SAMMIE
Two hours into her shift at work and if somebody handed her a knife she’d probably stab someone. Or herself. She can remember a time when she thought shopping the weeks before Christmas was fun, as if being sardined into a mall and hunting for elusive gifts was a game, but now she’s on the other side of it. The seedy, ugly underbelly of the retail world. She’d write about that if people were interested, but all anyone wants is blood and gore and death. Jacky Seever, and the Secondhand Killer. And she’s stuck. She’d spent an hour with Seever, asking him every question she could think of, but it’s not what Corbin wants. And Weber’s out there now, sniffing around at crime scenes and putting together something good, and she’s stuck here, waiting for a call from the guy at the gallery that she’ll probably never get, and she can’t think of what else she could possibly do, who she should speak to.
“There’s a guy here to see you,” one of the girls says, and she weaves through the crowds of shoppers, trying not to make eye contact so she won’t get stopped with a question. She gets to the front of the store and looks around, thinking that it’ll be Loren waiting for her, Loren-as-Seever, and she looks right past Hoskins at first, it’s like he isn’t even there, staring a hole through her, and then her gaze snaps back, she really sees him.
“What’re you doing here?” she asks. “What happened to your face?”
There’s a bruise rising on his cheek, his eyelids look swollen and red, as if he’s been crying, although she can’t imagine that. He reaches for her, slowly, like he’s moving through water, and she grabs his arm. The sleeve of his coat is cold, covered in half-melted snowflakes.
“Is he here?” Hoskins asks, and she has to duck close to hear the words. He’s looking around, his eyes darting from one corner to another, searching.
“Who?” she asks, worried, because Hoskins looks like he’s hiding, like someone’s following him and he’s on the run, scared.
“Seever,” Hoskins whispers. “You said he’s been following you. Is he here?”
“Have you been drinking? You should eat something. I think we’ve got cookies in the back—” She tries to turn around, but Hoskins grabs her elbow hard enough that she gasps in surprise.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you about the new victim,” he says, his voice shaking. “I should’ve called you. I love you, I should’ve called.”
“It’s fine,” she says, trying to back up, but there are so many people around that there’s nowhere to go, not unless she turns tail and runs.
“All I ever wanted to do was help,” he says. He grabs her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh, needy, trying to pull her closer, it reminds her of the way he used to touch her when they were in bed together, and she feels the palms of her hands go hot and damp. “That’s all I ever try to do.”
He’s not drunk. He’s exhausted, reeling on his feet.
“Help with what?” she says, trying to untangle herself from his arms. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Yeah,” he says. He’s still reaching for her, trying to touch her face, but she shies away. His knuckles are shredded, bleeding.
“Oh my God. What the hell did you do to yourself?”
“Come here.” Hoskins spreads his arms, and without thinking she steps into them, is enfolded in the familiar smell of him. She’s short enough that she can press her forehead into his breastbone, feel the rumble of his heart. “Let me hold you.”
“Hoskins?” a man says, and she turns. It’s a uniformed cop, his hat still on his head, and another one a few steps behind. They’re both young, hardly old enough to shave, Sammie thinks, but everyone looks young to her these days. They’re both embarrassed. “Detective Hoskins?”
“Yeah?” Hoskins says. He runs his hand down over his face. “Hey, Craig. Mark.”
“Listen, I hate doing this,” the cop says.
“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Hoskins looks sheepish.
“What’s going on?” Sammie asks.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” the cop says to Hoskins. He’s looking down at the blood on Hoskins’s hands. Sadly, it seems. “I don’t like to do this to one of our own, but we don’t got no choice in it.”
“What did you do?” Sammie asks, stepping back, out of the circle of his arms.
Hoskins ignores her and sticks out his wrists.
“We don’t need cuffs,” the cop says, wincing. “I don’t think you’re a flight risk.”
“Do it,” Hoskins says. He nods at the crowd that’s gathered around them, the people holding up their cell phones and recording the exchange. “Give these people a little excitement.”
“What did you do?” Sammie asks again, grabbing at Hoskins’s arm as she watches the cuffs circle his wrists. Then, a terrible idea settles into her brain. “You’re not the Secondhand Killer, are you?”
Hoskins laughs.
“Wouldn’t that be an amazing story? I can see the headline now—detective picking up where Jacky Seever left off. You’d better get on writing that.”