Every Face the Same

Every Face the Same
Rachael

My head throbbed in a way that made every small sound feel like a hammer blow. I should be used to it by now, but after a decade, every morning feels like it is the “new”, worst hangover I have ever experienced in my life.
Every part of my body hurts.
My teeth are furry.

I blink my eyes open a few times, and a trash can filled with last night's whiskey comes into view.
“Uggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh,” I groan, lifting my head off the pillow.
On the nightstand sat a small white pill and a glass of water, beads of condensation running down the side. My stomach flipped with gratitude anyway.
Roman.
Of course. He always seemed one step ahead of me. I swallowed the pill dry, chased it with half the glass, and pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead. If he was going to hover, at least he knew what he was doing.
The sound of movement drifted in from the kitchen, the soft creak of a cabinet, the scrape of a chair across the floor. My stomach knotted at the thought of facing him after last night, because I remember nothing after leaving the bar, and blacked out is when I’m at my most embarrassing.
I slowly made myself upright, ignoring the wave of nausea that rolled through me, and dragged myself to the bathroom.
When I shuffled into the kitchen, Roman was leaning against the counter. He glanced up, those storm-gray eyes meeting mine, and smirked just a little.
“Morning, Sinclair.”
“Don’t say it like it’s a good thing,” I rasped, my voice like gravel.
He only shrugged, pushing a bottle of water toward me.
“You’re bossy,” I muttered, wrapping my hands around it and chugging as if I was in a competition.
“And you’re slow in the mornings,” he shot back, that faint smirk tugging again.
I should have snapped at him, but instead I found myself biting back a smile.

Damn it.

By the time we got to the precinct, my head had settled into a dull ache instead of the jackhammer from earlier. The place looked as small and cramped as it always did. Marty’s voice carried down the hall, sharp and irritated, as he chewed someone out over the phone. Vicky sat at dispatch, twirling a pen and sneaking not-so-subtle glances at Roman as we passed.

Roman slid into his chair, logging into his laptop, his fingers moving quick across the keyboard. Each click a click too many for my hangover. He picked up the phone, murmuring something about evidence tracking and lab reports.
A half-hour later, Marty appeared in the doorway, his expression tight. “Lab called. Preliminary on the new body just came in.”
Roman straightened. “And?”
“Same damn sedative.” Marty dropped a file onto the desk with a slap. “Trace amounts in the tissue. Same as the other two.”
I pulled the file toward me, flipping it open with a sigh. My stomach clenched at the sight of the medical jargon, the photos, the ugly precision of it all.

Roman leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I felt the heat of him. I have to pull my lips into my mouth to fight off my reaction to his scent, which is a first for me, but damn does he smell good right now. I’m still going to puke later, but good. “Consistent MO,” he said, voice low. “Methodical. Planned.”
“Doesn’t make it any better,” I muttered.
“No,” he agreed. “But it gives us a pattern.”
“We already know this. This is so damn frustrating. There’s nothing new.”
“It’s a big part of working the case, Rachael. Don’t get hung up on it. You’re doing great.”
I stared at the photographs of the carved X, the hollowed sockets, the pale hair. All the same. Too much the same. “It may not be about attraction to him.”
Roman leaned back in his chair, fingers laced loosely in front of him, watching me like I’d just handed him something he’d been waiting for. “Go on.”
I swallowed, forcing the words out. “People think killers pick based on arousal, fantasy, whatever turns them on. But it’s not always about desire. Sometimes it’s resentment. Punishment. You get burned by someone......someone with blonde hair, someone who fits a certain mold, and suddenly every woman like her is the same. You punish them all for the one who betrayed you.”

The silence stretched. His eyes stayed on me, unreadable, like he was turning the idea over and weighing it against a thousand things he wasn’t saying.
Finally, he nodded. “It’s sharp. It’s good detective work.”
Heat crawled up my neck. I shrugged like it was nothing, though my hands shook slightly as I shuffled the photos. I wouldn’t tell him why I knew it.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk, closing the space between us. “Most cops wouldn’t think that way. Most wouldn’t connect betrayal to victimology. You did. That means something.”
I didn’t like the way his words lodged under my ribs. Praise isn’t something I am used to or feel as though I deserve. “Don’t make it sound profound. It’s just common sense.”
“Not common,” he said quietly. “Not at all.”

His hand brushed mine when he reached for the file. Barely a touch, but it jolted through me like static. I yanked my hand back and reached for my water, pretending I hadn’t noticed.
Roman didn’t press. He only smirked, like he knew.

“Tomorrow, we visit another missing woman, see if we can mark her off. I’ll make some calls to precincts; you arrange the meetings,” he delegated. I disliked both options because I hate talking on the phone.

The day continued to drag on and felt as though we had accomplished nothing. Roman fell into step beside me as we left for the day. He didn’t crowd me, didn’t touch me, but his presence was steady, almost grounding. Too grounding.
At home, I went through the motions. Shoes off, uniform jacket draped over a chair, hair tied back. Roman settled on the couch, doing much of the same, pulling out his notes, as if this was just another evening like any other.

I poured myself a drink. Just one, I told myself. Just enough to dull the edge.
By the third, the edges blurred, and the knot in my chest loosened. I sat on the floor by the couch, legs tucked under me, and stared at the photos I’d taped up. Roman’s shadow stretched across the wall beside them.
“You’re drinking too fast,” he said mildly, without looking up.
“Story of my life,” I muttered, taking another swallow.
His eyes flicked to me, then back to his notes. “One day, it’s going to catch up.”
I barked a humorless laugh. “Already has.”
For a while, neither of us spoke. I let the burn slide down my throat and focused on the familiar blur of alcohol settling into my limbs.
But the silence was too much. I needed to fill it. Maybe it was the liquor talking, maybe it was the look he’d given me earlier, but the words slipped out before I could stop them.
“You ever wonder why people hurt the ones who look the same?”
Roman’s gaze lifted, sharp. “You mean like today. Like your theory.”
“Yeah.” My throat felt dry, but I kept going. “Because maybe it’s easier to keep punishing the stand-ins than it is to face the original.”

His eyes stayed on me, unreadable again. I hated that about him , how calm he always looked, like nothing ever cracked through.
“You’ve thought about this a lot,” he said.
“Maybe I’ve seen enough to know better,” I muttered.
I leaned back against the couch, eyes closing, and for the first time in years, I almost wanted to say more. To tell him exactly why I thought that way. But I bit it down hard, locking it behind my teeth.
I wasn’t going there. Not with him. Not with anyone.
I open my eyes, thinking I will see the ceiling, but instead, I’m met with Roman’s amused gaze and newly trimmed beard. “What are you staring at?”
“You, not noticing the difference between my legs and the couch.” I sit up as he laughs, “Didn’t say I mind.”

I groan at my stupidity, but he also wasn’t uncomfortable.

Later, when the apartment was quiet and Roman had finally gone back to his notes, I reached for my phone.
The screen lit up with the same name I’d been avoiding all day: Travis.
I’d ignored him. Let the calls and texts pile up, let the silence be my answer. But now, staring at his name glowing in the dark, my chest tightened.
My thumb hovered. My heart hammered.
And then, before I could stop myself, I typed a single word.
Stop.

I hit send before I could regret it.
The screen pulsed with three dots. He was typing.
My throat went tight. I waited.
The dots blinked… then vanished. Nothing came through. Just silence.
For the first time, silence felt worse than anything he could have said.