This Love Hurts

5. Delilah

Cody's coffee maker spews as it spits out the last bit of coffee to fill the plain white cup. It's this high-pitched sound and I'm all too aware of it as I stare at the sputtering machine flicking droplets of brown liquid against the upper sides of the bistro mug.

It's damn good coffee though, strong but not bitter, and even the smell of it helps me to wake up just a bit more.

As I set the mug against the gray, speckled counter and reach for the sugar, I try to remember if this is my third or fourth cup. My conclusion as I pour far too much sugar into the mug, is that I haven't got a clue.

After stirring in a bit of creamer, the spoon clinks against the mug and I leave it on the napkin I put down this morning that's already stained with a round ring of chestnut coloring.

With my back to the counter, I blow across the hot cup and take in the expansive kitchen. It's just like the rest of Cody's single-floor ranch home: modern, monochromatic with all blacks, grays and whites, and hardly any personalization whatsoever.

Everything is updated and top of the line. The simple lights that hang down are sleek and look expensive. But there's not a single item on the counter, except for a toaster that looks brand new, the coffee maker, and now a stained napkin and spoon. This place is barren. It's too empty to even serve as a model home.

I breathe in the delicious fragrance and then take a short sip. It's comforting and tastes like home so I indulge in a longer sip next.

All night, I thought about every case I ever worked on where Marcus's name was mentioned. It's more than a few dozen of them. At least one hundred. A hundred times his name was implicated in some way or another. I used to think of him as the boogeyman. Some made-up horror story that criminals blamed when really, he didn't exist.

A number of times last night, my mind drifted to the roses he gifted me, which are now where I left them at home. But the red quickly bled into crime scene photos. Pools of blood and then their eyes, followed by his sharp blue gaze. I didn't tell anyone. I can't write it down or speak the reality. He was there in my most private of spaces. And what's worse is that he saw my reaction. I'll tell Cody when he's here, but for now, the confession is stuck with disbelief at the back of my throat.

There's one other reason... one I'm ashamed to admit, as to why I didn't tell a soul he'd messaged. I have a lead. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak; all I knew was I had a lead and sharing it with anyone else would ruin it. How fucking reckless is that? It's buried at the back of my mind, but the reasoning is very much there. Marcus is a wanted man... and I have a lead.

A lead and a vase of flowers.

The sight of roses turning into blood is the image that snapped my eyes open each time I tried to rest. It was like Marcus was watching me. I've convinced myself the pale blue of his eyes must be due to contacts. They're simply far too blue, far too beautiful.

Ping.

My phone dings on the counter. Setting my mug down I click on the screen to see it's another message from my sister. As if fate couldn't be any bigger of a bitch.

I've gotten three messages already today.

My mother left my father. She's an emotional wreck and my sister is in shambles even though for years she's been saying they aren't good for each other. Of course they need me now. Of all times, my sister wants me to come home right now.

She's practically demanding it and holding the fact that all I do is work over my head.

Hell... if she only knew.