Dead Beat In the Shadows

Dead Beat In the Shadows
Roman

Rachael’s weight sagged against me as soon as I lowered her onto the mattress. She sank into it like the night had wrung her dry. Her mouth parted, breath shallow, cheeks blotched with whiskey-red.
“Don’t go,” she had whispered earlier, her fingers fisting in my sleeve.
So I hadn’t. Not yet.

Her hair was tangled across the pillow, catching the lamplight in stray strands. My hand hovered before I brushed it back from her cheek. She sighed and leaned into it unconsciously, lips parting.
For one moment, I let myself linger. Then I tucked the blanket beneath her chin.
“Sleep, Sinclair. You’re safe.”

The hall creaked beneath my steps as I left her room, closing the door until only a strip of light bled through.
Her living room smelled faintly of detergent and whiskey. The crime scene wall pulled me closer—photographs taped haphazardly, ink-scrawled notes in sharp strokes.
Jane Doe one. Jane Doe two. Blonde. Pale. Both carved open in an X. Both eyes missing.
Her handwriting swarmed around them: Why eyes? deliberate dump? sedative? Arrows jabbed toward wounds, circles tightened around details. Grocery lists half-hidden under tape, scrawled between theories. Milk. Bread. Ramen.

Her life was tangled with her work; no boundaries left.

I studied the notes the way I’d study a suspect. Sharp angles where she doubted herself. Hard strokes where she was sure. Questions circled three, four times, where she refused to accept an answer.
She was sharp, sharper than she knew. Most cops would’ve folded by now. But she burned herself alive to keep pace, and it showed. Pill bottles on the counter. Empty liquor bottles filled the trash. A stomach full of cheese balls and whiskey. She was cracking, but not soft..shards sharp enough to cut.
And I couldn’t stop reaching for them.
The sockets in the photos glared back, hollow. Why eyes? she had written.
She was right to ask. But the answer wasn’t hers to have. Not yet.

The couch sagged under me. Too short, cushions lumpy, but it didn’t matter. The thought of leaving her alone in that room was worse.
The blanket smelled faintly of her detergent. I pulled it over my legs, stared at the ceiling.
Sleep didn’t come. Instead, I replayed the night: her laugh, her hand smacking the counter for another round, her in my arms when I carried her out.
Her words slurred through the haze: It was so dark down there. They screamed.

I could only give comfort. I doubt she remembers saying anything.
Now the fragments burned fresh in my mind. I wanted more. Every memory she tried to drown. Every scar she hid.

By the time dawn touched the blinds, my eyes had been shut only a short time.
She stumbled out in her underwear, hair knotted, face pale. Her eyes caught on me half-asleep on the couch. I clear my throat, adjusting myself in my shorts. I can’t help but run my gaze up and down her body as she stands before me.
“You didn’t leave,” she rasped, voice gravelly.
“Wouldn’t have been smart to,” I said. “You’d have tried to drive to work still drunk.”
She grunted, shuffled to the kitchen. The fridge opened, empty save for beer, ketchup, and half a takeout box.
“Sit,” I said, pushing up from the couch. “Coffee’s mine.”

She shot me a bleary look but dropped onto the chair.
I moved through her kitchen like I’d always been there, found the grounds, the filters. Coffee gurgled into the pot. She stared at me, equal parts hungover and unsettled.
“Bossy,” she grumbled, but I saw her smile.

An hour later, the precinct buzzed low when we arrived. Phones clicked, keyboards tapped, conversation muffled. Marty waved us into his office.
“Good, you’re both here. Press conference went well. The mayor has stopped badgering me for a minute, but it is all over the town paper. That asshole Tony, down at the paper, is trying to stir the pot and get everybody riled up!”
I nodded once. “Understood. Asshole Tony is causing problems. If he calls, tell him I will answer whatever questions I can.” I look over to Rachael to see her rubbing her temples, hangover hitting her hard.
Marty leaned back. “Sinclair, you’ve got a doctor’s appointment, right?”
She shifted in her chair, muttering, “Yeah.”
“Go. Keep it. Hanshaw will be fine until you get back.”
Rachael frowned. “I can—”
“No,” Marty said. “You go. You need to take care of yourself.”
She bit her lip, glanced at me. I gave her a nod. She grabbed her notebook and left.

I waited until Rachael had gone, the door clicking shut behind her, before leaning a little closer across Marty’s desk.
“There’s something I want clarity on,” I said.
Marty arched a brow. “What’s that?”
I waited until Sinclair was out of earshot before leaning a little closer to Marty’s desk.
“Travis Hale,” I said quietly. “Her ex. What’s his story?”

Marty blew out a breath, rubbed at the back of his neck. “Story? More like a rap sheet without the paperwork. Couldn’t keep a job if his life depended on it. Mean drunk, quick temper. I lost count of the times she came in with bruises. Always had some excuse...slipped on the porch, walked into a door, you name it. But I didn’t buy it. Not then, not now.”
I kept my voice even. “She never admitted he laid hands on her?”

“Sinclair? No. She’s stubborn. Carries her own pain and tells the rest of us to mind our business.” He shook his head. “But I saw enough. That bastard didn’t just knock her around; he chipped away at her. You could see it in her eyes some mornings.”
I let that settle, then tilted my head like I was turning over the angles. “From what you saw… is he capable of more? Of crossing that line from violence at home to violence like we’re seeing in these cases?”
Marty gave me a long look, weighing the question. “You asking as her partner, or as the friend?”

“Both.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding. “Capable? Yeah. A guy like that doesn’t just stop swinging. The escalation part… I can’t swear to it. But if he’s back in town, he’s a problem. For her, for all of us. And I’ll tell you this...if Sinclair knows he’s around, she won’t breathe a word. She’ll act like she can handle it. She always does.”
I nodded once, filing it away.
“Noted,” I said, professional and even. “I’ll keep eyes open.”

When Marty stepped out to take a call, I pulled my phone. “Yeah,” I said when the line clicked. Reporting in. “Evidence is being processed. Sedatives were consistent across both victims. Locals are restless.”
Jake picked that moment to swagger up to me. I end the call, knowing that this is going to make me want to pulverize him.

“How’s babysitting going, Fed? Sinclair keeping you busy?” His smirk was thin, practiced. “Girl can’t handle a badge. Everybody knows it. Everybody knows what she’s good at handling.”
My jaw flexed.
“She’s a drunk. A mess. And if you’re sleeping with her already, well, I guess that tracks. She’s always been—”
I stood, slow enough to cut him off. “Careful.”
Jake blinked. “What?”

I stepped closer, getting into his face. My rage coils through me, my fists shake at my side under the restraint I am trying to maintain.
Jake’s smirk was still hanging on his face when my fist connected. The crack of knuckles on bone rang through the precinct, followed by the sick thud of him slamming into the wall. A framed commendation rattled off its nail and clattered to the floor.

The receptionist gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
Marty came barreling out of his office. “What the hell is going on out here?”
Jake staggered, blood running from his split lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand, glaring at me through watery eyes.
I didn’t flinch. “Jake’s mouth finally caught up to him. Consider it a lesson in shutting it before it gets him in more trouble than I’m willing to overlook.”

Marty’s eyes darted between us, jaw tight. “Jake, get your ass off the floor and back on patrol before I write you up.”
Jake shoved himself upright, muttering curses, and stomped toward the door.
I smirked at his retreating back, just enough for him to see.