Balz took a step back. And another one. “You can’t remember me. It puts you in danger.”
“No, please—”
He hated the vacant look on her face as he went into her mind and started editing himself out of her. Again.
She was right. He was doing damage, and though he had harmed many, many things in the course of his life of fighting, hurting her was wrecking him.
But what choice did he have. She had to stay far away from him, both in her mind and physically, while he got Devina out of himself.
And then killed that fucking demon.
Funny, he had been pissed when it had just been about him. Pulling this woman into it? Devina had made a big fucking mistake.
He was incandescent with rage—and if history had proven anything, he was a very, very bad enemy to have.
“I won’t see you again, Erika,” he said softly. “And even though you won’t remember me… I will never forget you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Late the following afternoon, as the light started to fade quick thanks to some heavy cloud cover, Erika got in her unmarked and headed for the exit of the CPD headquarters parking lot. After she swiped her card at the kiosk and the gate lifted, she was careful to check both ways before pulling into traffic, and when she hit the gas, she didn’t hit that pedal very hard at all.
As she negotiated her way into the stream of traffic, she could remember reading a study that had assessed the reaction times of tired drivers. The conclusion was that those who were drowsy were just as impaired and dangerous as drunks or those under the influence. It made sense and so she was super careful, all ten-and-two’ing the wheel while she peered over the dash like a little old lady, the other vehicles around her a dodgeball game she just wanted to survive.
It had been yet another really, really long night.
God, Connie.
While Kip had processed the suicide down by the river, Erika had handled the sad scene at that walk-up on Market—
Her perennial headache, which had mercifully backgrounded itself for the afternoon, took a sharp step forward, like a security guard getting ready to deal with a trespasser. Jesus, it was like any time she thought about walking into Connie’s, the thing came back—
“Damn it.”
The pain across her frontal lobe rocketed to abscessed-tooth levels, and she had to pull out of any thoughts involving her arrival at that apartment. But it was strange. If she remembered anything after she got there, the headache went away: She could dwell all she liked on calling in the body, taking preliminary photographs with her phone, and waiting for the crime scene processing unit to get there. And then leaving the scene was okay, too: Going back down to the bridge, meeting with Kip for an update on that case, staying there until ten in the morning… none of that made her head pound.
As she came up to a red light, she threw out a hand for her bag. The Motrin bottle she had been hitting hard since around four a.m. was right in reach. Maybe she should just make things even easier and Velcro the thing to her palm.
Or her forehead.
Shaking out two more pills, she swallowed them dry—or tried to. She was gagging and coughing and thinking about brain tumors when the light turned green.
Driving on, she thought of all those other detectives who complained about migraines, aneurysms, strokes. It was almost a rite of passage in homicide for someone to insist that their doctor order an MRI—
“Ow,” she muttered as things started to pound again.
Fighting through the pain, she got stuck at the next intersection—and reminded herself things could be worse. With the way the pedestrians on the crosswalk were hunkering down against the wind, you’d have sworn it was January, not April.
Ah, spring in Caldwell. The only thing warmer was a meat locker, the only thing less gusty, a turbine.
As she watched the people trudge by, she found herself sinking into sadness, sure as if she were missing somebody. The sensation at her sternum made no sense, and yet she couldn’t shake the idea that she had left someone behind.
Ghosts following her even before the sun went down.
About ten minutes later, she pulled up in front of the Commodore. By the grace of God, she managed to find an open parking spot—and when she went to put money in the meter, there were twenty-eight minutes remaining on the thing.
“Maybe my luck is changing,” she murmured as she stared up the flank of the high-rise.
The Commodore was luxury living at its finest, at least according to its fancy new trademark. The building had previously been all condos, but a management company had bought out most of the lower floor units to take advantage of short-term stays. Functioning now as part hotel, part residence, it had gotten a major facelift.