“Can your brother come?”
“I still haven’t heard back from Ransom.”
“What about your mom?”
“Mal? Ha. I’d rather stay here.”
“I could lock you up in a cell for the night.”
“I’d rather that too.”
He lowered his voice and looked around to be sure no one could hear. “I’ll sleep on the couch—”
“No, no, no—”
“We don’t have to talk. You won’t even know I’m there.”
I sighed so hard it hurt my head. “I don’t need a babysitter, Sarge.”
“I’m not trying to babysit you. I’m trying to be a friend.”
I put my hands up. “How’s this? Call me every hour. If I don’t answer, you can send the whole damn department Code Three to my house.”
“Counteroffer. I call you every hour, and I post McCollum outside your place with a key.”
“Deal.” My brain was tired of negotiating. All I wanted to do was curl up in a dark, silent room and shut the hell down. “Tell him I’ll leave a key on top of the doorframe.”
“I’ll get your stuff from my car. At least let me help you outside. You don’t look so steady on your feet.”
“I’m not.” No point in lying.
He put an arm around my waist as we walked through the sliding-glass doors.
Bess pulled up under the overhang in her rattling, rusty green coupe. The gears thunked into place as she put the car in park. It backfired. Essex shook his head as he opened the passenger-side door.
“Hang on!” Bess called across the car, diving toward the floorboard. She tossed soda cans, food wrappers, and enough paper to fill a library into the back seat.
Essex lifted an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “Did they give you a tetanus shot in there?”
I smiled.
When the seat was clear, he protected my head with his hand as I eased into the car. “Be right back,” he said when I was inside. I left one boot on the ground as he ran across the parking lot to his SUV.
Bess let out a low whistle that echoed in my ears. “That’s your boss?” She gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “If he were my boss, I’d never be late to work.”
“Speaking of work, are you going to get fired?” I asked, looking across the dark car at her. She had stars tattooed behind her right ear.
“Probably, but it wouldn’t be your fault. It’s been coming since the day I started.”
Essex returned with my woven black weapons belt. He handed it to me, then checked the empty chamber of my gun before handing it to me with the slide open.
I checked the weapon myself, then closed the slide and laid it on my lap. I put the clunky belt between my feet when I pulled my right leg inside.
Essex leaned in the doorway. “Text me when you get home?”
“Yeah.”
He checked that the door was clear before closing it. He stepped back to the sidewalk, and I held up a few fingers as Bess pulled away.
It was after midnight, but the world was too bright for my head. I shielded my eyes against the oncoming headlights. Still feeling like I might puke at any moment, I closed my eyes and reclined against the headrest.
“So where am I going?” Bess asked.
“You know Delaney’s in Winter Village?” I asked because everyone knew Delaney’s, the shiny new hotspot in my neighborhood.
“Sure. The Irish bar?”
“Yep. Go there.”
“I don’t know much about head trauma, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to be drinking alcohol right now.”
“I live in the condos behind it.” I prayed she’d shut the hell up, but if getting hit in the head wasn’t indicative enough, luck was not in my favor tonight.
“Wow. Those are nice.”
The condos at Winter Village were nice, too nice for a cop’s salary. Half the units had private owners, mostly corporate executives from the Bay Area who spent their summers on the lake and their winters on the ski slopes. My side of the complex was owned by the developer, and the units were rented out by the week to vacationers with deep pockets.
I was the only long-term resident, and only because the management gave me half off the rent for helping keep the place secure. I generally responded to a couple of calls per month from my temporary neighbors. Mostly noise complaints and illegally parked cars.
“So do you have a real name? Or should I just call you Officer Nyx?”
“Corporal Nyx.”
“Oooo-kay. Wanna listen to some music, Corporal Nyx?”
“No.”
“Oh, right. Head injury. Bet it hurts.”
“Getting hit by a car usually does.”
“You get hit by cars often?”
“No.”
“Don’t really feel like talking?”
I held my finger over my lips. “Shh, or I might puke all over your car.”
She laughed quietly. “Wouldn’t make much of a difference.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
We rode for a while in semi-silence. Bess hummed “Miss Independent,” tapping out the beat with her fingers on the steering wheel, until I considered shooting her. I changed my mind when I realized I’d have to drive myself.
The bars were still in full swing when Bess pulled into my neighborhood, on the mountainside, behind Winter Village. From the air or on Google Maps, Ransom always joked that Sapphire Lake looked like a saggy ass. By his description, I lived in the tramp stamp, on the long north shore of the lake.
When I’d started with the department, Winter Village, the lake’s shopping and dining mecca, was where my team had introduced me to “Sunday Funday.” The one off-day a month when we’d all meet up for deep-fried food and endless buckets of beer. The guys were now jealous because I could walk (or stumble) home after indulging too much.
Down the hill and directly across the street from my building, the patio of Delaney’s Irish Pub faced my kitchen window. The pub’s bay doors were open, and a loud and drunken “Whiskey in the Jar” blared from the stage inside. The crowd merrily sang along.
I pushed open the car door, taking a second to collect my wits before getting out. It was challenging, and the accordion whining from the bar certainly didn’t help.
Bess ran around the car to assist. When I stood and the blood rushed to my head, I was thankful she was there. After a moment, the lights stopped twinkling behind my eyes, and I tucked my gun into the back of my waistband.
Bess looped my weapons belt over her arm. “Geez, this thing is heavy. You have to wear it every day?”
“Every day I’m on duty.”
“Which way?”
I pointed to the last unit on the right, where I had a garage space on the ground floor. The front door was up a flight of stairs.
Stairs that were likely going to kick my ass.
“Do you know your neighbors?” She was looking down the row of condos.
“No.”
“You want me to leave?”
Yes. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed her help. “Can you just make sure I get inside without passing out?”
“Sure. Lead the way.”
We started up the steps to 130 Snowshoe Boulevard, Unit 9-C, my new end condo with a partial view of the lake over the roofs of the shopping village.