I stare at the activity a long moment, caught suddenly in a fading distant memory of my seven-year-old, her blonde hair flipping behind her as she digs into a swing on the set I built for her…less than a week ago. My chest tightens.
Maybe she’s back.
Please…
Although with the cases on the board, something inside me says no. Still, to confirm, I turn and take a look at my desk.
It’s clean. The files hanging in their own partitions in a long file box that sits parallel to a real desk. And on the front I see a nameplate.
Captain Stone.
What? So apparently, I haven’t completely screwed up my life. I sort through the files, looking for anything familiar.
Ashley’s folder is gone.
Gretta’s is too, so maybe—
“Hey Captain, I got those reports you were looking for.” The knock at the door lifts my head and I don’t recognize the man who strolls in. He’s young, mid-twenties, dark hair queued back in a man bun, and he wears a suit jacket over a t-shirt, a pair of jeans and Cons.
I’m looking at a younger version of myself, and for a second, I wonder if maybe I’ve cloned myself, sent it to the future—no, that’s the stuff of sci-fi novels. Be real, Rem.
I notice the name on his badge. Kincaid.
He hands me the file and I look at it. “Remind me…?”
“It’s the first Jackson murder.” He gives me a puzzled look. “You asked the CSI Director to revisit the DNA samples found under her fingernails?”
“Right.” I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about, of course. “Thanks.”
I set the file on my desk, and Kincaid just stands there, looking at me. “Um—”
“We’re sparring today, right? After work?” He looks at his watch.
Me too, but mine has stopped working, of course. “We are?”
He frowns. “You said you’d show me that counter punch move you do.”
I’d love to know what that is, too. Maybe I can Google it.
“Yeah, sure.” I say. “I’ll see you then.”
“Super.”
From the hallway, someone stops at the door and sticks their head into my office. “Hey, Zeke! Some of the guys are getting pizza. You want some?”
“Sure,” The man named Kincaid says. Zeke Kincaid.
“Nice. I’ll tell Burke you’re in.” The officer nods and heads away, but the name sends an arrow of relief through me. Burke is still here.
He hasn’t been burned alive.
“Let me know if you need anything else, boss,” Zeke says.
How about a sit-rep on my life? But I don’t say that as I let Zeke walk away.
So, the Jackson killer is still at large, and I walk to the board and do the math. Thirty-seven total. That’s fourteen new names.
What have I done?