Counterfeit Love

"I, ah, well yes. But no."

"It can't be both."

"It can. I am expecting a call. But I don't know when. So I am a little anxious for it to come, I guess. But, you know, the good kind of anxious. If such a thing exists."

"It exists," he said, eyes going warm. "Usually having to do with the opposite sex."

"Do you have something to tell me, Malcolm?" I asked, picking up on something there between the lines.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Time'll tell. Look, if that fucker doesn't get back to you by tomorrow, I can pay a visit."

"Oh, if I don't hear from him tomorrow, I am going over there myself," I told him, chin lifting.

"Probably for the best," he said, giving me a rare smile. "You're a lot fucking scarier than I am," he added, turning, and walking away.

With that, I went to my room, trying to distract myself from obsessively checking my phone.

I showered. Went over some paperwork. Read my emails. Looked around for news reports on the murder of Michael, mostly to figure out if they thought they had any leads. Even if we had been very careful. We'd even checked into the hotel under my fake ID.

But you could never be too careful. What with how advanced forensic science could be these days.

All the articles claimed there were no leads, and that the case was 'developing'. Which likely meant they were figuring out a way to come out in public and tell the world that the man was killed in his shed surrounded by kiddie porn and incriminating video footage.

I cringed at the idea of my video being in there somewhere, that those men and women in their offices would be playing it, analyzing it, being witness to my misery and humiliation.

But there was no way I would have been present enough to go through the footage and delete it. And I don't know if I could have done it. Then, lastly, it felt wrong to erase my misery, but to leave dozens of others.

I felt a wave of relief knowing they didn't have any immediate leads, that no neighbors saw us, that there were no videos.

I knew that, should it come down to it, my mother would find a way to keep us out of prison, but I didn't want anything to come to that. I wouldn't exactly look like a good potential leader of Hailstorm if I needed my mom to bail me out still.

I climbed in bed with my stomach rolling, phone ringer set on loud.

There was no reason for that, though, because it didn't ring.

I stayed up an embarrassingly long time, finger swiping over my screen, hopefulness turning to agitation, followed by a small surge of sadness.

It was pure exhaustion that eventually made me sleep around three in the morning.

But after a few hours of restless sleep peppered with strange dreams, I got up, did a quick sparring session, showered, dressed, then tucked my outrage in a back pocket, and drove my ass across town to confront Finch.

If he was having second thoughts, that was fine. But he needed to communicate that.

Communication, as my therapist had hammered into my head all these years, was the most important aspect of all interpersonal relationships. Even when it was uncomfortable to share with someone else. Maybe especially when it was uncomfortable.

So, I needed to figure out what was going on, where his head was at, and if we were still moving forward with things between us.

I pulled up to his house, finding his bike there, so I knew he was home.

A little more anger bubbled up as I stalked up the path, on the porch, and slammed my fist into the door several times.

Hearing nothing inside, curiosity took over my general respect for closed doors, and my hand went for the knob, not surprised to find it unlocked because Finch could be too careless for my comfort when it came to security.

I pushed open the door, ready to lecture him not only about being true to his word about calling but also locking his damn door.

But all the words froze in my throat as I stood there in the main space.

The light was streaming in from the back windows, illuminating the space.

Where something very bad had clearly happened.

Furniture was overturned and broken. Glass was shattered near the kitchen.

And then there was the blood.

More than a few drops.

A lot of blood.

I reached for the gun in my purse, holding it in shaky hands as I made my way through his living space and bedroom, looking for him, praying I would find him there--alive and well.

But there was no one there.

There was no one there and there was a lot of blood on the floor and walls.

What the hell happened here?Chapter TwelveFinchI'd like to blame being distracted, having my head up my ass about the whole road trip and the revelations that had been discovered there.