I clear my throat a few times, unsure what to say to scatter the darkness we're both experiencing. Thankfulness overcomes me when forensics storms in, breaking the thick, poignant moment, giving me a reprieve from the shadows in the room. Jimenez casts me a quick glance and walks past me, leading me away so the others can work.
"Where's the mother now," I ask, dizzy from all the emotional bullshit.
He turns back, stepping into my bubble, which is something I'm never comfortable with anyone doing. But with him, my discomfort comes from another level, more intense than simple edginess, The discomfort he brings me is from deep inside, where I don't dare tread.
He smells of night and rain, the intoxicating fragrance embracing me in a cocoon I'm not so at ease with. My hands fist at my sides for as much as I loathe closeness, the photographer needs to pass, and we paused in the narrow corridor. Lorenzo and I are so tightly pressed together that I can feel his body heat brush warmly along my naked arms and shoulders like warm, misty fingers. Overwhelmed with the urge to jump away as if burned, I force myself to remain calm as to not look like a mentally impaired, twitchy bitch. My mind and body are on pins and needles as I keep drifting from being collected to wanting to jump out of my skin, then back again in a matter of seconds. This is an awkward situation on top of a tragic case, but I need mental stability.
And perhaps a joint.
"An ambulance took her to the ER. She collapsed right before you arrived. Angelica agreed before she left to meet us at the cop shop once she's cleared from the hospital." He's speaking, but I can barely register what he's saying.
His eyes, framed by long thick lashes, are so dark, I feel like I'm sinking into them, losing myself in the hypnotizing black light flashing from within. He has this magnetic effect on me, a mind reeling enchantment that hits me when he looks at me just so.
Like he is right now.
That cool, enigmatic gaze that I wish I understood, but feel secure in my cravenness that I won't ever find out. I can't let myself go deeper with him. For so many reasons… I just can't. Besides, crushing isn't my thing. A girl can't do shit when her pussy is thinking for her. Plus, partners don't bang. It's in the rules.
I exhale slowly, following him with my eyes as he steps away from me taking his warmth and scent with him. Now I can think. Really, I like distance. It keeps me peppy.
I relax as he drifts from my line of sight, leaving me to my thoughts as I search the rest of the apartment for any sign of anything. I try to work calmly despite the heart-wrenching circumstances. However, I'm not alone in my dismal disposition, for no one in the apartment is left unscathed. We all appear to be battling the emotions boiling within us as a child lay stone cold just down the hall.
I hope to gather my thoughts as I become overwhelmed again. The pictures of him lining the walls are so painful to see that I can't think. Had he not been murdered, what would he have been as an adult? A modern-day Mozart or Van Gogh? President, father, lover, best friend to someone who will now never know him? Would he have been a comedian? A somber musician or a heartbreaker? No one will ever know now. His murderer stole a piece of someone out there he was meant to love.
Are these thoughts appropriate right now, I wonder, or am I just being a fucking basket case and really none of this should matter?
Needing solace against the panic rising, I shift away from the watchful eyes of anyone near, and escape to the closest empty room I can find.
Standing shrouded in shadow and silence in the Montez's small living room, I close my eyes, focusing on my breathing like the head docs taught me to do during times of anxiety. I count every inhale, slowly releasing my breath through my mouth. My heartbeat shakes my ribcage, the memories of Rose pressing on my subconscious, demanding attention at the wrong time. Her quiet call to me feels like one giant gut punch, stealing away the very rhythmic breathing I struggled so hard to create.
I see her laughing brown eyes reflecting soft sunlight, her raven curls bouncing over her small shoulders as she runs, and the sound of her laughter merging with the soft wind chimes the neighbors had hanging from their back porch during that time.
Then my baby is lying dead in the grass, and I'm running to her. Those chimes are deafening now, ringing like church bells from days of old, and her body is limp, eyes wintery as I reach her…
Gasping, I jerk myself from the memory, sweat dotting my brow, my eyes overrun with tears. Fuck this, I want to scream, but grit my teeth against the compulsion. I can't do this, I tell myself. I cannot do right by this case, and I'm bound to fuck it up if I try.
However, I can't walk away, either. This case is so much like hers… what if there is a connection? As outlandish as that seems, it's apparent the murder of Diego is like the unsolved murders of children in Brooklyn, and I can't ignore it.
I have to do this because how can I not?
Covering my eyes with one shaky hand, I listen to the sound of the pendulum working on the old wrought-iron clock Ms. Montes has hanging on her wall. I follow those sounds, urging my thoughts to calm as I tail the ticking ambience.
Suddenly, like being splashed with ice water, I notice a disruption in the surrounding silence, spinning and whirling, like a phantom wind I can sense more than feel.
And through the silence is an exhale, sharp and ragged. Then a whisper of a voice, crackling, like a radio dial being turned through dead channels.
… Cobalt … the static murmurs, a snarky call with a hint of laughter, as if mocking me. My name has never sounded so frightening. On a gasp I spin, searching for the source of which I'm damned certain came from behind me.
Nothing… nobody…
I'm alone with only my madness lingering in the shadowy room, coating the air in an oily discomfort. I long to run! To escape the sludge in the air, but another voice calls to me, jolting me from my peri-mental breakdown.
"Lindsey," Jimenez says. His strong, deep tone demands my attention, and my wide eyes meet his, taking in the fact he doesn't look like he's hearing voices like I am. He is pissed, of course, at the case, but beyond that, it seems this shit is only fucking with me. I know it's because of Rose that I'm acting this way. I can't let on how much this is breaking me, and I straighten, holding his stare while wishing I was anyplace else.
"You stay with the team until the body's removed. I'm taking some beaters with me to canvas the complex." He pauses a second, his eyes focusing on me, his lips parting as if to say something else, but nothing comes out. I want him to speak, to ask me if I'm okay because I know if he does, I will tell him everything. But he reconsiders, choosing instead to turn away, leaving me splintering inside like weather worn wood.
I want to call him back because I'm flipping the fuck out and somehow his presence is my anchor, but I refrain from staring longingly at his back as he walks away, leaving me to deal with my demons alone.
I inwardly groan, certain that I'm already losing my mind and I haven't even submerged myself in this case yet. The notion that I would still attempt this baffles me, but I'm stuck, needing answers, and dreading them all at once. With a tight throat, I somehow survive the preliminaries and remain in that murky place until the boy's body is removed from the scene.
The world seems to grow silent as he is rolled out, bagged, and tagged, something a child should never be. The air was warm before, filled with the scents only spring can bring about. Now it's pungent, and arid, like standing in an oven, the flames of tragedy burning my skin and lungs.
Once the doors on the ambulance slam shut, I reach out to my partner via cell, and explain to him I need to change clothes. We both agree to meet up at the cop shop in two hours, giving me plenty of time to get myself mentally prepared for the rest of this all-out bullshit. I need to give this my all and right now, my best ain't shit.
I'm so ineffective while shrouded in spandex and cotton. I swear to God I need to find myself again if I want to give this case any justice.
Plus, I need a damn minute!