His First Surrender (Stonewall Investigations Miami 3)

Still hard as a fucking rock.

I went to the door, the one past my bedroom, stopping at the keypad, the letters and numbers glowing blue against the black console. Before I could tap in the password, a sound echoed throughout my silent house, startling me at first before I realized it was just my ringtone.

Not many people called me. Especially not at ten o’clock at night.

With a frustrated sigh, I started back to my living room, where the sound was coming from, my boner slowly deflating as I walked.

If this is a fucking telemarketer calling, I’m going to snap.

I reached my phone, the ringtone still echoing around the large space, bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. The number wasn’t in my contacts, but it didn’t appear to be a telemarketer either. I answered and was instantly greeted by a panic-stricken voice.

“Rocky, Rocky, it’s me, Sam. It’s Sam. I need—we need your help.”

He was out of breath, and his tone trembled. I was bending down to grab the underwear I’d left on the floor as I asked him to start at the beginning.

“It’s Jesse. He’s… Jesus, he’s dead, and they think Hazel did it. They think she murdered him. But I can’t—that can’t be what happened, Rocky. Please. They’re taking her to jail.”

Before Sam had even finished, I was already fully dressed and out of my house, locking the door and running to my car.

“I’ll be right there, Sam. Are you somewhere safe right now?” I asked him, the call seamlessly connecting to the car as I jumped into it.

“Yes. I’m here, I’m home. I just, I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry.”

“You called the right person, Sam. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I floored it, my wheels screeching as I raced down the street, no doubt attracting some attention from the normally quiet neighbors. It sounded like I was drag racing down the streets, and frankly, I couldn’t give a single fuck. My top priority was getting to Sam.

Thankfully, the streets were relatively empty tonight. I zoomed through the lanes, my pulse pounding hard. Sam’s terror-filled voice triggered something in me that I thought was long dead, buried with the rest of my family.

I reached Sam’s apartment complex, pulling into a spot just outside his building. Right next to the police car that was currently pulling out.

In the back seat sat Hazel, her head held in her hands, sobs racking her shoulders. I could hear them through the glass. I could also see that her hands were red. A dark red, the color of dried blood.

The police car drove off, the officer not even throwing me a glance.

Sam stood at the stairwell leading up to his apartment. He looked at me, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Tears still streaked his cheeks, reflecting with orange from the streetlight just above us.

“Are you okay?” I asked, seeing no blood on him.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I’m, I don’t know. I’m in shock.”

Another officer walked past me, up the stairs, a roll of yellow crime scene tape held loosely in his hand.

“Tell me exactly what happened.” I looked down into Sam’s eyes and tried to ground him. Tried to let him know I was here now, help was here. I tried, even though I could tell the fear already washed over him and threatened to drown him. The second the shock wore off, Sam would feel it like a visceral wound.

“I came home,” Sam started, collecting himself. His lower lip stopped quivering, and his hands slipped into the pockets of his shorts. “I came home after the date. Or meeting. Whatever, the thing we had. I got here and I heard Hazel screech. I ran upstairs and found her standing there, blood on her hands. Jesse was in his room. I didn’t actually see him, I couldn’t. But Hazel said he had… a lot of stab wounds. There was a lot of blood. I…” Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I stopped myself from reaching out and laying a compassionate hand on his shoulder.

He continued. “I called the police right away. Then I called you.” Sam’s lower lip trembled again. “They took her away. They think she did it. But she said she got the blood on her hands because there was blood on his doorknob, smeared underneath it. She didn’t realize at first what it was. She tried rubbing it off, and it spread to her other hand. She didn’t…” The tears he’d been trying to suppress bubbled up to the surface.

“Did she have blood anywhere else on her?” I wanted to keep Sam away from the dark waters that his thoughts pushed him toward. I had to keep him focused on the facts, on helping Hazel.

“No,” he said, confident, sniffling. “Just her hands.”