Chapter One one
It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been on the job,” Wright said, “when you fatally shoot someone, it has psychological repercussions.”

Keith Drakeson slouched in the chair, elbows on his knees, his loose tie swaying. Last night’s drinking made it difficult to keep his head up, but he kept his bloodshot eyes on his commanding officer. The lighting in Captain Shanice Wright’s office was fluorescent, a sickly hospital color that, combined with a strange egg-like smell, made Keith queasy. His captain looked gray beneath these bulbs, like she’d aged ten years. Keith figured he looked far worse.

“C’mon now,” he said. “Isn’t it enough that I’m on administrative leave? I mean, a head shrinker? Really?”

The captain nodded. “Trust me on this, Keith. It’s not just protocol, it’s beneficial. Especially after all you had to see.”

He knew the rules. After killing a suspect in the line of duty, an officer, even a detective like himself, had to be put on leave while the incident was investigated. Keith hated being off the job, but he could accept it. What he had trouble with was the idea of lying down on a couch to share his feelings with a stranger. There were too many things about himself he needed to keep clandestine.

“A lot of cops struggle with this sort of traumatic event,” Wright said. “Working with a professional can help you.”

“But I feel fine.”

“Maybe you think so now, but the weight of this can haunt you for a long time. I’ve seen a lot of cops resign after something like this because they can’t handle the emotional toll.”

Keith scoffed. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“Easier said than done.”

She crossed her hands upon her desk, over the manila folder—Keith Drakeson’s file. He eyed it like a cat with a field mouse, unsure what lay inside and fearing the unknown. He’d had his share of complaints filed against him, but those were from his time as a uniformed officer working for a rinky-dink sheriff’s office, long before he worked here under Captain Wright and long before he’d become a detective. Wright ran her fingers over her wedding band, centering the rock so it caught the light. She was always so organized. Her mahogany desk shined, clear of clutter. Just a penholder, a nameplate, a miniature American flag, and a photo of her husband and children, the perfect nuclear family. Wright barely looked like herself in the picture. It was the only instance Keith had ever seen her wearing something other than a pantsuit. She was also smiling, which seemed aberrant somehow, like this was an uncanny doppelgänger instead of his captain.

“I’ve written it up,” she said, removing a slip of paper from the folder like a doctor with a prescription. “You’re to see McHugh tomorrow for your first session.”

“First?” he asked. That meant there were more coming. “But Captain, I—”

“It’s not up for debate, Detective. Consider it an order. Ten o’clock. Second floor.”

Keith exhaled as he took the slip of paper. His hand was so pale next to hers, and not just because she was black. He needed some sun and a much better diet. Only thirty-four and yet he had skin like a retiree. For now, he blamed it on the wretched lighting. He had more important things to focus on than his health, be it physical or mental.

But Captain Wright would not understand that. Keith was wasting his time trying to reason with her. He would just have to talk with the shrink and hope no one else would hear about it, that his shame would go unnoticed.

He stood. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”

Sundown came early now that it was late fall. That meant happy hour came earlier too. Keith’s idea of happy hour wasn’t in a crowded bar, but in his home. He poured a double scotch and took the tumbler to the kitchen window where he liked to lean on the sill and look out upon the neighborhood. Two children were riding their bikes down the sidewalk. Keith’s mind flashed upon a frightened little girl with wet eyes, and he hissed at the memory, shaking his head to force the image from his brain. He drank deep from his glass. He didn’t need Dr. McHugh, only Dr. Johnnie Walker. Scotch did more for him than talking things out ever could. But while he often preferred being alone, he was considering having some company tonight. The captain’s advice about clearing his head was solid. They just disagreed upon methods of healing.

He drew his phone from his pocket and called Ava.

“Hey, Keith,” she said, her voice high yet soft. “You lonely?”

“Lonely as I’ll ever be.”

“Well, I could be free,” she said. “But I’d have to leave by nine.”

“I can handle that. The usual?”

“Mmhmm.”

His frown deepened. He’d thought he’d been making progress with Ava, but she continued to keep him locked in this stage of their relationship. She told him she’d be there in twenty minutes. Keith lit a cigarette and cracked the window. A touch of the crisp air hit him, but he couldn’t enjoy it for long. The shouts and laughter of the cycling children echoed up the street like birdcalls, causing something to sink deep within him. He wondered if he’d ever truly been young. He stepped into the living room and turned on the TV just to drown everything out. A news program was on, a reporter standing inside a ruined prison cell block with a microphone in her hand.

“This is the aftermath of the full-scale riot that took place in Varden Prison earlier this week,” she said. “Several parts of the building have suffered extensive damage, leading this cell block to be shut down.”

Keith stood in front of the set, watching with the cigarette between his teeth as the image of an overweight man appeared on the screen. The reporter spoke over it.

“Robert Woodrow, a guard at the prison who was put into a coma after being brutally attacked by inmates, passed away this morning at Brighton Hospital, bringing the death toll to twenty-three, including guards and other officials, as well as prisoners and two county police officers who were first responders to the…”

Keith waited for what he knew the newscaster would bring up next. When she did, he sipped his scotch as if in toast as the mug shot filled the screen.

“The search continues for escaped inmate Edmund Cox,” the reporter said, “with police now working with federal agents in what has become a nationwide manhunt. Cox, a convicted serial killer responsible for the murders of over twenty people, is the only prisoner yet to be apprehended after the prison break. The state has offered a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to his arrest, but officials warn Cox is to be considered extremely dangerous.”

Not for the first time, Keith stared at the photos of Edmund Cox as they appeared on the TV. Dark hair with hints of wolf gray, eyes black as onyx in the purple meat caves of their sockets, his macabre smile like a skeleton’s rictus. His hulking form was menacing, his body hair thick and whirly as it tufted out of his collar and sleeves. There was always a thin layer of grease upon him, an evil secretion rising from his pores like venom. In some ways, the maniac’s mug shot was even more frightening than the photos of the gruesome crime scenes he’d left behind.

During the investigation into what the press had dubbed the Hill Country Killer, Keith and his fellow detectives had spent many hours going over those grisly images. One mutilated woman after another, defiled corpses found in puddles of their own gore, some stuffed into confined spaces that should have been too small for a human body, others splayed out in the open like grotesque art exhibits. Keith had not just seen these crime scenes in pictures. He’d seen most of them in person. If anything, the boss should have sent him to a psychiatrist for that instead of the Josh Negus shooting.

Being part of the unit that had captured Edmund Cox was Keith’s greatest accomplishment. He’d even had his fifteen minutes of fame in the press, although the focus went to his superiors, with Keith not permitted to say much. That Cox had now escaped seemed to strip some of that glory away, leaving Keith even hungrier for adulation to massage his famished ego.

Administrative leave, he thought, frowning.

With Cox on the loose, the department needed Keith now more than ever. But instead of searching for the infamous killer, he was practically under house arrest, watching the events unfold on television instead of being immersed in the most exciting manhunt since the Boston bombers, one he felt belonged to him.

He finished his drink just before the doorbell rang.

Keith walked through the living room in his bare feet, the cool hardwood floors doing nothing to soothe the rising heat within him. As he undid the double dead bolts, he kept one hand on the shotgun mounted beside the window overlooking the front porch. He peered through the peephole to see the top of Ava’s head, her face distorted by the fish-eyed glass.

“Hey,” she said when he opened the door.

She stepped inside and kissed his cheek. Keith smelled her hair, taking in the aroma of femineity before kissing her just below the ear, tasting her softness. So clean. So angelic. So young. Putting down her bag, Ava slid out of her winter coat and Keith stepped behind her to help her out of it. She wore a gray turtleneck with a billowy collar and jeans so tight she seemed poured into them, with knee-high leather boots as black as her hair. Her makeup made her mysterious eyes all the darker.

Keith was still wearing his office clothes. Gray khaki slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a loose tie about his neck. He’d shaved at six that morning, but stubble had returned. He hadn’t even bothered to freshen up or spray a little cologne on for her. Though he was trim with rugged good looks, he knew he wasn’t appetizing right now. But he didn’t need to be. Not with Ava.

“So whatcha wanna do?” she asked.

He put his finger through one of her belt loops and pulled her into him.

“Subtle,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “Just take it easy this time.”

Keith put his face into Ava’s neck, and when she turned her head, she saw the news program on the television. The reporter was now detailing Edmund Cox’s crimes.

Ava rolled her eyes. “Jeez. Don’t you get enough of this stuff at work?”

She wiggled free of him, grabbed the remote, and started flipping channels. Keith stood behind her, waiting, aching, trying not to get angry.

“You can put on whatever you want,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.”

Ava kept flipping, her hip cocked, her long hair like a curtain dividing them. She settled on a movie starring Jennifer Aniston, then walked backward and plopped down on the couch, her focus still on the screen. Keith hovered over her like a parent about to lecture a child. Ava patted the seat beside her.

“C’mon,” she said, her smoky eyes falling upon him. “This is what you want, right?”

Keith cleared his throat, though he had nothing to say. He put out his cigarette, sat down beside Ava, and put his arm around her. She nestled into him, her head on his shoulder, her hand making slow circles over his belly, fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt. Her eyes stayed on the television. Keith closed his eyes, intensifying his other senses. His fingertips on the fabric of her sweater. The lingering smell of her shampoo. The warm weight of her pressed against him.

She’d been right. This was exactly what he wanted.

This was therapy worth the money.