The email on the screen, which I've read at least twenty times, makes it perfectly clear I was played, and I was played hard. But at least I can say I got EA Mercer's girl. That's something. I read it one more time for good measure, a masochist to say the least. I revel in the pain.
I don't know who the fuck you are, and to be perfectly frank, I don't give a fuck. You need to stay away from Miranda. She's mine. I've seen the emails between you two. I know she's been seeing you. How does my dick taste by the way?
It stops now.
No more phone calls, no more emails, no more fucking visits. She's getting her own fair share of shit for her transgressions, but I'll tell you, you will get much worse if you come near her again. I will fucking destroy you. Do you know who the fuck I am? Do you know the power I hold?
STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER…
EA Mercer
NYT & USA Today Best-selling Author
www.eamercerbooks.com
"What the hell, man? You going home or what?" Tommy asks, startling me as he appears in my office doorway.
I shake off the email. Removing my glasses, I rub a finger and thumb in my eyes. "Eventually. I'm dog tired. Just wanna go over this last case a little more." I motion to the file in front of me.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, taking a few steps in and slipping on his coat.
"Oh, nothing in particular. Just working on the why. Why him? Why there? What did this guy do to get his balls hacked off?" I ask.
"Ex-wife, maybe. Current wife who caught him cheating?"
"That's what I was thinking too, but his wife's been dead for three years. No girlfriend. And then there's the whole DNA thing," I say, shaking my head and exhaling a heavy breath.
"Garcia said we should have the match for that second blood type any time now."
"Another reason why I'm still hanging around here. We've got that match. We've got our killer."
"Well, fuck, man, the dude's still gonna be dead tomorrow." He shrugs and smiles. "Go home and get some damn sleep."
I roll my eyes, putting my glasses back on. "Have a good night, Tommy."
He gives me a two-finger salute, makes a quick turn, and exits the office. Something I should be doing too, but I can't. Not just yet.
I pick up the case file from my desk to go over it one more time, but as I do, I hear the ding of a new email come from the computer. Thinking of Miranda, my eyes dart up and catch the notification just before it vanishes.
Miranda Cross.
I click the icon, and the email comes up. I have to read it a few times to be clear of what I'm seeing.
Please come get me. Edwin’s scaring me.
My mind races over all the things that that could mean, none of them good. Maybe that's why she hasn't contacted me.
I stand from my chair, stuffing the file in my briefcase then grabbing my leather jacket from the coat hanger, and I make my way out to my truck as quickly as I can.
I'm fifteen minutes out, the thick forest making the night even darker. The moon is the only thing illuminating the small country road ahead of me. My nerves are stirring a sick feeling in my stomach, and I'm wishing I had at least brought Tommy with me. Something just doesn't feel right.
My cell phone ringing from the center console pulls my attention. The screen reads, Asheville Police Department.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?" I repeat, louder this time.
I hear a faint voice come over the line, but it’s too quiet to make out. I put the phone on speaker, lifting it high and watching the signal bars bounce between one and two.
"Hey, you'll have to speak up. I've got shit service," I call toward the raised phone, an eye still on the road in front of me.
"Peralta. Can you hear me?" Detective Garcia's voice comes over the line, still fuzzy and distorted.
"Yes. Yes. Tell me you've got some good news for me."
"Oh, I… something for… all right. You sitting down?" he asks. "You're gonna wanna be… this."
"Fuck, man, I can barely make out what you're saying. Just fucking spill it already."
"…second blood sample… from the truck came back… match. And you'll never believe who… is," he says, cutting in and out. He says something else, but it's too distorted to make out.
"Garcia, you there?" I ask.
"I'm here."
"Who is it, Garcia? Tell me."
"Well, you know that author you're so fond of…" he says before the line cuts off completely.
Goose bumps race up my arms and legs. My mouth gapes, and the blood drains from my face as I process what I've just heard. It couldn't be. It must be a mistake.
But then my thoughts stray to Miranda's email, her words sending my imagination into a tailspin of blood and carnage. Please come get me. Edwin's scaring me.
I dial 9-1-1 and thrust my foot against the accelerator, racing along the narrow country road and hoping to God I'm not too late.
“Big Bad Wolf”—In This Moment