Chapter 21: The Old Flame Returns
The reconciliation had a new, fragile architecture. It wasn’t the easy comfort of before; it was something built consciously, brick by careful brick, over strong coffee and deliberate conversations. Jennifer showed up.She listened. She put her phone away. Some nights, she just needed to stare at the wall in silence after work, the day’s grime still lingering in her pores.
It was better. It was work. And for the first time in her adult life, she understood that was the point.
The new murder file was a stark departure from the sprawling networks of the trafficking case. It was a single point of violence, a period at the end of a sentence no one had read. Victim: Elias Vance, forty-eight, a mid-level financial advisor with a condo in Silver Lake and a membership at a climbing gym he hadn’t used in six months. Found in his Audi S5, driver’s seat, in the third sub-level of a high-end downtown parking structure. Single gunshot wound, contact to the right temple. No signs of struggle. Wallet present, Rolex Submariner still on his wrist. The car was off. The only thing missing was his phone.
A professional hit, or a very personal one made to look professional. The cold, efficient nature of it was almost a relief after the sprawling human misery of her last case. This was a puzzle, not an open wound.
She was hunched over the crime scene photos, the glossy prints slick under the fluorescent buzz of her office. The fluorescent tube above her desk had developed a persistent, aggrieved stutter. Tick-tick-hum. Tick-tick-hum. It mirrored the rhythm in her skull. She was tracing the trajectory of the blood spatter on the passenger window when a shadow fell across the paperwork.
A knock on the doorframe, two solid taps.
She looked up.
Marcus Cole filled the space. He wasn’t a large man in the bulky sense, but he carried a dense, collected presence that made rooms feel smaller. Sixty years old, but time had worked on him like a whetstone on good steel—sharpening, defining. A close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, sharp eyes the color of dark whiskey under heavy lids. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him like it was tailored yesterday, not a decade ago, a crisp white shirt, no tie. A leather briefcase, scarred and soft with age, hung from his hand.
“Detective Wu,” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the fluorescent whine.
A jolt, unexpected and warm, went through her. “Marcus. Jesus. They let you out of retirement?”
A slow grin spread across his face, transforming the stern lines into something knowing and amused. “Retirement’s a concept for people with hobbies. I’ve got a mortgage.” He stepped in without waiting for an invitation, his gaze taking in the organized chaos of her desk, the photo of her old squad, the gun safe with its peeling ‘NO FEAR’ sticker. “Heard you wrapped up the Reno thing. Nasty business. Clean work.”
“Clean” from Marcus was a five-star review. “It got wrapped. Mostly by the feds after we did the heavy lifting.” She leaned back in her chair, the old dynamic settling over them like a familiar, slightly dusty blanket. He was the first cop she dated and even loved, before they parted on good terms, despite the fact he was old enough to be her dad. He’d been her training officer for six brutal months when she first made detective. He’d trusted her with nothing but scut work, grilled her on procedure until she wanted to scream, and then, one night when a junkie’s confession had shaken her more than she’d let on, had bought her a whiskey and told her, “Feelings are fine. Letting them fuck with your read of the facts is a luxury dead cops can’t afford.” She’d both hated and revered him. “What brings you to the land of the living? Slumming it?”
He set the briefcase on her desk with a soft thump. “Consultant. Family of your DB in the parking structure. Elias Vance.”
That got her full attention. “The sister? She said she was hiring a PI.”
“She did. She hired me.” He popped the latches on the briefcase. “She doesn’t think you people are taking it seriously. Thinks it’s being brushed off as a botched robbery or a business deal gone south.”
“It’s been forty-eight hours. We’re taking it plenty seriously.”
“Yeah?” He pulled a thin manila folder from his case and slid it across to her, atop her own thicker file. “What’ve you got?”
It was a test. It was always a test with him. She opened his folder. Inside were a half-dozen photographs, not crime scene, but surveillance. Grainy black-and-white shots from what looked like a hotel lobby. Elias Vance, looking tense, in conversation with a man whose face was deliberately turned away from the camera. Another shot, from outside a restaurant, Vance handing a small, thick envelope to a different man.
“Who are they?” she asked, her detective brain shifting gears, cross-referencing what she’d just seen with the financial records she’d been about to dive into.
“That’s what the family is paying me to find out. Vance was anxious for weeks, according to his sister. Paranoid. Changed his routines. Was talking about ‘cleaning up some old messes.’” Marcus tapped a finger on the photo of the envelope hand-off. “This was two days before he turned up head-shot in his Audi. Doesn’t smell like random.”
“No,” she agreed, studying the angles, the body language. “It doesn’t.” She looked up at him. “You’re sharing this why? Consultant usually means you work parallel, not with.”
He closed his briefcase, the click definitive. “Because the sister’s right. A single white male, some money, no obvious gang ties? This goes to the bottom of a pile somewhere unless someone with weight keeps pushing it. I’ve got weight. You’ve got the badge. And…” He shrugged, the elegant suit jacket moving with him. “I know you. You won’t let it go just because it’s tidy. You’ll pick at it until it bleeds.”
The compliment, buried in characteristic pragmatism, landed. She felt that old flicker, the desire to prove herself to this eternally skeptical man. It was a different pull than David’s charged understanding or Julian’s gentle faith. This was about professional respect, sharpened over time into a blade of mutual recognition.
“So we partner up? Unofficially.”
“I share. You share. We see where it leads. No paperwork.” He glanced at the half-eaten burrito congealing on a napkin. “You still eat that garbage?”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s a war crime.” He nodded toward the door. “Come on. I’ll buy you a real coffee. We can compare notes without the soundtrack of that dying light.”
She hesitated for a second. A coffee with Marcus wasn’t just coffee. It was a gateway back into a world of late-night hunches, shared cynicism, and a particular brand of companionship that existed entirely in the margins of grim work. It was also the exact type of proximity that had gotten her into trouble time and again.
But he was Marcus Cole. He was practically a monument. And this was about a case.
“Yeah, alright,” she said, grabbing her jacket. “But I’m choosing the place. Your idea of real coffee is diner sludge so thick the spoon stands up.”
He chuckled as they walked out into the squad room, his presence turning a few heads. The old lion was back, if only for a walk. “You’ve gotten picky. And where’s the priest these days? He still letting you consort with the likes of me?”
The question was casual, but she heard the probe beneath it. He’d met Julian once, years ago, and had offered a grunt that could have been interpreted as approval.
“We broke up,” she said, her voice even. “But we’re good. Honestly."
Marcus just made a non-committal sound in his throat, a hmph that conveyed a universe of unspoken opinion.
The café she chose was three blocks away, all exposed brick and sourdough smells. They took a table in the back. He ordered a black coffee, she got a cappuccino. He raised an eyebrow at the foam.
“What?” she said, defensive. “I’m evolving.”
“Evolving.” He took a sip of his own drink, eyes scanning the folder he’d opened between them. “Vance’s finances are a hall of mirrors. On the books, he’s clean. Boringly so. But he’s been liquidating assets quietly for six months. Small amounts, spread out. Building a cache.”
“Run money,” Jennifer said, pulling out her own notebook. “Our guys found a safe deposit box key in his apartment. Box was empty, cleaned out. He was preparing to disappear.”
Marcus nodded. “Smart. So someone didn’t want him disappearing. Or didn’t want him talking before he did.” He pointed to the surveillance photo of the hotel lobby. “This is the Barclay Hotel. Upscale, discreet. I leaned on the manager. Vance met with this man,” his finger hovered over the blurred, averted face, “three times in the last month. Paid cash for a day-use room each time. No name on the reservation.”
“Can we get better footage? Street cameras, lobby angles?”
“Working on it. My guy’s better with digital than your department’s overworked techs.” He said it not as a boast, but as a simple fact. “The envelope guy is more interesting. His name’s Robert Harlow. Low-level fixer for a few real estate syndicates that have been… overly aggressive in their acquisitions.”
Jennifer’s mind made the connection instantly. “The city council rezoning vote for the North Figueroa corridor. It’s next week. Vance had a client with major holdings in the affected area. If the rezoning fails, the value plummets.”
Marcus’s eyes gleamed with approval. “You’ve done your homework.”
“It’s my job.”
“It is.” He sat back, studying her. “So here’s a theory. Vance wasn’t just cleaning up his own mess. He was being leaned on to leverage his client’s portfolio, maybe cook the books to sway the vote. He got scared. He decided to bolt. And the people leaning on him decided a disappearing act was bad for business. Permanent silence is cheaper than blackmail.”
It fit. It fit the cold methodology, the missing phone likely full of incriminating texts or calls, the lack of robbery motive.
“We need to find Harlow,” she said, energy humming through her. This was the chase, the pure deduction. It felt clean.
“We do,” Marcus agreed. “But he’s gone to ground. Hasn’t been to his apartment, his usual bars. His known associates are suddenly terrible with their memories.”
“So we lean harder.”
“We don’t do anything. You have rules. I,” he took another slow sip, “have a client who wants answers and isn’t particularly concerned with procedural nuance.”
The line was there, drawn between his leather briefcase and her badge. She felt the old temptation to step over it, to work in the shadows where things got done faster. Marcus had always operated in those shadows, his instincts his only compass. It was why he was so effective, and why he’d never made captain.
“Just find him, Marcus. Legally. I don’t need another headache from Internal Affairs.”
He gave her a long, inscrutable look. “You used to be more fun.”
“I used to be more stupid.”
A genuine laugh escaped him, a rich, rough sound. “Fair.” He finished his coffee. “I’ll call you when I have a location. You can do the official knocking. Keep your nose clean, kid.”
He stood, briefcase in hand. For a moment, he just looked at her, the professional mask softening into something more contemplative.
He gave a curt nod and walked out, melting into the midday foot traffic with the ease of a man who’d never fully belonged to the daylight world.
Jennifer stayed, finishing her cappuccino, the foam gone flat. The case had shape now, a direction. But her thoughts were a tangled knot. The sharp, familiar thrill of working a lead with Marcus. The grounded, hard-won peace she had with Julian. The ghost of David’s understanding kiss at the airport, a door firmly closed.
Her phone buzzed, making her jump. A number she didn’t recognize. She answered. “Wu.”
“Detective.” It was Marcus, his voice tight, all business. “Forget Harlow. I just got a call. A janitor found a body in a storage unit over in Van Nuys. Male. Single gunshot wound to the head. ID in his wallet says Robert Harlow.”
The world snapped back into sharp, violent focus. The chase was on, but the prey was already dead.
“Address,” she said, already on her feet, tossing cash on the table.
He gave it to her. “I’m ten minutes out. Don’t touch anything until I get there.”
“Marcus, I have to call it in. This is an active crime scene.”
“Just wait ten minutes,” he said, and the line went dead.
She stood on the sidewalk, the sun warm on her neck, a cold knot forming in her stomach. He wasn’t asking her to break the law. He was asking her to bend it, just a little, for old time’s sake. To let him see the raw scene before the circus of forensics and bureaucracy descended and sanitized the truth out of it.
Ten minutes.
She looked at her phone, at the blank text screen still open. Then she shoved it in her pocket, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the Van Nuys address.
The ten minutes started now.
The cab smelled of pine air freshener and old sweat. Jennifer stared out the window, the city blurring into stripes of sun-bleached concrete and faded palm trees. Her thumb hovered over her partner’s contact. Calling it in was procedure. Protocol. The right thing.
She locked the screen and shoved the phone into her jacket pocket. The fabric strained against the grip of her service weapon. Ten minutes.
The storage facility was a bleak grid of corrugated steel doors under a white-hot sky. A single police cruiser, not from her division, was parked haphazardly near unit 114, its light bar dark. The young uniform guarding the yellow tape looked bored, sweating through his shirt. He straightened as she approached, flashing her badge.
“Detective Wu, Robbery-Homicide. I got a tip,” she said, her voice leaving no room for debate. “Who’s inside?”
“Just the janitor who found him, ma’am. And another detective. Cole? He said you were coming.”
Marcus had already greased the wheels. Of course he had. She ducked under the tape. The roll-up door of unit 114 was half-open, a rectangle of pure shadow in the bright day. The smell hit her first—cordite, copper, and the damp, earthy reek of concrete and mildew.
She stepped inside.
The space was tight, maybe ten-by-ten, crowded with forgotten furniture draped in dusty sheets. In the center, a man was sprawled on his back beside a toppled office chair. Robert Harlow. The left side of his face was a ruined crater. A dark pool gleamed, sticky and thick, on the sealed concrete floor. The gun, a cheap polymer-framed 9mm, lay near his outstretched right hand.
Marcus stood near the body, not touching anything, his hands in the pockets of his impeccable suit pants. He didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on Harlow, or more specifically, on Harlow’s left hand, which was clenched into a tight fist.
“Your ten minutes are almost up,” she said, her voice echoing softly in the metal box.
“He wasn’t killed here,” Marcus stated, his tone flat. “No spray pattern. Drag marks in the dust near the threshold. They brought him in, staged the scene, placed the weapon.” He finally glanced at her. “This was a message. A sloppy one. For people who know to look.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” She moved closer, careful to avoid the blood. Her eyes scanned the detritus. Packing peanuts, a shattered lamp, a stained mattress leaning against the wall.
“The same people who made Elias Vance vanish from the driver’s seat of his Audi.” Marcus nodded toward the fist. “But our friend Robert put up a fight somewhere else. He grabbed something.”
Jennifer knelt, pulling a pen from her jacket. She used it to gently pry open the stiffening fingers of Harlow’s left hand.
A small, torn piece of fabric lay on his palm. Dark blue, maybe black. Synthetic. It was rugged, with a distinctive textured pattern.
“It’s not from his clothes,” Marcus murmured, leaning in. His shoulder brushed hers. He still wore the same cologne, something woody and sharp she remembered from years ago. The familiarity was a physical disturbance in the foul air.
“No,” she agreed. Her mind raced, cross-referencing. “It’s tactical gear. Like the shoulder of a load-bearing vest. Or a glove.”
THEY FIND A CLUE.
She used her pen to lift the fabric swatch. Tucked beneath it, pressed into Harlow’s lifeless palm by the force of his final grip, was something else. A single button. Black plastic, with a tiny, embossed logo.
She brought it closer to the light streaming from the door.
The logo was a stylized, angular hawk’s head inside a shield.
She knew that logo. Every cop in the city knew it. It was on the patches of the municipal security contractors used by half the luxury downtown developments. Hawkshield Protection Services.
“Oh, shit,” she whispered.
Marcus’s breath hissed out between his teeth. “Vance’s client. The major holdings in the North Figueroa corridor. The security contract for all those properties is held by…”
“Hawkshield,” she finished. The pieces slammed together with an almost audible click. It wasn’t just real estate. It was the security team itself. They had access, mobility, and a perfect excuse to be anywhere on the properties. They could pressure Vance. They could execute him. They could vanish Harlow.
The sound of multiple engines, the crunch of tires on gravel, echoed from outside the unit. Official voices, louder, replaced the single uniform’s mumble.
Her ten minutes were up.
Marcus straightened. “You’ve got your clue, Detective. Now you’ve got your circus.” He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “You gonna tell them you waited for me?”
She stared at the button in her pen’s light, then carefully placed it and the fabric swatch into a small evidence bag from her pocket. She sealed it. The official seal of the LAPD stared back at her.
“I’m going to tell them,” she said, standing, “that I responded to a tip and secured the scene.” She met his gaze. “The rest is my report to write.”
A faint, approving smirk touched his lips. It vanished as Captain Ruiz’s gruff voice barked from the doorway, demanding to know what the hell was going on.
Jennifer turned, the evidence bag a burning secret in her hand, the hawk’s head emblem a silent promise of a war fought in boardrooms and parking structures, a war that had just gotten lethally personal.
Ruiz stood silhouetted in the bright rectangle of the storage unit door, his bulk blocking the light. His eyes scanned the grim tableau—the body, the blood, the two detectives standing over it. They landed on Marcus, and his expression hardened into something resembling weathered concrete.
“Cole,” he said, the word a flat accusation. Then his gaze cut to Jennifer. “Wu. Explain this. Now.”
The forensics team shuffled behind him, waiting to swarm. Jennifer held up the evidence bag, the plastic crinkling in the thick silence. “Responded to an anonymous tip on the Harlow location, sir. Secured the scene. Victim is Robert Harlow, person of interest in the Elias Vance homicide. Appears staged. This was recovered.”
Ruiz stepped fully into the unit, his shoes gritting on the concrete. He took the bag from her, holding it up to the dull light. His eyes narrowed at the hawk insignia.
“Hawkshield,” he grunted. “You think this is theirs?”
“The fabric is from tactical gear. The button matches their uniform patches.” Jennifer kept her voice level, factual. “Harlow ripped it off someone. During a struggle, before they transported him here.”
Marcus remained silent, a still presence observing from the shadows near a dust-draped dresser.
Ruiz’s gaze swung between them. “And your consultant just happened to locate the body before our entire dispatch system?”
“Anonymous tip came to me directly, Captain,” Jennifer said, the half-truth smooth on her tongue. “I was closest. Cole was already in the area on his own client work. He arrived as I was securing the perimeter.”
A long, heavy pause stretched, filled only with the distant murmur of the forensics team. Ruiz’s jaw worked. He was evaluating the cost of his skepticism against the concrete evidence now in his hand. The political grenade of implicating a powerful, city-connected security firm required careful handling. This clue gave him a lever.
“This stays tight,” he finally said, handing the bag back to her. “You two. No leaks. Wu, you run this through evidence with a full chain of custody. Then you pull everything on Hawkshield’s executive staff, their contracts, their personnel. I want to know who cleans their toilets.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cole.” Ruiz fixed Marcus with a stare. “Your consulting ends at sharing information with my detective. You are not a sworn officer. You hover, you obscure, you become a problem. Understood?”
Marcus gave a single, slow nod. “Crystal, Captain.”
Ruiz stared a moment longer, then turned and jerked his head for the forensics team to enter. The spell broke, replaced by the clinical bustle of plastic sheeting and camera flashes.
Outside, the blinding afternoon heat felt like a physical slap after the unit’s dank chill. Ruiz stomped toward his car, then paused, turning back. He pointed a thick finger at Jennifer. “I want a preliminary report on my desk by end of day. Not a word to anyone else.”
He got in his sedan and pulled away, leaving a haze of exhaust hanging in the still air.
Marcus let out a long, theatrical breath. “Wow. Has he always been that grumpy, or is it a special flavor he reserves for you since you broke up with his godson?”
Jennifer choked out a laugh, the tension evaporating in a sudden, unexpected gush. She playfully swatted his arm. “Shut up. Don’t even start.”
He grinned, rubbing his arm in mock outrage. “I’m just saying. The vibe is frosty.” He glanced at the sun, then back at her. She looked drained, the adrenaline bleed leaving shadows under her eyes. “Look, we’ve been breathing death and conspiracy all day. My rental’s got a pool. I’m making proper southern food—blackened catfish, cheese grits, the works. You need to eat something that didn’t come wrapped in foil.”
She shook her head, already pulling out her phone to call the evidence desk. “I can’t. I have to log this and start the report.”
“The report will wait. Ruiz said end of day. It’s three PM. Your brain is fried. You’ll write better after a swim and some actual nutrition.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Come on. A break. From the case. From the heat.”
“Marcus…”
“I’m not taking no for an answer. Consider it a tactical debrief in a neutral, aquatic environment.”
She sighed, scrolling through her contacts. “You’re a pest.”
“I’m a pragmatist. You’re fading. Address is on your phone.” He sent a text. The ping was immediate. “Seven o’clock. Don’t bring work. Just a swimsuit.”
He walked away toward his own car, a low-slung vintage Mercedes, leaving her standing in the storage facility lot. She looked at the evidence bag, then at his retreating figure, then at the text with the address in Brentwood. The pull of the pool, of normalcy, of someone who knew the job’s taste but wasn’t currently serving it to her, was unexpectedly strong.
“Fine!” she called after him, surprising herself.
He did a little two-step jiggle of celebration without turning around, just a silly shuffle of his shoulders and legs. She rolled her eyes, profoundly embarrassed for him, but a smile cracked through her exhaustion. He saw it in her reflection in his car window as he got in, and he winked.
The rental was a sleek, modern box cantilevered over a canyon, all glass and polished concrete. The pool was a long, liquid turquoise rectangle that seemed to merge with the sky. The scent of jasmine and grilling spice filled the evening air.
Jennifer stepped out onto the deck, in her simple black bikini. She felt intensely aware of her body, of the history here, of the strange context of a poolside dinner with her former mentor and lover amidst a murder investigation.
Marcus was at the built-in barbecue, wearing an apron that said ‘KISS THE CHEF’ over his shorts. He turned, spatula in hand. His eyes traveled over her, and he playfully waggled his eyebrows. “Well, hello. The LAPD’s loss is my view’s gain.”
A warm blush crept up her neck. “You’re impossible. Is the food ready or are you just for show?”
“Patience, a virtue.” He flipped the fish. It sizzled. “Grab a drink. Cooler’s by the lounger.”
They ate at a small table overlooking the canyon, the city lights beginning to glitter in the dusky distance. The food was, as promised, incredible—spicy, rich, comforting. They talked about nothing consequential: a bad movie they’d both seen, a mutual acquaintance who’d opened a brewery.
It was easy. It was terrifyingly easy.
“So,” he said, sipping an iced tea. “You navigated from Sam to the priest. That’s a journey.”
She swirled the wine in her glass. “Sam was… a placeholder. Nice, but nice isn’t enough. Julian was real. Is real. We’re… rebuilding.”
“And the fed? Paqueta?”
Her head snapped up. “How do you know about David?”
“I keep tabs. You think I didn’t hear about the legendary Florida one-night stand that turned into a Reno reunion?” His expression was knowing, not judgmental. “That’s more your pattern, kid. The work crush. The intense partner in the foxhole. It’s understandable. It’s also a grenade.”
She didn’t deny it. “It’s over with David. For good.”
“But the pattern isn’t.” He leaned back, assessing her. “You’re drawn to the mission. The men become an extension of it. When the mission ends…” He made a dissipating gesture with his hand.
“And what are you, then?” she asked, the question sharper than she intended. “An extension of an old mission?”
He smiled, a slow, deep thing. “I’m a reminder of the first mission. And a poolside chef.”
After dinner, she lay on a floating lounger in the deep end, staring at the first stars. The water was silk against her skin. The case file felt a million miles away. She heard him clear the dishes, then the soft pad of his feet on the deck.
He sat on the edge, dipping his legs in. “We both needed this,” he mused, his voice a quiet rumble in the twilight. “To remember there’s a world that isn’t storage units and blood spatter.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, drifting. “I forget sometimes. I get so wrapped in the hunt that I—”
He moved.
It was sudden and fluid. He slid into the water, covered the distance between them in two strokes, and planted his lips on hers.
Her sentence died, swallowed by the shock of it. The floating lounger wobbled violently. Her mind, so adept at analysis, short-circuited. This is Marcus. My old T.O. He’s sixty. This is...
She raised an amused, confused eyebrow against his face, a silent question mark in the dark.
He didn’t pull away. His lips were firm, insistent, but not demanding. One hand steadied the lounger, the other rested lightly on her hip, his thumb brushing the bare skin above her bikini line.
And then, the analysis melted. The shock transmuted into a low, resonant hum of sensation. The cool water, the warm pressure of his mouth, the sheer, audacious boldness of it. A laugh bubbled up inside her, a release of every coiled tension from the past weeks.
This is fun, she thought, the realization simple and clear.
She relaxed into the kiss, her hand coming up to rest on his wet shoulder. She kissed him back. He deepened the kiss, moving his lips against hers with a confident ease that spoke of knowing exactly what he was doing, and exactly whom he was doing it with.
It was a thrilling, taboo electric current in the quiet blue dark. No matter how complicated, how fraught with history and professional entanglement this was, in this suspended moment, it was just that. Fun.
But also—what the hell am I doing?” She broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. The shock of it lingered, even as her body hummed with the warmth of his touch. His fingers, still tangled in the wet fabric of her swimsuit strap, flexed once before loosening.
Marcus chuckled, low and unapologetic, the sound vibrating against the water around them.
His thumb brushed the side of her neck, his fingers still curled around the strap of her bikini. "You’re overthinking it."
Jennifer exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound that was half-laugh, half-frustrated surrender. "You’re sixty."
"And you’re a grown woman who knows her own mind." His grin was infuriatingly relaxed, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he held her close in the water. "Unless you’re telling me that kiss meant nothing."
She should pull away.
That is the only rational thought that manages to break through the haze of sensation. She should pull away because this is Marcus—her first real mentor, her first love, a man decades older than her, a man who once treated her like a daughter before she became something more complicated in his eyes. She should pull away because Ruiz’s warning still echoes in her skull, because the case is far from over, because Julian’s face flashes in her memory—his gentle smile, his steady presence, the way he knows her better than anyone else right now.
But rationality has never been her strong suit when it comes to Marcus.
Instead, she stays where she is, suspended in the warm water, her body pressed against his under the fading light.
The city lights are beginning to come on, casting golden reflections on the pool's surface.
Jennifer’s fingers, which moments ago had been tangled in his hair, now rest lightly on his shoulders, her nails digging into the bare skin just enough to feel the solid muscle beneath. She can’t decide if she’s furious with herself or with him.
Marcus tilts his head slightly, his breath warm against her ear as he murmurs, "You're thinking too loud."
That pulls a genuine laugh from her. "You don’t get to tell me that."
His mouth traces a slow, deliberate path down her throat, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear as he nuzzles her neck. She shudders, but not from the water. Then her phone nearby rings, shattering the moment.