I know what he’s saying.
When. Not if.
I repeat the mantra in my head over and over again before responding.
Levi:I will.
Linc:Catch you later.
As I end the call, my eyes lift to the action ahead.
Linc wasn’t joking.
Even with the warning, I’m baffled by what I see. Swirling blue and white lights slice the sky.
What the hell?
An army of police forms a wall, blocking the area. Ambulances are standing by. It’s a chilling scene straight out of a crime drama TV show. There are a few passersby, but not many. It’s no surprise at this late time.
I dial Jules again.
Still nothing.
Shit.
A cop directs the chauffeur, forcing us to make a right.
Shit.
The detour is excruciating, and I curse under my breath. We inch down a street lined with cars. The police presence is more prominent as we approach the area where Jules’s office-slash-warehouse is located. The garlands of yellow and black police barricade tape paint a disturbing picture.
What in God’s name happened?
There’s no crime free zone in LA, but Culver City isn’t usually subject to this level of anarchy.
Goddammit.
I need to get to her.
My impatience boils over. “This is taking way too long,” I tell the driver. “At this rate, we’ll never get there.”
“I’m really sorry, sir.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I assure him. “It’ll be faster if I walk.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
I drop a wad of cash on the passenger seat and get out of the car. I hurry, dialing Jules’s one more time.
Dread grips my throat, as fear sets in my heart when she doesn’t answer. Again.
As I make my way to her warehouse, I take in the scene surrounding me, baffled. Two cars are fused together. One of them rear-ended the other, full force. The one with all the bullet holes looks like a cheese grater. There’s shattered glass everywhere. And then there’s the pool of blood. It’s gruesome.
I avert my gaze when two EMTs pushing a stretcher pass me by. It’s carrying what I can only assume is a dead body, covered with a bloody sheet.
Dear God.
