Jonah (Chicago Blaze 7)

“It’s something I think only you can help with.”

“Huh. I’m intrigued.”

“Can you come by my office tomorrow afternoon around two?”

I have a massage scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, because the older I get the sorer I get from hockey, but I can reschedule it.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“Great, thanks man.”

“See you then.”

I end the call and take an exit to stop by a farmer’s market I like downtown. I plan to pick up some fresh vegetables to grill with the New York strip steak I’ve got waiting in my fridge for dinner tonight.

My wife Lily was always the cook in our relationship, and I was always in charge of the grill. I’d be out cooking meat with a cold beer in hand while she chopped stuff for salad or whipped up scalloped potatoes in the kitchen. Since she passed away almost three years ago, I’ve had to learn a few cooking skills, but I still stick to the grill as much as possible.

It’s not the same, of course. Sitting down to eat alone was really hard that first year. I’d look at her empty seat in the silent dining room and miss her so badly I couldn’t even finish eating sometimes. So I started eating in the living room, watching TV with either a game or ESPN on.

The therapist I saw after Lily’s death told me there are no rights and wrongs with grieving. She said making new routines helps some people.

It helped me, but not enough. Everywhere I went in the house Lily and I built together, I saw reminders of the life we had and the future we thought we had time for.

Empty bedrooms we hoped to fill with kids one day. The bed she fell in love with at a little furniture store in San Francisco that I paid an absolute fortune to have shipped to Chicago, just because I knew no other bed would make her face light up like that one did. The corner of our great room where we put up a Christmas tree together every year.

For a couple years, I held on to the house because even though it was painful, it was where I felt closest to her. But when I finally sold it and bought a lakefront apartment, I felt like I left some of the grief behind.

“Jonah West,” one of the vendors at the farmer’s market says when I bring a bag of veggies up to pay for them. “Nice game the other night, my friend. All of Chicago was cheering when you blocked that last shot.”

“Thanks, Cal. I was feeling that dive in my back the next day.”

He chuckles and gives me my total. I pass him some cash, saying, “Keep it. Thanks, man.”

“Thank you. And good luck against Philly.”

“Appreciate it, man.”

I drive home from there, take a run around the lake, get a shower and then make my dinner. When I’m not on the road for work, this is what I usually do in a day, unless I’m hanging out with the guys.

This is my life now. Hockey, fishing trips with my brother or friends, and downtime spent mostly by myself. And I’m okay with it. For me, it’s Lily or no one.Chapter ThreeReyna

“Holy shit, you’re Rey Diaz?”

A detective gapes at me from behind the front desk of the Investigations Division at a downtown Chicago Police Department precinct. He eyes me up and down and the secretary sitting behind the desk he’s standing next to rolls her eyes in my direction.

“I am,” I say, giving the secretary a small smile.

“I, uh…” the detective runs a hand down his face, grinning. “Sorry, I was expecting you to be…a dude, you know? Not—”

The secretary clears her throat and says, “Agent Diaz, Detective West and Sgt. Jones are expecting you. I’ll take you back to the conference room.”

“I got it, Gina,” Officer Dipshit says, his gaze locked on my chest.

He leads me to a hallway off the lobby area and walks beside me.

“So, ever been to Chicago before?” he asks, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

“I have, yes.”

“Did your husband come with you? Or your boyfriend…?”

Jesus, this guy is a real douchebag. I get hit on by cops often, but usually not so blatantly.

“I’m not married,” I say, forcibly keeping my temper in check.

“Right here,” he says, opening a conference room door. “And hey, I’m Chip Tamblin if you’re ever looking for someone to hang out with here.”

One of the men at the table, a tall Black man with a no-nonsense expression, glares at Chip as he stands up and walks over to me.

“Agent Diaz?” he says, offering me his hand to shake. “I’m Sgt. Doug Jones, great to meet you.” He looks over at Chip and says, “Get the fuck out of here, Tamblin.”

“Yes, sir.” Chip bows his head and closes the door.