“Half those files are yours.”
“I’m still around.” He slams his massive paw into the bag, a thud, a through-shot that could break ribs. “Where are you?”
I’m waiting for the uppercut, how’s the book going, but Burke has mercy and gives it to me square, “You should have never left. Booker—”
“John Booker made me leave.”
“Your fear made you leave.”
Oh. I’ve changed my mind. I want back in the ring.
Burke never raises his voice. Ever. It’s freaky, but he actually gets quieter and that’s when you have to worry. Now, he’s just about whispering and frankly, if I had sense, my blood would run cold.
“And your pride kept you from coming back.”
I knew he was angry, but maybe I should stand back.
“A cop died that day.” I put my hand on the bag, push it back to him. “I had a four-year-old daughter.”
“Don’t give me that, Rem. You haven’t been afraid a day in your life. Then suddenly, you turn in your badge, and it’s over?”
Yeah, well, maybe. But that day, three years ago when I saw Jimmy Williams shot in the head, I was afraid in a way I had never considered.
It could have been me, easily, my blood spilled in the middle of Franklin Avenue.
Burke grabs the bag, coming in close for body shots. I wonder if he wishes it was me.
We’ve had a few go-rounds, Burke and I. That’s what happens when you’re partners for twenty years. Most of them happened in the early, hot-head, daring rookie days.
A few, later. More consequential. The kind of fights that actually hurt. But mostly we took it to the ring, left a few bruises but stayed friends.
Now, I see that maybe he pulled his punches back then.
“You left because you couldn’t stand not being in charge. Booker told you to step back, take leave, but—”
“A cop got killed on my watch. My investigation, my collar. My responsibility.”
Burke catches the bag. “Our investigation. Our responsibility.”
I say nothing. The place has filled up, a few more familiar faces and I cut my voice as low as Burke’s. “I couldn’t sit out for three months while IA investigated a clean shooting. The shooter’s partner was still out there, and I wasn’t going to—”
“Trust me? Because I had your back, Rem. And you should have remembered that before you threw away a twenty-year partnership to write a damn book!”
I’m just staring at him because he’s shouting. Every head swivels our direction.
We’re breathing hard, and for a second, I glimpse the past in his eyes. Army brat, son of an angry father. Burke never had anybody but me to call family.
That winds me down, makes me catch my breath. “Of course I trust you.”
“Not enough.” Burke pushes off the bag and starts tugging at the gloves, one clamped between his legs. “Not like I trusted you.”
I feel that hit. I don’t help him with his gloves and he doesn’t look at me.
He finally works them off, throws them in the bin. Turns. He’s found himself again, his voice back to its even keel. “Listen. Those cold cases haunt me as much as they do you. Come back, and let’s solve them together.”
His eyes are nearly black as they bore into me. Then he turns and heads over to the sparring ring to watch a couple rookies pummel each other.
I take my shower cold, towel off and head home, still wired.
Eve is in the kitchen, plating some fried chicken she picked up at a fast-food joint. She glances over her shoulder, frowns. “You went to work out?”
I nod, and don’t mention that I actually spent the day chasing an impulse. “With Burke.”
She sucks in a breath, nods. “Well, he’s got a good reason to be at the gym today.”
I’m not sure to what she’s referring except the reason buzzing in my head, and I don’t want to talk about it so I head upstairs to drop my gear.
Ashley is playing in her room with her birthday loot from her grandparents, a horse set reminiscent of all the promises I made her to buy her a pony. Someday. I sit down on her floor, in the middle of the pink carpet. “Hey baby, how was your day?”
She gallops a horse up my leg. “Good. But I miss Gomer. Have you found him yet?”
Perfect. “Not yet.”
“But you will, Daddy.” She smiles at me, her blue eyes bright and shiny.
“Yeah, I will.” I kiss her cheek and pry myself off the floor. I’m doing a cursory search of the laundry room, just in case, when Eve calls us downstairs.
She’s crafty, that Eve. She’s dished up the entire meal—chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans—as if it might be homemade, and set it on the table. It’s important to her to eat like her family did, all six of them at 6 p.m. sharp. Her mother is old school—vegetables, bread, starches, pot roast—it can make Eve a little crazy to try and keep up.
She does well enough for my tastes. I don’t remember a home cooked meal beyond the age of twelve.
We sit and Eve makes us pray—it’s the Lutheran in her—and we dive in.
She’s silent, lost in her thoughts as she flattens her mashed potatoes.
“What?” Instincts.
She glances at Ashley, gnawing on her chicken leg. “It’s nothing.”
Oh. It’s that kind of case.
I turn to Ashley, our talker. She can fill all the gaps between us and she tells me a story about her day that involves something on the playground I probably should be paying attention to, but my gaze is on Eve. And the way she just keeps pounding those mashed potatoes.
Her deep sighs.
The catch of her lower lip between her teeth when she thinks I’m not looking.
Every once in a while, she looks up and feigns a smile.
Something terrible happened.
“Can I be excused?” Little Miss Manners asks and I nearly shoo her away.
Eve has reason to look worried the moment Ashley leaves.
“What is it, babe?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Eve—”
“No, it’s…” She sighs again and
