It’s not really necessary, anyway. We all know how she died. Her asshole ex-boyfriend killed her.
When she came into the station last month, her eye a mess of violent purples and blues, she was hesitant to file charges against her ex. Even though he hit her, had many times before,she was worried a restraining order would only make things worse.
“What if this makes him angrier?” she asked worriedly, her gaze skittering around the station like she expected him to come storming in any second. “I want to keep him away from me, but I’m scared. Maybe I should move out of state. But… what if he comes after me? He said he would.”
My partner and I couldn’t give her the answer she wanted, which was that we could guarantee her ex would leave her alone. We couldn’t. But we could help her file the restraining order, guaranteeing if he did come near her again, he’d be arrested.
We made suggestions, too—that Dana should stay with a friend, not go places on her own, keep meticulous records of any contact with her ex—but it didn’t feel like enough. Not when I know from experience how toxic relationships can become deadly.
When I talked to Dana, she reminded me of Clara. Kind-hearted, smart, quietly funny, and she was a nurse, just like my sister wanted to be.
Did her case become personal to me? Yes.
Every time she’d call to report something new happening—her car vandalized while she was at work, anonymous letters with threatening messages—I worried we weren’t doing enough. That over time, her ex would escalate, and the restraining order wouldn’t keep her safe.
So I went to my lieutenant and asked for permission to put Dana under police protection. A safe house or having an officer on her apartment, even volunteering to take unpaid shifts, if necessary. But he told me no. It wasn’t in the budget. There wasn’t enough evidence.
“I feel your frustration,” he told me, frowning as he said it. “But my hands are tied. And I can’t have officers working without pay. The union would have my head.”
I still made sure Dana had my number. Not because I had any romantic feelings for her—far from it, she reminded me of my sister—but just in case she needed help.
It didn’t matter.
She never had a chance to call.
Her ex broke into her apartment and killed her before she could get to her phone.
And I’m so fucking furious.
It shouldn’t have happened. Why did I become a police officer if I can’t protect someone when they really need it?
With an aggravated sigh, I head into the kitchen to grab a beer, popping it open and taking a healthy swig. I know drinking isn’t going to make me feel better, far from it, but one beer might help tamp down some of my anger.
Once I get back to the living room—it’s not far, not in this tiny apartment—I flop down on the couch and turn on the TV, searching for something mindless to watch. Maybe a ridiculous alien movie or one of those home improvement shows where the homeowners say unrealistic things like,we’ll just knock down that wall over there, no problem, orI want a brand new kitchen but my budget is five thousand dollars.
Kicking my shoes off, I put my feet up on the coffee table, thinking of how Zane would call me out on it immediately. I’ve always been the one of our team who wants things neat, would never dream of putting my feet on the furniture, a holdover from my mom’s rules when I was a kid.
I should call Zane. He would understand why I’m so upset. My entire team would.
Maybe we can have a group call with whoever’s available. Have some beers and talk about anything that isn’t depressing. Leo’s job in Manhattan. How many women Zane’s hooked up with lately. Finn’s new interest in hiking. Anything that will make mefeel like I’m back at the bar off-base, shooting the shit with my teammates, before all our lives were turned upside down.
Or maybe I can get online and look for flights. I’ve got some vacation time coming up. I won’t be able to visit everyone, but if I head out to New York, fly into the city, I could see Leo, and then take the train upstate to Salem, where Rylan lives. If Leo has any time off, he could head up there with me, and the three of us could spend the weekend together. We could grill, reminisce about the good times we had—there were a lot—and I can ask them for advice. Try to figure out if it’s time for me to look for a new job.
Do I want to start over again? Search for another job? Another place to live? Can I find a career that’s going to bring me the same satisfaction as serving in the Army?
I’m just picking up my phone to check airline prices when it buzzes with an incoming text.
Hey. How’s it going? Just got home from work, thought I’d check in.
Leo.
My lips lift as I read my friend’s text. My shoulders relax a fraction. The band wrapped tightly around my chest loosens a little.
Man. I really miss my teammates.
Setting down my beer, I type out a reply.
Honestly? Not great. I had a pretty shit day.
