I thrummed my fingers on my thighs as Alex slowed for a light. “Hey, about the other day.” I kept my eyes fixed on the dashboard. “When I ran into you in the hallway? I was leaving Will’s apartment and it looked bad, but . . .”
I mustered up my courage to look Alex in the eye—or in the right ear, as he was staring out the windshield—when he stepped on the gas and we blew through the intersection, sirens echoing off the sky-high buildings all around us. I was pressed against the leather seat with my heart firmly lodged in my throat and clawing toward the dashboard to right myself when I heard the cackle and scratch of the dispatch radio.
“We’re almost there,” Alex barked into it.
He made no motion to acknowledge my speech—or my presence—as he banked a corner that sent me sliding into the center console, the seat belt cutting against my chest.
I cleared my throat as the car and my heartbeat slowed. “As I was saying . . .”
“Oh, Christ.” Alex raked a hand through his ragged curls and snatched the radio with the other. “I thought they were keeping this one under wraps.”
“We did our best,” the broken voice answered him. “But you know how it is. People smell blood on the air and they come running.”
We pulled into the cracked parking lot that sat above Sutro Point, our tires crunching against the gravel. I saw Alex’s jaw harden as he maneuvered the car through the crowd of cop cars and emergency vehicles parked at angles. Civilian cars dotted the lot, too, and every other inch of space was taken up by enormous news vans setting up makeshift stations, their coifed and ready anchors stepping in front of cameras and painting on suitably concerned faces as they launched into their monologues. A handful of onlookers circled the anchorpeople and vied for their chance to wave on film; another cluster was gripping the metal police barricades and craning their necks to peer through the trees. The air was charged with palpable electricity; I couldn’t tell if it stemmed from the fear or excitement of the onlookers but every inch seemed solid and static-filled. A tense murmur cut through the crackling of police radios and the detritus of the news teams; I hadn’t even left the car and I could feel the electricity pulsing through me, the collective disquiet pushing painfully against my chest.
I glanced at Alex as he kicked open his car door and swung his legs out—the leg of his jeans rode up over his ankle and I saw his gun holstered there. It gave me a little shock but a weird sense of security. I scrambled out after him. He shot a look over his left shoulder at me and cocked a brow, but seemed to think better of telling me to get back in the car.
“Grace, Lawson.”
Officer Romero was standing on the other side of the yellow crime scene tape, beckoning us with his blue, latex-gloved hands. Alex grabbed my elbow and yanked me through the crowd.
“What’s going on?”
Romero stood just a few inches shorter than Alex, and where Alex filled out his black T-shirt and jeans mercilessly with muscle that begged to be touched, Romero’s uniform bulged with jelly donuts and dimples over his elbows. He wagged his head, then stroked his scraggly black goatee.
“I’m not going to lie, Grace, it looks bad.” Romero lifted his chin toward me. “I don’t think you’re going to want to go down there, Sophie. It’s just—” He looked at me, his heavy shoulders shimmying under a small shudder. “It’s really messy.”
“She’s not going in. She’s going to stay here with you. Up here.” Alex’s eyes raked over Romero, daring him to challenge, but Romero just broke into a grin.
“Good. I could use another set of eyes. Make sure them over there”—he jerked a thumb toward a group of civilians pressing hard against the police tape—“stay back.”
“Can’t.” I shook my head and snatched a pair of gloves from Romero’s chest pocket. “I’m going in.”
Alex turned and I followed him down the trail. “I don’t even know why I try,” I heard him mutter.
“So fill me in,” I said, yanking on the gloves. “Tell me everything you know about this case.”
Alex turned. “You know as much as I know. And I’ll let you take a look at this crime scene, but that’s it. No more nosing into my business.”
There was real annoyance in Alex’s tone. I hadn’t expected it to cut me so deeply, but it did and I felt a pang of sadness stab at my gut. I wanted to answer him, but I was afraid to open my mouth and set forth a slew of blubbering explanations, apologies, and pent-up frustration so I just nodded and followed him, my gloved hands raised, doctor style.
There was a clearing in the brush where the trail veered off sharply, nosediving toward the cliffs. The grass here was matted down and the vegetation was broken; the smell of the foliage was heavy with something else, too, something overpowering and metallic. I felt bile rise in my throat.
“Blood,” I whispered.