What”s wrong?”

She glanced around us, and I recognized the white-knuckling of her fingers as she gripped the book. ”Are you annoyed?”

”At what?” I looked around, completely lost for a moment. ”The sound?”

”No. That I showed you someone else”s art at Tatiana”s show.”

”Not at all. It”s relevant. It made sense to you, so it makes sense.” I shrugged again as my brow furrowed. ”Why would that annoy me?”

”Most people get annoyed when I do that. Or ignore me.”

”Well, if it”s worth ignoring, I would do it. But it”s not. And you”ll be able to tell if I”m ever annoyed,” I said, remembering some of Zay”s blunt descriptions.

”How?”

”Apparently my annoyed face is obvious.” I mimicked the scoff, with a single risen eyebrow.

Clem chuckled then, finally relaxing. ”Okay. Yeah. That”s obvious.”

”See?” I grinned and held my hand out to her. ”All good.”

”Very.” She took my hand, delicately as if I was some sort of fragile glass. ”I”m having a fun time with you.”

”Right back at you. Clem, I—”

I didn”t get to finish my sentence before my phone began buzzing maniacally in my pocket. I whipped it out, rolling off the irritation that climbed up my shoulders. Zay”s name appeared on the screen, and I swiped to answer.

”One sec,” I muttered as I nodded for Clem to follow me toward the front of the gallery where it wasn”t as rude to take a call. She stood with me, a fleeting expression of concern crossing her features. ”It”s Zay,” I told her before returning my attention to him. ”What”s up?”

”We have Dr. White”s final reports and there”s one demo company that matches all the composites. The warrant is on the way,” his voice sounded rushed but also distracted. ”I”ll send you the coordinates.”

”Thanks.” I drew in a slow breath and pocketed my phone. ”I have to go, Clem.”

”I was wondering how long it would take before they called you,” she said, her attention all over the place before her gaze flickered to mine. ”The genetic testing revealed a link to a criminal record for a man who owned a demolition company back in the late nineties. There”s now a female name on record of owning the business.”

”Why didn”t you tell me when you got here?”

”Because work is done. This is more important.” She motioned toward the gallery floor. ”To be here to celebrate Tatiana.”

”Until we get interrupted.” I frowned at the notion as I looked over at Tati, happy as can be with Reagan on her hip and Wyatt by her side. She chatted it up with everyone who approached her, Kanika a liaison in the middle. ”I hate being interrupted.”

”I understand that. Do you want me to go with you?”

”Um…” I thought about it then shook my head. ”My fast answer is yes, but it”s for selfish reasons. Can you support me by staying here with Tatiana and letting her know I had to go for work?”

”Of course.” Clem held her hand to me, and I accepted it, offering her a gentle squeeze. ”Anything you need.”

Her words hit me heavier than I thought. Part of me expected her to get annoyed at me for having to leave or insist on coming along. Clementine was different, and in that moment, only one word could describe my feelings: trust.

After a warm kiss, and a final glance in Tatiana” direction, I headed out to face the one thing I didn”t want to deal with, and that alone was enough to ruin all the joy that built up that day.

It took me a few minutes to meet up with the team outside the precinct after a half-jog, half-cab road race. With cars loaded, the FBI and multiple units at the ready, we headed out as soon as Walsh”s phone rang with notification of the warrant.

”Where are the Millers?” I asked Caroline who drove the black SUV where Zay and I rode.

”They”re not allowed this far,” she answered. The man in the passenger seat, who I didn”t know, said nothing but stared ahead.

”Why not?”

”There”s a breach team ahead of us, about a mile away from where we”re landing. We”re walking into a demolition company, filled with the prospect of an explosive adventure. Bomb techs are leading the way in this one and we don”t need P.I.”s as collateral damage.”

”Remind me not to tell your friends that.”

”You won”t. S”not like they don”t know.” Caroline scoffed. ”They”re pains in the asses.”

”I mean, true.”

”They”re gonna show up anyway,” muttered Zay.

”No doubt.”

Sirens screamed around us, but as we drew closer, leaving the outskirts of the city for the tree-heavy suburbs, the units grew quieter. First the sounds, then the lights, until we were nothing more than a pseudo funeral procession. I stared out the window, my vision blurred by the rain trickling down the glass. In the fleeting moment of internal solitude, I grew more aware of my emotions, and the sensation of hollowness inside me. I did not want to be here. In fact, I didn”t want to be anywhere near here.

My mind flashed to my first ride, with handcuffs encircling my wrists, in the steel-lined bus that transported me to juvenile detention. Caged windows carried the same rain streaks, marring my vision but capturing how I felt inside. Now, in this moment, I couldn”t say that I felt any differently. A look around me would further reveal the dissonance felt by my position and the consequences of my choices. I was the one who chose to be here, who leaned into risk, who accepted something far too quickly. I wasn”t someone who harbored regret, almost never, but with my situation as it was today, I regretted the decision I made two years ago. Looking back, I now had the perspective enough to realize that, at the time I decided, the choices were limited; stay as I always was or take a leap of faith. I leapt. I did that, with my own feet, but here I sat, wishing I hadn”t. I never expected to mourn my previous life, my prior career path, my situation of yesterday, but I did. And awareness of that grief process fell heavily on me today while waiting for the moment we solved a long-wrought case. The solace often afforded by finding answers for families did not feel as consoling as it used to, despite the hearty circumstances ahead.

I glanced down at my hands in my lap, my fingernails clean and tidy in an uncharacteristic way, presented as a contrast to the image in my mind. In that moment, I felt trapped, shackled, and chained to a scenario that I didn”t want. Or need. Anger rolled up my middle, over my shoulders, to clench my fists. Resentment spiraled inside me, interrupted only by Donovan”s firm pressure on the brake.

”Gear up,” she called out after tucking the SUV behind the row of armored vehicles.

We threw on our vests, my attention as dissociated as my rage, and only the sound of the ripping straps grounded me for a moment. My fingers grazed my concealed carry behind my back, and I gulped down the emotions meant to be stifled while at work.

”You good?” asked Zay, to which I nodded.

It wasn”t he or I who led the way onto the dark, swampy grounds demolition company. Bomb techs, SWAT, FBI, and whoever else led the charge. I was happy to let them. The faster this case ended the better, for all involved. It was only then that I realized how very much I”d separated myself from all aspects of this case. I wasn”t invested, not in the least, and the details of it hardly haunted me. I saw how Maggie and Sali ran around like wild women trying to hunt down even the smallest clue. I was happy to let them, knowing my laissez-faire attitude was no way to approach police work, and by doing such, I might”ve caused more harm than good. I definitely didn”t cause any accountable good.

We followed Donovan and some folks from the Homicide Unit into the area, once the bomb techs waved us in. No explosives were detected, at least none beyond the controlled ones that belonged to a place like this. The pathway up the dirt road divided in two. To my right, the company grounds, with a commercial style building and all sorts of tear-it-down equipment littered the flattened gravel. It seemed ordered, as it should, with not much out of place. To my left, the road split off toward a paved area, and at the top, a weather-battered rustic home perched itself between a bunch of poorly kept trees.

”Roth, your team with Roderick”s that way.” She pointed toward the house, and I nodded.

Surrounded by half a dozen men of varied ranks, and one female patrol officer, we headed up to the unlit home. My heart beat faster, pounding in my chest to give me the jolts of adrenaline I needed to clear the haze of disdain from my mind. I glanced at Zay as he approached the front door, and he nodded as he gripped the knob in his gloved hand.

”Traps?” I mouthed, glancing at Stiles who loomed over my shoulder.

He shook his head, though his brow wrinkled with a hint of concern. I drew my field knife, concealed in my boot, and once Zay cracked open the door, I ran it around the edges the way I saw Sali do when she broke-and-entered into the garage of the last demo company we harassed. Nothing caught the knife, no tug or tweak. I looked back at them, then pointed to the floor when Zay beamed his flashlight downward.

”Pressure plates?” I whispered, but then Stiles shook his head.

”Squad confirmed no explosives detected.”

”How?”

”Technology.” He nodded for us to follow, as he shoved his way to the lead.

My comfort in allowing his charge settled the rest of the leftover agitation that gnawed at me. Zay followed, his gaze now ahead instead of looking to me for concordance.

A few paces into the place, dark and dank like somewhere that”d been closed up for some time, and stacks of cardboard throttled our progress. With our lights focused ahead, the towers of water-damaged, or aged banker boxes created a small city for us to navigate. Despite the clear footpath, it was not easy to sneak through, in a single file, let alone clear the area. The breath sounds of my colleagues annoyed me as much as the obstacles, but as soon as I found a set of stairs, I flicked my flashlight in the direction to warn of my separation from the group. Stiles nodded, and Zay followed.

Foul odors met my nose, mostly of trash, like rotten bananas or sour milk. Beyond that, the many layers of mold trickled in to make quite the mix. However, as soon as my feet hit the landing of the small staircase, the wafting stench of putrefaction overpowered all others.

”Body somewhere,” I muttered, close to Zay”s ear.

He nodded, his expression more serious than I”d seen it before. He followed me now, as I forced my way between a narrow crevice created by a fallen bookshelf leaning precariously against more boxes. His light didn”t follow mine, and I stole a moment to glance back. He couldn”t fit, and so the curve toward the attic space belonged only to me. In the darkness, hardly any shadows birthed from my torch due to the mountains of objects, but at the end of it all, a fattened pinkish-green hand came into view by the window ledge. I froze, the light reflecting back at me from the dirty glass, until I angled myself to see blood curdled on the wooden planks just out of reach of my shoes. I lowered my weapon then, when the sodden pages of a composition book lay open on the floor between me and the body. I didn”t touch it, just crouched down to read the nearly-microscopic scrawl…

Most of the time people begin notes like this with an apology. I”m not one to believe I”ve affected anyone so deeply that an apology is necessary.

The truth is, I”m not sorry.

I”m not sorry at all.

My mind, deep on the inside where I”ve let no one, has always swam in darkness. I can”t remember a time when light penetrated so deeply that it made a difference. In fact, with time, I grew to hate the light.

It bothered me.

When a person is surrounded by darkness, not of their own liking but one forced by circumstances with no means of escape, it seeps into the soul and you find yourself an inauthentic hypocrite surrounded by assholes.

You”re all assholes.

Selfish and guided by egocentricity.

Every day I put on an act.

I never really cared. I meant it when I said it.

I know this note sounds laced with anger and impulsivity, but let me remind you, I”m writing from a place of peace and well-thought out determination. I”ve had this day in mind since birth.

Since the days of the red dress with white lace.

Since the days of everafter.

So, with a solemn nod from the cliffside of madness, I take my bow.

I won”t be watching. I”ll have better things to do.

When I looked up, Zay stood over me, having found his way through, with his lips pursed as he gazed down at the exposition before us. A final statement, an act of ending, one in which no justice would be served.

I holstered my weapon, clicked off my torch, and made my way out of that place on memory alone.