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I step into the parking lot and January sends her coldest regards. Makes me sink deeper into my jacket, chin tucked, my mouth already watering from the thought of having something warm to fill my lungs with.
Not many cars around. Only fools and the lonely linger at this hour, one and the same. Wonder which category I fit tonight. Maybe I could pretend I'm the outlier—the devoted archetype. But I know better than that; I know what running away looks like.
I can handle the nut jobs, whichever type. Give me the whole spectrum and I swear I won’t flinch, never look away. Fidelity, bravery, integrity.
But this one?
The case is nightmare fuel. My Jane Doe had met a gruesome end—body posed postmortem, clear signs of the depravity man could conjure. The file landed on my desk a couple of hours ago, passed up from local police. Sweet bureaucratic ladder. Not much that could help me in there, but God. The age. It all comes too fast. Whiplash. Suddenly I have the urge to look away, decompress, let the smoke do its magic. My hand trembles, and I don't want to look down for confirmations, but I know.
As soon as my back hits the concrete wall—tucked out of sight—I reach for the pack and pinch one cigarette between my fingers. The lighter clicks once under my thumb, twice, before the tip ignites and I can finally sink in, forget. It's a rush.
Shouldn't be doing this, a voice in the back of my head reminds me. You have no discipline.
And fuck if that isn't true. But some things are just too heavy to carry alone.
How long has it been, anyway? A year only? I've learned one thing, though. Well, two things. One: the universe loved its twisted, sick sense of humor. And two: if the assholes assigning cases could piss you off in any way they could, they would. No wonder they were throwing the rookies to the fucking sharks.
The sound of the emergency door opening catches my attention, and all my focus goes there. I don’t dare move. Someone steps into the light before veering left toward the edge of the parking lot, and their outline finally comes into focus. A man. Average height, surefooted. His shoulders are hunched against the night breeze, seems to be carrying something in his hand. He’s coming my way.
For a moment, I find myself wrapped around this new mystery. Who are you?
Born tired, maybe pushing late forties/early fifties. His face is razor-sharp, dressed in a furrowed expression that might be chronic, if I had to take a wild guess. There are plenty like him around here, which isn’t surprising. I could already be on the road to it. How do you even fix that? Is there a cure for cynicism that doesn’t include lying to oneself? A heart can only bleed so much, after all.
I don’t know why I do it. People-watching. Flâneur. Maybe it’s a subconscious craving for company that I can’t help. The stranger might fit the archetype.
He stops short of where I stand, acknowledges me with a quick glance—fuck, who else uses this spot?—and leans his entire frame into the wall, one hand buried in his pocket.
There’s something magnetic about him, and I find myself watching the way his features crease as he tastes the drink in his hand. Coffee, most likely. The one they serve here is okay, I guess. Not like I’m hard to please. Extrapolate that to everything.
I’m feeling braver than usual, so I test the waters.
“Cold?”
Man of the hour turns his head toward me, eyes narrowed as if trying to place my voice somewhere else. Makes something inside my chest tighten. What’s wrong?
“You could say that,” he says, and his voice is a rough baritone. It fits him.
I take one drag and the smoke vanishes as soon as it comes. If he doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine. Silence works. Besides, I’ve always been better at observing than engaging.
The jacket fits him like a glove, though his posture is slightly hunched. There’s a three-piece suit beneath that, which, okay. Bit overkill. My eyes drift to the hand around his coffee, catching the subtle twitch of his fingers—the lack of a ring. Wonder if he’s been married before. I quickly kill the thought.
Electricity gathers at the back of my throat and the conclusion comes naturally. There’s definitely an edge to him that warns you not to step too close, like a poisonous coating, vibrancy that serves as a forewarning. Yet every instinct tells me to take that step. Come closer, lean my way. And I do. That stupid urge would get me in trouble one of these days.
I lean sideways, shoulder brushing the rough texture of the wall as I reach for the pack and offer it to him. It seems like the right thing to do. Courteous.
“You want one?”
He glances at the cigarettes, then back up at me with a half-smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No thanks.” He gestures with the cup in his hand. “I gave those up years ago.”
I don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound too moronic. “Oh.”
He just hums.
There’s a pregnant pause before I speak again, because I can’t help but humiliate myself just a little more. “How did you do it?”
His strike is fast, instinctive. “Trying to quit?”
“...Maybe.”
He takes another sip of coffee. “Trade one addiction for another.”
Shit, if only it were that easy.
“Smart,” I murmur, though we both know that’s not how these things work. The cigarette is burning away too quickly for my liking. Shooting star. “I can barely get through a briefing without wanting one.”
He glances over and down, at the yellow letters on my jacket, before looking back at me. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
Is it that obvious?
“First year,” I say. He has a way to make me acutely aware of myself that I'm starting to dislike. “What about you?”
He actually laughs. It’s not exactly warm, but it sounds honest—which, fuck, it’s a hell of a lot better than the stony silence I was expecting from him. I suddenly find it addictive.
“Longer than you think,” he says quietly. “I don’t know about you, but most people who make it through their first year around here have to find something they can’t live without.”
I try to keep my voice light enough to mask the curiosity digging at me. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you picked coffee, right? Saves money on lighters.”
It’s easy to make him give me one of those half-smiles again, like he’s got some sixth sense that sees through every pretense and artifice I’m trying to put up. Exposed. The naked truth. It’s unfair. Makes me want to dismantle every wall he has up brick by brick until I find out what’s underneath. How many layers will I have to go through to get a peek?
Patience, I remind myself. I need to go slower, tread lightly around him. You don’t just walk into someone like this. You have to be invited. Like a startled animal.
At my pause, he nods toward the smoke. “You picked the right spot.”
See?
I realize I’ve gone through half a cigarette without even taking another puff. My fingers are cold, and all that’s left is the bitter taste of tar in my mouth. It’s not enough anymore. I need more. Oral fixation be damned. “Sometimes it feels better to be alone.”
His eyes seem to narrow slightly as he studies the way I said those words. I hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way. I’d rather be with him—this man, this stranger—than with my own demons. Jane Doe could wait just a bit longer.
“Funny thing.”
I gravitate towards his voice. “Mmh?”
“You don’t sound like a rookie.”
It’s an observation, I assume, although it sounds more like an accusation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t meet my gaze, keeps looking down. “Usually they come here wide-eyed. Eager to save the world.”
“I’m not most rookies.”
The bravado doesn’t quite reach my voice, because it’s pure bullshit. I feel greener than a fucking leaf.
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, close enough to amusement. I’ll take it. Then, without warning, he extends a hand halfway between us. It catches me by surprise.
“Alex Casey.”
Alex Casey? Like in the books?
My name sounds foreign coming from my own mouth, an invitation I’m not ready to extend yet. What is it about him that makes me want to keep the distance between us up, while at the same time wanting to bridge it? He isn’t exactly conventional, but I do find him handsome. Is that it, then? Can everything be boiled down to this lizard brain of ours?
I shake his hand, decisive, palm pressing against his calloused skin for a beat longer than necessary before I pull back to flick ash away from our feet. The heat from where his fingers touched lingers on me like a brand.
He gives me a sharp nod of acknowledgment. Doesn’t ask where I’m from or about any current cases. I don’t need bullshit platitudes, especially from someone I’ve just met five minutes ago. But again, he doesn’t seem to be the type to give them. Even better.
I’m the one to look away first, suddenly shy under the weight of his attention.
The edge of my nail picks at my thumb. I can feel him retreat into that role he plays so convincingly. Back to business; the warmth is gone. It’s a mask of professional detachment that leaves me adrift on this grim night. I don’t know what’s worse—to have him stare at me like he could read my fucking thoughts, or look through me as if I were a ghost.
What is it that you’re running from, Casey? Do you have your own demons? Would you tell me yours if I told you mine? A part of me realizes how arrogant it is to assume there’s anything for me to solve, and so I leave it be. We are strangers who happened to share a parking lot and some small talk. That’s all this is supposed to be.
I flick the spent cigarette aside without much thought and reach into the pack for another, hoping to keep my mouth busy. Without warning, Casey reaches over and takes one out. He stops halfway to his mouth when I catch his wrist, and I finally discover he’s very much real, very much warm, and very much human.
My voice is almost desperate. “What are you doing?”
He looks at me with an intensity I cannot describe. “One won’t kill me.”
What?
“But you said—”
“I’ll make an exception.”
He holds the cigarette loosely between his teeth, waiting for the flame. It makes me hesitate for a second, my hand hovering near the lighter in my pocket. I shouldn’t do it. I should remind him that he quit, tell him it’s bad for his heart. That’s what a good person would say.
Fuck. Am I a good person? Maybe I just want him to be here just a bit longer. Is that too selfish?
I flick the lighter open with one hand, bringing it up between us. The heat of it licks at the tips of my fingers but I don’t mind. All that exists is this. The way he glances down at me from the corner of his eye as he leans into the flame.
He draws deeply on the cigarette—closes his eyes for just a second as he slips back into the old habit—before exhaling a cloud of smoke up into the air.
“Thanks,” he mutters around the shape of it.
I should’ve played the fool. Let him take mine off my fingers, breathe the same smoke. Indirect kiss.
“About that case of yours,” he asks lowpitched, so casually it’s almost insulting.
The embarrassment makes a flush crawl up my neck. An open book, that’s what I am. “How did you know?”
“Just a hunch.”
Great. Classic trick. And I had to fall for it. Should I reply? “Mmh. Not many leads yet. I think it might be a bit too early to say.”
“Don’t expect any new ones tomorrow,” he says after a beat. His tone is flat but not unkind. “Girl in the woods?”
I stop rolling the cigarette between my fingers. “...Yeah.”
“I’ve seen your file on my desk.”
“You did?” I can’t help the hint of curiosity that creeps into my tone. Why was he looking at my file? “What about it caught your eye?”
If there are secrets behind the walls he’s built, I can only imagine how well-guarded they are. He doesn’t give me the satisfaction of an answer right away. “You remind me of someone.” A pause. “But you’re more cynical.”
There's a fondness in the line I can't pinpoint, so I just laugh and shake my head slightly at the irony. This little game is starting to grow teeth. “So what? I need more optimism? Less brooding?”
He takes another slow drag, looking at me through half-lidded eyes. “I’m saying you should try not to get too attached to this job. Trust me.”
The lopsided smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Something tells me you and the brass don’t exactly get along, Casey.”
“I don’t like politics. I don’t like people who care more about their career than the dead. But don’t tell the brass I told you.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I try to match his level of casual detachment, but fail miserably. Rookie mistake, he would say. “When did you decide this place was a dead end?”
Casey glances at the lit end of his cigarette, turning it over slowly between his thumb and forefinger.
“It didn’t happen overnight,” he says, almost to himself. “They don’t want you feeling too much. Makes you sloppy.”
“So is that what happened? You got too attached?”
“I’m an investigator, kid. You don’t do this job long enough without getting some skeletons in your closet.”
There it is. The teeth. Better be careful. Don’t look too closely or you won’t like what you see.
But that just makes the pull stronger. I’ve always liked a good mystery.
“I don’t mind skeletons,” I tell him. “As long as they aren’t mine.”
He scoffs, but the flicker of something behind the cynicism doesn’t escape me. Regret or exhaustion. It always boils down to those two. I want to reach out and touch his shoulder, just to see if he’d pull away, test the limits of his resolve. My heart is hammering against my ribs. It lives on the tips of my fingers.
“You should try interrogations,” he suggests. “You’ll be good at them.”
The butt of the cigarette is crushed beneath the sole of his polished shoe. He takes one last look around the lot, empty cup in hand, then turns back to me. For half a second, he lingers there. Close enough that if either of us moved an inch closer, we’d be touching.
“Good luck with your Jane Doe,” he offers softly, turning on his heel toward the emergency door. He doesn’t look back.
I watch him go until the heavy steel door clicks shut behind him.
My mind drifts somewhere foreign, to islands of distance, as I take another cigarette out of the pack. This one tastes far more bitter than the last. I feel like some part of me left with him, but—I don’t know. Maybe it’s all in my head, and all that it is is just loneliness. Two asocial souls killing time in the dark. Epiphanies don't fill the void or make me forget that poor girl sitting on a morgue slab with no name and no story.
Don't get attached. It echoes all around me. Who am I supposed to be, then? A stranger with no nation? No one’s son, no one’s daughter? I have to go back in there and pretend, deny myself of my humanity. How does he even manage to go on like that?
I don’t think I can keep that promise. I find him more addictive than the nicotine in my bloodstream. So I take a long drag, lean my head back against the cold wall, and close my eyes. I wait for him to come through those doors again, just in case I was wrong.