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Tim’s pen scratched again at the surface of the paper, scrawling his signature on the arrest document. There seemed to be a gentle lull of quietness in his world when each rookie would move on to ride solo in their own shop. A moment where after all the chaos of being a TO would subside briefly like an interlude before the next rookie came along and he’d be finding his way working through his own paperwork, all the arrests he made were solely his own and for a little while it was his own responsibility to check the kit bags. It was nice, it was refreshing and normally it gave him time to think and take a breath.
He was working on his pile of paperwork; the one he’d neglected for much of the day as he’d cruised around the streets of Los Angeles in his shop with total silence. The quietness seemed almost eerie now, he had no intention of saying it out loud but he’d found himself yearning for Lucy’s interruption, or the way the sleeve of her uniform would brush against his bare arm from time to time and the smell of her shampoo. He missed spending hours by her side as her TO, teaching her the rules of the trade he’s picked up in his years of service and failing to knock her youthful hope out of her regardless of his approach. She’d chipped away at big, thick cinderblock walls he had built up and surrounded with cement in a way no other rookie had ever done before and peeled it away, piece by piece. He would do anything for her, if only she asked; even though he knew she would never ask.
“Why can’t I just be called the best man? Or bride’s number one or something.” He objected, interrupting Angela as she cast her own pen down on the desk with a resounding thud.
“Because,” she began, emphasising, “I’m the bride and brides have maids. That’s why they’re called bridesmaids.”
“What and you really buy into that sexist crap? It’s bullshit. Guys and girls can be friends.” He retorted firmly, watching her expression turn to a smirk as he turned to face her from his desk.
“Wow, now that’s something I never expected to hear from your lips. Tim Bradford is a progress and modern man. What else are your hiding under that rugged façade?” She teased.
“Hey, I’m fully of surprises.” He retorted quickly. “So what, do I have to go with you to choose the wedding dress and go to get your eyelashes curled or something?”
“You really don’t have the faintest idea do you?” She quipped. Angela had easily chosen Tim to be her right hand man on her wedding day; she couldn’t imagine it would be anyone else. If she was in a tight spot, he’d be the first person she would call without hesitation and he knew that. Perhaps being surrounded by brothers growing up had left a lasting impression on her, but there was no other person she trusted more to walk with her down the aisle and to make sure her wedding day went off without a hitch. “You’ve already done the whole marriage thing. You should know this.”
“It was more that I turned up in a suit on the day and hoped for the best. That’s the key to a happy marriage; just go along with whatever.” He explained. Angela watched as his face twisted softly in recollection, as he thought about Isabelle. It didn’t seem to be such a gaping wound anymore, but sure as hell every now and against she’d watch as pain washed over his expression as something would draw him back to Isabelle, before he would ignore it again.
“Besides, Lucy offered to come dress shopping with me.” She explained, trying to quickly draw away from the point.
“You’re taking Chen dress shopping and not me? She’s already Wes’s best woman or whatever.” He asked, incredulous.
“Oh really, you’re interested in all that crap?” She asked, rolling her eyes at him.
“Of course I am.” He insisted. “We’re colleagues and as brides number one—.”
“Maid of honour.” She corrected.
“Whatever—I care.” He defended, scoffing at her. She snickered in response.
“07-Adam-22, back-up requested to a 3019 Victoria Blvd.” Lucy’s voice carried across the radio, interrupting their conversation. Angela noticed the way Tim sat up a little straighter at the sound of her voice, her eyebrow arching slightly and a small smirk forming at the curve of her lips.
“3019 Victoria Blvd, I thought that was the run of the mill welfare check Grey sent her on?” Tim tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brow lightly as he thought.
Of course he knew where she was going to be. Angela thought. She picked up her pen again and began to scribble down something else in her notebook, looking back to the computer screen.
“07-Adam-19 responding. I’m on my way Boot, what’ve you got?” He replied with little hesitation beyond lingering to imagine how her day had been so far. He’d barely seen her since role call earlier that morning, some days their paths would cross on multiple occasions but today wasn’t one of them and the day seemed to be drawling on.
“07-Adam-19, this is 07-Adam-22. I’ve got signs of forced entry on my welfare check. I’m going in.”
Angela stood, grabbing her coat. “I’m coming too. Sounds like it could need a detective.”
Tim cast her a glance. “Oh, now you want to be back on the beat.” He placed his hand at his belt, fiddling with it while she picked up her things from her desk. “Let’s go.”
“07-Adam-19 on route to 3019 Victoria Blvd.”
“It’s practically obnoxious to pretend that baby blue and duck egg blue aren’t basically the same colour.” Tim remarked, humouring her conversation as the shop cruised through the streets, lights and sirens blaring, as Angela tapped on the laptop, trying to pull up any information about the address; the owner, any local criminal activity lately and when the concern for welfare had been reported and by whom.
“What? They’re two totally different colours. I bet you think magenta is basically purple.” She scoffed. “It’s just so stressful. People act like it’s supposed to be such a huge deal to have a colour scheme, but does anyone really remember whether a wedding was yellow or green?”
“Magenta is pink.” He argued, Angela’s eyes narrowed and her nose wrinkled in silent disagreement. “Don’t you think you’re overthinking this?” He asked finally.
“07-Adam-22. I’ve got a DB at 3019 Victoria Blvd. I need homicide, coroner and forensics.” Lucy’s voice came over the radio again.
Tim’s eyes narrowed, he sucked a breath between his teeth. Something didn’t sound right.
“Damn, looks like I was right, you do need a detective.” Lopez commented. “Address belongs to Freya Dunn, 30. No priors, no calls to 9-1-1 calls since 2015; which was a trespassing complaint. Last seen approximately 30 hours ago, it was called in by her boss when she didn’t show for work.” She explained, scrolling through the laptop screen. “07-Adam-19 and Detective Lopez on route, ETA 1 minute. Please stand by.”
“Did you hear that?” He asked. She turned away from the laptop for a moment to look at his face, trying to read his unreadable expression.
“What?” She asked.
“Nothing.” He remarked, still thinking, speeding up ever so slightly, Angela put her hand on the dashboard to brace herself. Tim kept replaying the sound of Lucy’s voice through his head, over and over again on the way. There was an intonation of fear or pain in her voice, but she hadn’t radioed to say that she was in danger. It didn’t make sense.
The tires screeched to a halt, parking behind Lucy’s own vehicle and Angela and Tim practically tumbled from the shop. Tim’s hand found its way to his belt to his gun, just in case he needed it. The hairs on his forearms seemed to stand on edge and he felt tingling electricity down his spine. Ordinarily, he’d jump at the chance to respond to Lucy’s calls, either to see her again or ensure her safety and it hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed. He was used to the rush of electricity, the way he would feel wired in her presence; his hairs would stand on edge, his heart would beat louder and louder in his ears but this time as he approached the building instead there was a sense of foreboding.
The building seemed oddly quiet and everything seemed still. As Tim cast a glance around, it seemed like a pretty idyllic neighbourhood. There were the distant sounds of birdsong, combined with the overbearing buzz of LA traffic that out of repeated exposure had almost entirely faded from his awareness. Soon it would be disrupted though, as the LAPD would spring to life to do their job in the wake of a newly discovered homicide.
“07-Adam-19 and Detective Lopez on scene, standby.” He radioed in. His eyes surveyed the land suspiciously; it’d been a long time since he’d let his guard down now. It was hard-wired into him to look at every element of the world through dubious, examining eyes. With every footstep he took it had been drilled into him to already have a plan for every possible worst-case scenario and in a way he was almost numb to the repeated exposure to trauma and devastation of his job.
The front door of the home was now cast wide open; the front of the house appeared unassuming and boringly ordinary. A car was sat on the driveway in front of the home and to the right of it was a lawn decorated with garish pink flamingos and a birdbath. Angela hesitated at the door, using her flashlight to quickly assess the hallway for any obvious evidence. Tim had already fallen out of step and was working his way around the side of the building to look for the forced entrance Lucy had reported.
“Hey. What’ve we got Lucy?” Angela asked as Lucy came into view. Tim stopped suddenly in his tracks at the mention of her name, making his way back to the front of the house and back to Angela.
“Scene is secured ma’am. There’s just me here. I was responding to a concern for welfare, there was no reply so while I was checking I noticed there were signs of forced entry to the bathroom window on the second floor around the back of the house.”
“Boot.” Tim greeted, stopping Lucy in her tracks for a moment as he stepped to Angela’s side. Only when he saw her did he notice that it looked like the colour had drained from her face. His jaw was tightly shut as he studied her closely for a minute as she continued to explain her findings to Angela, there was something about her countenance that set his teeth on edge; maybe she was tired and hungry or maybe there was something deeper. He couldn’t be sure.
“Where’s the body?” Angela asked as Lucy stepped aside, allowing them into the house. She seemed almost flustered, like her mind was somewhere else.
“Downstairs in the basement, ma’am.”
“What was your first indication for murder, Chen?” Tim asked.
Lucy cleared her through, standing at the top of the stairs as Angela began her descent into the basement to assess. “The victim has been tied up, sir.” She explained, not missing a beat despite the vacancy of her expression.
“Alright, Boot. Why don’t you make your way to the shop and set up the line?”
“Sir.” She agreed. Her skin caught the skin of his arm briefly and he felt the soft whoosh of wind as she moved past him with no further comment, his eyes still following her as she left.
“Bradford.” Angela called from downstairs.
“What’ve we got?” He asked, descending the stairs with a breathy sigh.
“Look at the body.” She explained, stepping aside.
“Shit.” Tim cursed, exhaling deeply and running his hand through his hair. “He stuffed her in the freezer, probably suffocated or froze to death.”
“The wrists are tied with zip-ties.” She breathed.
“Fingernails are bloody. There was a struggle. Ah shit. That’s why Chen looks like she’s seen a ghost.”
“Fuck.” Angela cursed.
What felt like hours stacked on hours, had only been an hour and Tim was viscerally aware that since his arrival to the scene, he had barely seen Lucy since. It set his teeth on edge and he felt a burgeoning knot at the pit of his stomach. He only caught sight of her briefly to see her walk by with an evidence bag or explaining her immediate findings to yet another detective. He watched as the breeze caught her hair and small strands that had fallen from her ordinarily neat bun when she’d climbed through the broken glass window now flapping aimlessly in the wind.
The long and slow day had now taken a turn and picked slightly up into a relay race of chaos and the site of Chen’s solo shop on the curb had soon been overrun by multiple vehicles and specialists of all kinds tending to the scene of crime. Even the locals had swooped in to cast an eye over the scene, to gather from it what they could. In the snatches of the wind, Lucy heard mutters of gossip and chatter about ‘what a tragedy’, ‘the poor woman’ and ‘they knew something was wrong when…’ swirling and mixing together.
Finally she retreated to the safety of her shop, with the half drank polystyrene cup of coffee still in the holder where she’d left it earlier, now entirely forgotten about. When she’d set off for the welfare check assignment set by Grey, it had been late morning and on the way she’d felt her stomach grumble in protest of skipping breakfast after waking late. In the moment, she’d considered where she was planning to go to grab a bite to eat afterwards, maybe Papa’s, the burger joint on 52nd Street, just a couple of blocks from here or maybe even traveling a little further off route for Little England’s famous potato fries and peas. But now her hunger had only been replaced by a feeling of nausea. She couldn’t quite get comfortable, she shuffled again and again in the seat, trying to stretch her legs, neck or back in different combinations but there was a looming feeling she couldn’t get rid of. Even in the safety of her own shop, the world felt like it was closing in and she was struggling against the tightness of the barrel in the fight for her life.
She pressed her hands against the steering wheel, just bracing herself as her breaths became shorter and sharper, even as she made a concerted effort to steady herself. Eventually her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, just holding on as she sat there, stationary. She flexed her palm, feeling the sensation of the wheel beneath her, trying to connect to it and ground herself but it felt like with every passing moment she slipped further and further from her reality.
She sucked a tight breath in through gritted teeth, exhaled through flared nostrils and repeated, feeling the sensation of her breath tickling her lip. Her eyes closed softly as she reeled herself in, trying to focus on the soft thrum of her own heartbeat as a reassurance that she was safe and well. She was alive and kicking, she wasn’t still buried however many feet down. She had survived.
“Stars shining bright above you—” She began, her words a nearly silent whisper of something, anything else to focus on.
It all felt like a memory that was distant enough for to it not be constant, but close enough to not quite be out of her awareness and she’d made strides for herself in the time since. She had tried to convince herself to be thankful for every passing day even if maybe her survival had all just been some fluke of outrageous luck.
“Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’.” She continued, her words occasionally broken by a soft hiccup or deep breath.
But today she had seen her fate, if not for Tim or for the others. She had seen the woman’s bloodied fingertips as she had fought for her life and the thought passed her mind of what would it have been like to not have survived and instead died? Would any part of it be any different, except instead of waking in Tim’s arms, just—nothing else. She recalled the way her fingers wrapped around her neck, at his collar and at the material of his shirt, then how he had pulled her in closer and he had covered her face with her hand and sobbed into his chest. She wasn’t unfamiliar with his touch, but it had felt different then and it had felt more desperate. Like she had held on to him for her life and feared that if his grasp loosened she would slip away.
“Birds singing in the sycamore tree.”
Her fingers moved from the steering wheel, taking her wrists in her hands and feeling at them. The scars for the most part had faded, aside from the odd wound on her right wrist that seemed especially stubborn even despite her rubbing coconut oil into it every day. Her wristwatch covered it at work, but in the privacy of her home, when she was alone it was her own personal burden… and now. She felt all the more aware of it now; the burning tightness of the zip ties and the duct tape that when she had struggled had only tightened and that guttural fear of death and dying.
Lucy let out a sharp gasp as she was dragged back to full situational awareness by the sound of Tim knocking once on the window of the passenger seat and opening the door to sit beside her. At first he said nothing, just sitting side-by-side in silence as she took short, sharp breaths. Just like when he’d found her, she wanted to hide her face against him; she didn’t want the world to see her like this. She felt vulnerable and exposed.
She looked down, placing her hands in her lap, still fussing with her wrists. It was like the invisible ties were wrapped around them again, restraining her. He cast his eyes over her, with a restrained breath. Watching the way she wrung her fingers together and her soft features marred with pain and fear. He wanted to wrap her up and carry her away from that fear. She didn’t need him to, but he wanted to.
Tim didn’t truly realise it until he was sat beside her with his arm brushing against her own, just how completely alive she made him feel. He wanted to spend every moment he could with her. He wanted to learn everything about herself that she would tell him. He wanted to hold her close and never let go, to feel the sensation of her flesh against his and to run his hand through her hair. He wanted everything she would give to him and if she needed him to, he would shield her with his own body.
God only knows, if she asked him to lay down in front of a train for her, he would.
“Have you come to tell me off for walking away from a crime scene?” She finally asked, childishly, still looking down at her hands. Her words caught slightly on the ragged breaths she took, he saw the subtle shine of her eyes as tears threatened to spill.
“Do you want me to tell you off?” He asked after a long pause. He angled his body to face her slightly more directly, restricted slightly by the space of the car. He watched her fingers part quickly, so she could wipe a stray tear just as quickly as it fell. She sucked in another sharp breath, pressing her hand against her face, trying to conceal herself. Carefully he moved a single hand to rest over hers in her lap, intertwining their fingers as she took another long, shaky breath. He could hear how hard she tried to control her breathing, even as her body fought back reflexively.
He gave her hand a gentle and reassuring squeeze, watching as she would part her lips and then close them again, trying to look for the words to say while all words failed her. “That should’ve been me.” She told him. She was angry, she was frustrated and her heart was aching. Did it make her a bad person for still being alive when others were not so fortunate? Was she wasting these extra days she had been given? How was she supposed to know if he was properly using her life? Tim exhaled softly, maintaining his sturdy reserve if only for her.
“You have every right to be alive. You don’t owe anyone anything, Boot. You hear me?” She nodded, scrunching her eyes closed for a moment. He didn’t hesitate or pull away as her grasp on his hand tightened slightly as she breathed in again. “Sing to me. The first thing that comes to mind; don’t go getting all shy on me, I know you’ve got a killer voice.”
She smiled softly, bashful under his gaze. “I don’t know what to sing. I can’t think.”
“You can; just think.” He told her, watching her exhale deeply again, pursing her lips to blow the breath away.
“It feels like everything is closing in on me. I feel trapped.” She told him, he gave her hand another soft squeeze.
“Lucy, think.” She scrunched her eyes shut.
“It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in—” She began. Inhaling sharply. “There’s an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin.” Even as her words shuddered between hiccupped sobs as she worked her way through, he couldn’t pull his eyes from her. He could listen to her sing anything, even the jingle of an infomercial. Sometimes she would stop him in his tracks, she would be alone in the break room stirring a cup of coffee and she would sing or hum and he would be caught in the moment. He would always deny it. Once they’d even gone to karaoke together, she’d dragged him to the stage with tequila creating a fire in her belly for a duet.
“Good, you’re doing really great.” He told her, taking his free hand to gentle rub small circles at the nape of her neck. Her voice broke slightly and she halted abruptly, trying to take a moment to reel herself back in, he kept going for her. “You’ve got this.” He soothed her, until he breathing finally steadied and she eased her vice-like grip of his hand, until her fingers were instead just wrapped around his.
“I’m okay.” She exhaled softly. “I’m alright.”
“You’re going to be just fine.”