The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

Amanda pulled out her phone. She unlocked it and confirmed the day was still the twelfth. It also showed six missed calls—two from blocked numbers, one from Malone, a couple from Trent, one from Becky—and a text message from Jacob.

Jacob’s text was straightforward and concise. Just that the files from the data chip were on the mainframe server of PWCPD and he’d left a message for Patricia Glover in Sex Crimes.

She keyed back a quick Thanks then turned her attention to the voicemail icon in the top-left-hand corner. She knew at least one message was from her father.

She looked at the photo that Rick had left of her father, picked it up, and ran her fingertip over her father’s face. She’d have to warn him about Rick. Might as well listen to his message. She dialed into her voicemail and played her messages.

“Sweetie, it’s Dad.”

He sounded so tired and sad.

“It’s all over now. You can come home if you want to. You know we’re here for you. We’d love to see you.”

A pocket of silence, followed by, “End of message. To—”

She hit the button to save the message and hung up without listening to the others. She didn’t know what she had expected at hearing her dad’s voice. Overwhelming emotions, sure, but not in this magnitude. For the last five years she’d lived numb, hardly feeling or feeling too much but doing her best to drown her emotions out whatever way she could. But upon hearing him, his loving plea… She heaved with deep sobs and the tears fell in a rapid torrent.

He’d sounded so broken, so destroyed, so destitute. And the guilt rolled over her, threatening to bury her alive. The accident wasn’t his fault, or her mother’s, or her family’s, but she’d cut them off. Again, not for anything they had done but because she was protecting herself. It hurt so much to see them, but there was more to it. She’d lost the love of her life and her sweet little girl, and the baby she’d never know. If she could distance herself from other people, barricade herself behind iron, cloak herself in chain mail, she’d never be able to be dealt such a lethal blow again. She’d acted preemptively and cut the emotional connection because as long as humans were mortal, death was inevitable.

But she had an obligation and her word to keep—to her daughter, to Rick Jensen, and to the oath she’d taken. She willed herself off the floor. As much as the thought of coming face to face with her parents hurt, she had to warn her father about Rick Jensen, and she had to get back to the Palmer investigation—even if it was off the books.

First, she’d need to get herself cleaned up.

She staggered to the bathroom and turned on the light. She cried out at the brightness and flipped the switch again, taking a few moments to prepare herself for the onslaught of two one-hundred-watt-equivalency LEDs.

She opened her eyes in increments, letting her vision adjust in stages. When she saw the reflection of herself in the mirror she gasped. Her eyes were puffy, and her lip and cheek were cut and marked by dried blood. The latter was also encrusted around her mouth. But the blood could be washed down the drain; it was the bruising that gave her a ghoulish appearance.

She wet a cloth with warm water and dabbed it to her face, slowly and gingerly, wincing with each contact and being reminded that she could have died today. That before today she thought she’d welcome the chance, but now there was something in her that had changed, if only a fraction.

She took her time cleaning her wounds and opened her cosmetic tray. She had a foundation brush in hand when she heard a noise.

She stalled all movement.

The front door. It had moaned when it reached about two-thirds open.

Footsteps.

He was back!

She quietly tiptoed to her room and grabbed her Beretta. She held it at the ready and crept to the side of her door and tucked against the wall. From this vantage point, she could see down the hall and get the upper hand on her intruder.

A glimpse of a shadow and her body tensed. She slinked back and shouted, “Stop right there!”

Arms shot up in the air in surrender. “Whoa! It’s Trent.”

She lowered her gun. “What the hell, rookie? Announce yourself.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Yeah, I should have.” He wiped his forehead.

“I could have shot you!” She brushed past him toward the bathroom.

“I was worried about you. I haven’t heard anything from you and then I get here, and your front door was ajar. Are you—”

“I’m fine.” She stood in the bathroom doorway, but enough light must have spilled into the hallway to show the bruising and cuts on her face. Trent’s mouth gaped open.

“What happened to you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She went into the bathroom and closed the door. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she added, feeling a little bad for shutting him out when he’d just been worried about her.