For five and a half years, she would be his property—his chattel and concubine. And in the process, he figured he’d eventually fuck her out of his system.

A serious miscalculation.

Because it wasn’t getting better. If anything, it was getting worse. Every time they parted, it was another knife slicing through his heart, and the knife kept getting bigger and bigger…the voices growing louder and louder. He didn’t just want her; he didn’t just crave her; he needed her. When they were together, she silenced his demons: her face, her voice, and her touch more soothing than any drug he had ever taken, more effective than any therapy he had ever gone through. She was his personally designed opiate, and he was addicted to her as surely as if she coursed through his veins.

Two and a half years left.

The thought of her being financially independent, that one day she might leave him yet again, only this time she’d take from him his own flesh and blood, seized him with heart-thumping anxiety. And now she was talking about marriage—theoretically—to someone else. His anxiety receded, evolving into uncontrollable rage.…

What the fuck was on her mind?

His breathing quickened, and he knew what was coming. Slowly, the veil of deep depression would lift, converting its energy into unbridled frenzy. Then the urge would overwhelm him. By now, he didn’t even try to stop it, knowing full well that there was only one way to quell it.

He reached under his mattress and pulled out one of his many firearms—a Walther semiautomatic. Holding the weapon ameliorated some of the feeling, but that was only temporary. Something more permanent had to be done. With sudden force, he shoved the magazine into the chamber.

Fuck the promises—tacit or otherwise.

He had a job to do.

First come, first served.

31

Despite the cold weather and the threatening clouds, there were more than a few joggers in Liberty Park, men and women in sweatpants and jackets, exhaling rapid puffs of mist like fire-breathing dragons. Beyond them lay the steel and glass structure of the Quinton Police Station, all sparkles in the dull sunlight, but as welcoming as a computer chip. Though the van’s motor had been turned off for only a minute, the interior temperature was dropping quickly. Decker wrapped his fingers around the chilled metal door handle. He paused before tugging it backward.

“So you have my cell number, and I have yours.”

“Yes.” Jonathan rubbed a stiff neck. “I don’t feel good about this.”

“Don’t do anything to your relatives that you can’t live with,” Decker told him. “I’ll understand.”

“I’m not worried about myself. I have concerns about you.”

“Me?” Decker furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“You didn’t leave the police chief under ideal circumstances.”

“I’m just going to talk to the man.”

“Akiva, if he’s crooked, he’s not nice. You’re in his territory. That puts you at risk.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?”

Decker mentally summarized the events of the past few days. It was more than a casual question. “I’ll be careful.” Then he opened the door and was out, waving to his brother as the van pulled away. He fast-walked toward the station, hands in his pockets—he had yet to pick up his gloves from Luisa—dodging the runners and the rollerbladers, wondering if he’d ever own the capacity to kick back and let go. It wasn’t just this case—although this was personal—it was any case he was on. After turning the big five-oh, he kept waiting for the inevitable diminution of drives. Yet, as much as ever, he was still a slave to his twin obsessions, sex and work, both keeping him vital and sharp witted, but no doubt fueling his overheated engine. It was only a matter of time until he hit maximum burnout.