The Season of Antlers

1

September 4th, 2013

YOUR POV

I empty the bag of sugar into my coffee, watching the small pebbles dance in the dark water. My breaths are all that fills the break room, the dark paint on the walls making the tiredness in my eyes grow heavier.

It looks like a mountain being taken over my black lava. How does sugar dissolve? Why doesn't it just float? 

"(y/n), I've called your phone about two times. A a married couple was found murdered in Florence." The deep voice of Jack Crawford draws me out of thought, to look up to see him standing in the door way. His jack is on, not zipped up. His hat his slightly tipped over, casting a shadow onto his dark face.

I turn and dump my coffee into the sink, watching it spill smoothly down the drain. I set my cup onto the counter, and turn to face Jack as he is already headed down the hallway. I reach forward and grab my jacket off of the hook beside the first aid cabinet, and rush out of the door sliding on my jacket. 

Picking up my pace, I manage to reach the inside of the elevator before it closes. Jack shakes his head with a chuckle. "You gotta learn to check your phone, rookie. Time's gonna bite you in the ass one of these days." I roll my eyes, turning and taking a step back to lean against the wall. I watch Jack reach over, and press the button leading us to the first floor. 

"Hasn't yet." You say, looking over to see him texting someone on his phone.

Jack lets out a frustrated huff, turning it off and shoves it back into his coat pocket. The door opens, and I nod to the woman who takes Jack and I's place in the elevator. "Who's that?" I ask, turning with him into the lobby. 

"Bella." I know to back off, and keep my mouth shut as we exit the agency and are greeted by the packed parking lot.

I reach into my back pocket for my car keys. "Don't, we can take my car." Instead, you watch Jack pull out his keys and press the left button to unlock his car, about a yard away. 

It's quiet, but that's how I like it. I slow my pace and walk over to the passenger side of his car, and open the door to slide in and sit down. Jack sits down, slamming his door shut. Buckling up, he starts the car and the heater blasts onto your face. 

"Is it bad?" I let my question hang in the air for a moment.

"Do you like art galleries?" Instantly I'm confused. 

I furrow my eyebrows, and turn my head to look at Jack as he pulls onto the road. "What?"

"You'll see." Shivers rise in your spine, making you look away and ahead on the uneven street.

Observing the crime scene, collecting information and paperwork, articles and data, nightmares and trauma, repeat.

꧁꧂

I stare, stare, stare. The crime scene is buzzing with investigators, those you have yet to look at their badges. Jack stands in the corner, talking to a Sherriff while having a troubling game of eye chase with the covered bodies in the center of the living room.