A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for clicking. Posting earlier than planned because I'll be unavailable this weekend. Anyway, I know crime fanfiction is not everyone's cup of tea, but I couldn't resist. If you're not a fan of romance mixed in with mystery/thriller this might not be your type of fic. Also, please note that this fic is rated 'M' for sexual situations but also for violent content. Just wanted to mention in case anyone is uncomfortable with that (totally understandable). Otherwise, this should be 10 chapters and will have pretty headstrong versions of our lovelies.

First chapter is Richonne light, but I promise that's only for set up. Please enjoy!

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

ONE – Seven Months Since

Saturday, March 30th, 5:19 P.M.

The doorbell rang.

The TV went on mute, his skeletal fingers combed his blonde strands, and he rose to full height off the sofa. Bingo was at his feet, curled into a fur ball, too busy in his napping to bark out of protection.

The doorbell chimed again. Its melody trilled through the otherwise empty house.

Craftsman-style. Five bedrooms. Four and a half baths. Pool and grand deck. The sort of dream house featured in home living magazines. Complete only with a family wearing happy, shit-eating grins on the cover.

They'd been that family. Once. That family the others on the block looked to and rolled their eyes. Maybe mock-gagged. Then somewhere along the credit card debt and liquor bottles and two babies, everything went to hell in a handbasket. And he was home alone, left with nobody but his two best friends: his dog and Jameson.

He opened the door in the nick of time. Before the doorbell could pester with a third ring.

"You're late," he said.

"Traffic," the woman on the stoop replied. She was as beautiful, as alluring as ever. He'd never seen her without her pouty lips curled into a saccharine smile. He supposed she wouldn't get far without it. She stepped forward and he stepped back, out of the way on his long, unsteady legs. Her smile spread. She untwirled her high-bun and her long, dark locks fell along her shoulders. Her trench coat followed.

He swallowed hard, tried to play it casual as his reddened eyes lowered.

"C'mon," she cooed. She took his hand to lure him. "Let's have some fun."

She knew the way. He followed obedient-like, as a dog would. As Bingo would. Enroute, even in his whiskey stupor, he grabbed the photo frame on the mantle and put it facedown. His boys' watchful gazes were too much. Even for him.

In the bedroom, stripped of his modest button down and slacks, he relaxed on the California King. He was on his stomach as she straddled him. Her hands were knowing in their sensual yet firm kneads over his spine. She took away the tension from every muscle. It felt like he liquified under her expertise. His toes flexed as he realized it was only the beginning.

He rolled onto his back. She was still smiling. She crawled up along his lengthy body and took his big, clumsy hand in hers. Her mouth was hot and wet on his finger. He'd grown bigger, harder with his eyes on hers. Next were the cuffs. She attached them gingerly, slowly returning her lips to his flesh. His lids fluttered, indecisive whether to stay open or close.

When opened, the whips and wax stared at him out the corner of his eye. He shuddered. She straddled him again and he noticed only then a blindfold in her hands. She moved to drape it across, to commence total darkness on him, but he flinched in response.

"You're not scared, are you?" she asked softly. She eased his nerves with more kisses to the chest. "I promise we'll go slow—like last time. I do anything you don't like, you know the safe word. This is your experience."

He needed no further convincing. His body laxed again, loose enough he almost felt weightless. She made good on her word. There were levels. The teasing started off vanilla. She used her mouth and her hands, and denied him release as he strained not to bust. The wax was warm then hot, but not scalding. Instead a burning pinch on his flesh.

Darkness only to be seen, leather pressed into the sides of his neck. Leather fastened as there came a pressure applied to his esophagus. He went to clutch his throat, but the binds held him in place by the arms and legs. The pressure only increased. Fast, way too fast…

"Hey…hold on…" he coughed. "You said—"

"—shhh," she hushed. "It's okay. Relax."

Tighter.

"Jello," he choked. Air came in sputters. "JELLO!"

"Baby, you have to trust me."

Tighter again.

He struggled. His body lurched to throw her off, but her thighs were stronger than he thought. Or maybe he was weaker. The leather cut into him. Speech failed him. Air too. He could hear his own desperate gasps. The only sound in the room.

Still tighter.

No one was coming. Not even Bingo. And she wasn't stopping. She…tighter…tighter…

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"CARL!" Rick Grimes stood at the foot of the staircase, hands on his waist. "Carl, c'mon or we're gonna be late—if it's the bowtie, I'll help you. C'mon down!"

A second later, Carl came zipping down the spindled staircase in a blur. He stopped on a dime on the bottom step, armlength to his father. Rick fixed his son's blue-and-yellow plaid bow, but not without a head shake and sigh first.

"I can do it myself, you know," said Carl. "I'm about to be—"

"—eleven in a week, yeah, yeah. I know. How do you explain being late when I told you to be downstairs at 8 sharp?" he asked. "The age thing only works if you're gonna be more responsible, Carl."

The boy huffed and rolled his eyes only when his father turned his back.

"Don't roll your eyes at me," said Rick on his walk to the door.

"How did you—?"

"—never mind, we gotta go, or we really are gonna be late. You know how parking is," said Rick. He pulled the door open and ushered his son out into the nippy spring morning. Before he locked the door for good, he ticked off his mental to-do list.

Wallet? Check. Car keys. Check? Carl awake and dressed earlier than 9 A.M.? Check and check.

He grinned, proud of himself. The past seven months hadn't been easy. He'd depended on his ex-wife for so long for these sort of things. The sort of things that kept him in line. Without her, the household stopped running like clockwork, and he hated to admit he still missed life when it did.

In the car, he glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted the Peletiers piling into their sedan. Their dress was as prim and proper as his and Carl's. Ed caught wind of his mirrored stare and he threw him a long glare before he got behind the wheel. Rick bit back aggravation and turned the key in the ignition.

"I don't even think mom cares if we go, you know," said Carl.

They were a couple blocks away from church. The traffic picked up. Carl glared out the window in a pout.

"It doesn't matter. It's…it's tradition."

"For everyone. It's just me and you now."

"Well, guess what? The four of us ain't here right now. Right now, it's just the two of us, and you're gonna have to deal," said Rick sternly. He was hell bent on sticking to his guns 'til the next red light snagged them and guilt trickled in. He glanced at his son. "Look, Carl, I know it's hard. It's not easy on any of us, but our family…the dynamic's changed. That's all."

"Dy…namic?"

"It means…the way our family's gonna work from here on out."

"So, they're never coming back?" he asked.

It wasn't the first time. In fact, he seemed to ask the question at least weekly over the past seven months. Nine if the separation period counted. Rick suspected his son hoped if he asked the question enough the answer would change, as if he'd pester him into submission. Then he'd call her up and let her know it was time to be together again, and everything would be hunky dory. If only it were that easy.

Amid the mourning of his marriage's demise he'd resigned himself to focusing on his relationship with Carl. The long hours and tireless shifts he pulled with the Alexandria Police Department meant he rarely had a chance to spend quality time with his eldest. That was his hope most Sundays, his only real day off. He'd already made plans for hotdogs and catch in the park after the Service, though the 10-year-old had little clue.

The church parking lot offered no vacant spaces up for grabs. Rick circled what came to be three times to no avail. It was on attempt four that he snagged a spot, cutting off a bronze sedan he later recognized as Ed Peletier's.

On the steps leading inside, charity organizer Angela Cane and motherly Mary Hunter greeted them on their way in. The bland-looking horn-rimmed glasses blonde handed them a charity leaflet while Mary fawned over Carl with a gracious smile and kind words. She always loved to boast about how well-mannered, smart and cute as a button he was. Her exact words.

After her compliments finally came to an end, Rick steered Carl to one of the backrows. They took their seats on the pew next to Morgan Jones and his family. Morgan gave him a polite nod he returned.

There wasn't a free seat in the place. What was breezy, almost shiver-inducing outdoors, came to be stuffy and warm inside. Father Gabriel started his sermon, and Rick made it five minutes before he started tugging at his collar to loosen his tie. He should've known better, as Carl was too impressionable. He saw him messing up his tie, and the 10-year-old started to do the same to his.

"Carl," Rick mumbled.

"What? You're doing it," Carl answered in a whisper. "It's hot in here. Can we open a window?"

"Shhh!"

Carol Peletier held her finger to her mouth as she looked at him over her shoulder. Carl's freckled face twisted into a scowl, though he said nothing else. Rick's gaze lifted off his son and went to return to the stage, where Father Gabriel preached, but he stopped as he realized Ed had turned with his wife. He shot Rick another glare then slowly straightened in his seat again. Rick couldn't resist staring at the back of the man's head. He may or may not have thought about introducing his fist to his face…

He pushed the thought from his mind. No matter how he felt about the lowlife, it was neither the time nor place to think about finally making the bastard pay. He chastised himself yet again for the bad word then focused on the sermon.

But it was so damn hot in that room. It was a distraction. His concentration waned as his blue eyes instead flittered over the many pews leading up to the stage. There was a good percentage of Alexandria in attendance.

Mary Hunter sat front row and center with her sons Gareth and Alex. She hung on Father G's every word. On the other side, also front row, sat Juan Morales and his brood. They filled up an entire bench. A couple pews back was Rosita Espinosa and whatever boy toy she'd hauled with her. Something Monroe? Scott? Sean? Skip? It was hard to keep track. His gaze leveled to the row opposite him and Carl, to the Anderson's. Part of them, anyway. Jessie and her two sons had arrived seconds before the service began. He failed to notice he'd watched the three for longer than the others until the Father recalled his attention.

"Let us pray," said Father Gabriel loudly.

Heads bowed by the row like a tide rippling across the ocean.

Rick followed suit, though it was more of a half-bow, half-eyes open compromise.

The prayer was a long one. He could see beads of sweat gathered on Ed Peletier's sausage neck. His own fingers came to his tie again. He was yanking and tugging on it harder than ever when the church doors burst open. Heads snapped, again as a sweeping wave front to back, to the doorway. Ms. Niedermeyer spilled inside and collapsed to the ground. She was in hysterics.

Several people gasped. Some rose out their seats. Eyes widened. Rick was one of the few who moved to check on her. He knelt by her side, Morgan Jones on her left, and together the two helped her stand. Tears streamed down her sallow pink face, framed by bushy gray hairs.

"Barbara, breathe," Morgan Jones said calmly. "Barbara…please, calm down. Please breathe."

"What's going on?" Rick asked. His tone was the same he used to question perps.

"It's…it's…" she gulped and wailed. Her shaky hands covered her mouth. "It's P-Pete Anderson."

"Pete Anderson," repeated Rick. His eyes immediately shot to Jessie, mere feet away. "What about hi—?"

"—he's gone!" she shrieked. She started to crumple again despite their grip on her arms. Her legs hung limply, curled like cooked noodles. She said in another breathless gasp, "he's dead!"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Patrick Grant.

That was the name of the male barista making her large coffee.

Michonne Masson knew because she stared. She eyed his crooked nametag with an itch she desperately wanted to scratch. She wondered if the undergrad student would mind if she crept behind the counter and quickly righted the tag. Maybe he didn't know it hung completely off-center…

"Large black coffee for Michellea?"

She blinked. She said, slowly as she questioned her hearing, "do you mean Michonne?"

The 20ish-year-old's face looked like a ripe tomato as he checked the styrofoam cup. He stammered, "oh…I mean…yeah…sorry…I thought—"

"—don't bother apologizing," said Michonne. She exchanged a five for the coffee. "Just…fix your nametag, okay? It's crooked."

Lanky Patrick Grant gaped after her as she turned and walked out the small coffee shop. On the busy street outside she crossed the sidewalk for the idled D.C.P.D. ride sat against the curb. Her knuckles racked the passenger window as she walked around to the driver side.

The dozing man inside jumped. His eyes were bleary in his blinks against the pale morning sun.

"You've gotta stop doing that," she said, slamming the driver's door shut. "You're supposed to be listening to the radios."

"It was a long night last night."

"Newsflash: we all have long nights. You think you're special?"

"We?" Mike Whitlow sat up straighter and he had one of his dimpled grins on his deep brown face. "Since when do you have late nights?"

She kept her shades on as she started up the SUV, but she did share in his grin. She said, "shut up."

He tossed his head back in a laugh.

"Being a single mom counts. Fevers, science projects, school plays," she said. "You think I'm ever off the clock? If Andre yaks up dinner at 1 A.M., guess who's having a late night?"

"I'm gonna take it easy on you and give you a pity win," he said. "We'll count it."

"Damn straight we will. It's not tequila shots and twerking in some sweaty club, but it's something."

"When was the last time you were twerking, taking tequila shots in some sweaty club?"

Michonne considered herself a consummate professional when it came to keeping her cool under most situations, to include flirtation with a brawny, beefy, sexy coworker. Her profession sort of called for it. Even so, staying composed under Mike's teasing stare was hard work. It required more effort than she liked as she kept her eyes on the congested D.C. streets.

Mike wasn't one to let up, though. He pressed, pushing her buttons. He said, "you know we gotta go out sometime, right? You don't even have to tell me the last time you had a night out. It's been too long."

True.

"You need some excitement."

Also true.

She scoffed, spinning the wheel as the large SUV bullied itself through traffic. "I get enough excitement on the job. I have a 7-year-old to think about."

"Ever heard of sitters?"

"If it's not his daddy or his grannies, Dre's not a fan."

"Sooo…next time one of them has him, how about it?"

Her expression gave little away, though she wanted to mention it just so happened Andre would be spending the next seven days with his grandma for spring break. She managed to avoid divulging that piece of information, thankfully, as instead the radio tacked onto their dash went off.

"Turn it up!" she told him.

A static-altered voice called a 10-35, requesting any available units to report to East Potomac Park for crowd control. Michonne's heart rate climbed in a fit of exhilaration as she exchanged a knowing glance with Mike. She stepped on the gas and put into play her road rage fueled driving skills. If the SUV had bullied its way down the heavily trafficked streets earlier, it bulldozed anything in its path as the navy-blue monster hauled ass across the city.

In no time, arrival marked by screeching tires, they pulled up on the scene. Michonne's coffee sat forgotten in the cup holder as she slammed the door shut and surveyed the chaos. Mike had taken to fumbling with the seatbelt, falling behind his partner by a few seconds. She hardly noticed, off before she even checked if he were by her side.

There were dozens gathered at the scene, pushing, shoving, craning their necks to get a better look beyond the person in front of them. Michonne slipped between them, maneuvering herself adeptly until she made it to the cordoning tape, and she flashed her shield to the first uniform she set eyes on.

She'd made it a couple steps past the tape and toward the banks of the Tidal Basin when she remembered her partner. His long strides meant he caught up to her in no time, falling into step beside her. One glance to him told her he wasn't offended she'd marched on without him. He knew her well-enough to know she was like a dog with a new chew toy on the scene of a homicide.

Spring meant the cherry blossoms surrounding the manmade island were in full, beautiful effect. The pretty flowers hung from the trees and, when freed, floated lightly in the breeze. Nature's whimsical pink décor seemed to serve as a strange contrast to the grim crime scene which awaited them.

Detectives Sasha Williams and Aaron Page were ready for them as they edged up on the bank. The extra petite, curly-haired one of the two wasted no time with pleasantries before she launched into explanation.

"Deanna and Reginald Monroe," said Sasha. "Both dead. Both found this morning. Deanna's body turned up floating in the basin with a briefcase—didn't drown, though. Shot in the chest then she either fell in or was pushed in. Verdict's still out."

"And her man?" Mike jutted his chin out to the Reginald's body fifteen feet off. He was on his back in a pool of blood thickened in the grass.

"He was stabbed. Everywhere," cut in Aaron. "A lot."

"Seems like a much more personal death than his wife," said Michonne. "What about the briefcase?"

"Cash," said Sasha.

"How much?"

"A lot," Aaron repeated.

"Stacks on stacks—sounds like a bribe gone wrong," Mike said.

"Alright, so a judge turned amateur politician is stabbed—a lot," Michonne said, shooting a pointed glance to Aaron. "His wife is shot. All on the bank of the Jefferson Memorial."

"Not so fast, guys. That's not all. It gets better," said Sasha. A smirk tiptoed onto her heart-shaped face as she stepped over to the nearest cherry blossom tree. There was a knife stuck into the bark, holding up a 80 by 60 mm…

"Tarot card," said Michonne, entranced by the sight. She had her gloves slipped on and the card in her hands in another second. Mike was over her shoulder. "Vic number 3," Michonne said. She turned the card over to find confirmation, a number three messily written in red ink. "Greed."

"Yep, and he's getting bolder. Left the knife at the scene," said Mike.

"He's definitely got guts," confirmed Sasha. She jabbed a finger to her chest then motioned to Aaron. "We know the Sins guy is yours, but we're here for whatever backup you need."

Michonne eyed the custom tarot card for another couple seconds, expression grave as she took in the confounding trademark. While the imagery differed, the card resembled the ones before it. The artistic flair was the same with its lightly sketched and shaded cartoon animal. Only this time it was of a toad toing the line between a pond and dry land.

"Who called it in?" Michonne asked finally.

"A jogger who was crossing through the park. Name's Kal Chen," said Aaron.

"We already took his statement down. He's standing by if you have any more questions."

Mike's cell rang and he excused himself from the others, putting distance between them and the dead bodies.

As always, Michonne went on without him, saying, "I do, but after I speak with Porter. We need to run the knife and card for prints. Where is he?"

"You'll find him right over by the those squad cars if you squint your eyes and search for the helmet hair," said Aaron. He turned and pointed into the distance, picking out the medical examiner with his windbreaker jacket and signature mullet.

Michonne's feet moved forth, but she stopped when she noticed Mike was off the phone. His cell was loose in his grasp, face flatter and dimmer than usual. Her brows quirked together as she knew better and waited for the other shoe to drop.

"What is it?" Sasha asked.

"Deanna and Reginald Monroe are number 3," he said. "But looks like number 4 wasn't too far behind."

"Where?"

"Alexandria. Grey wants us to reach out to their squad as soon as we're done here," said Mike.

Michonne heard him, but the words still echoed inside her head. Her training came in handy again, as ever, allowing her to keep her face vague and sharp with concentration. Inside, though, was another story. Her stomach was on the fast track to bottoming out. She inhaled and caught the eye of her partner. In her leveled voice, she said, "looks like we have a bigger pile of shit to sort through than we thought. Let's get to work."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Pete Anderson was found naked, splayed out on the California King in the master bedroom of his home. There was a belt tied around his neck, fastened so tightly it left deep red ligature marks on either side. Candles melted in gobs of wax throughout the room while other devices of sexual gratification were strewn about the French-crafted furnishings.

It was puzzling.

Rick and his partner Tyrese Williams were first on the scene. They entered the quiet home cautiously, under the pretenses of Ms. Neidermeyer's earlier warning. He observed the interior on the walk toward the bedroom and his muscles clenched as he suspected the more 'normal' every other room appeared, the grislier the murder scene would likely be. His suspicions were right, as the two men were greeted by the blended stench of sex and death in the master bedroom.

"This guy was into some freaky shit," were the first words out of Tyrese's mouth. He rolled on a latex glove then picked up a nine tail whip, eyeing it with utter shock. "Never woulda guessed looking at him. Those khakis he wore? C'mon."

Rick cracked a grin his way but said nothing as he closed in on the bed. While he and Ty weren't exactly the most well-matched partners, both too impulsive and quick-tempered to offset each other, the one thing he appreciated about him was his humor. Rick's old partner, Dale Horvath, had been a stick in the mud, ready to call up internal affairs at the slightest offense.

At the bed, his blue eyes zeroed in on Peter's neck, lowering to his chest to take in the slight splotches from what he guessed was hot wax. His gaze went right next, along the far-reaching arm-span of the gangly dead man. Crushed in his skeletal fingers was a card. Rick's head slanted as he stepped even closer.

"What is it?" Ty asked from the armchair, where he picked up a ball gag of some sort.

"Card." Rick outstretched his gloved hand to the card. His lined brow only deepened.

"What sorta card?" his partner's rumbled voice questioned.

"Looks like a…I dunno…some sorta tarot card?" Rick said. He must've stood there for sixty seconds scrutinizing the cartoonish feline licking herself.

"What's that?"

"I told you—a tarot card."

"Nah, I mean what's that on the back?"

Rick believed the scene couldn't get any stranger until he turned over the card and saw the number four in red and circled.

"Damn, this is big," Ty said slowly, looking spooked.

"What're you talking 'bout?"

"I heard about it on the news the other day—this killer leaving behind those cards," said Tyrese. "Some cold case from 20 years ago that's been reopened by D.C.P.D. First two victims were found with those cards. Musta been a third if that says four."

Rick hated to admit he wasn't big on the news lately. In his new role as divorced single father and full-time homicide detective, he didn't have as much time as he would've liked to peruse newspapers and channel surf to BBC and local news outlets. He barely had enough time to catch bad guys and ensure Carl was fed, clothed and in bed every night by 9 P.M. let alone enjoy much leisure time to himself.

"Lemme guess, ex-wife," Ty said.

"Well…yeah…"

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Was supposed to be today—she cancelled."

"Another man?"

Rick tensed. Though it'd been seven months since, the thought of her with anyone else but him made his blood boil. The imagery awakened the most primal instincts inside of him, rearing the green-eyed monster he knew she hated.

"Anyway, you'll get used to it—or join the club. Since Karen left, it's pizza every night for dinner," his partner chuckled.

Rick wanted to laugh, but he couldn't bring himself to. Tyrese's prediction of the future seemed far too plausible for him to find much humor in his words. He redirected the conversation to the dead man at hand.

"Pete Anderson," said Rick in deep thought. "He's always been a porch dick."

"Never liked him—not after he was a such a damn sore loser on our bowling league," said Ty.

"There's that." Rick switched his sights from the customized card to the gangly, graying dead man just below him. "There's also that little thing. What was it? Yanno…him being an alcoholic wife beater..."

Sirens sounded outside as a backdrop, an alert their manpower had arrived.

"Obviously happened in the moment," said Ty. "You think he and Jessie Anderson had a lil' rough make up sex and—"

"—who knows?" Rick said. "But we're sure as hell gonna find out soon enough."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The Anderson home was like a hive brimming with honey, swarmed by bees in a hot second. The bees were neighbors, colleagues, family friends, and the local news station. Word about Pete Anderson's death had traveled through the wickets of Alexandria gossip from the moment Ms. Niedermeyer had collapsed onto the church's spotless carpet.

"Mind doing your job and keeping 'em at bay?" Rick barked to a rookie on his return walk into the house.

"Sorry, but Mrs. Hunter wouldn't stop asking questions," replied the young officer.

"Detective Grimes!" called a blonde with bright green eyes. From the opposite side of the tape, she walked briskly in step with him in her heels, uncaring if that meant stepping onto the Anderson lawn. "Andrea Harrison with Channel 7 News, do you want to comment on the grisly murder in the Anderson home? Have you apprehended the killer? Do you even have a suspect in mind at this point in time? What are your thoughts on the connection between this murder and the Sins kill—"

"—yeah, I gotta comment—keep shoving that mic in my face and it's going in the trash," Rick replied.

He was halfway up the front steps when another voice called out to him. The voice was acutely familiar after having spent an hour earlier that day listening to it.

Father Gabriel Stokes stood along with his charity organizer Angela Cane before he separated himself from the crowd and said, "Detective Grimes, I know it might be too forward to offer my services, but if you should ever find yourself disturbed by today's events and need a listening ear, I am always available."

Embroiled in the thick of a murder scene, Rick's gut reaction was to dismiss the serene man with a biting remark, but then he thought better of it. He exhaled and gave a half-assed nod as a reply.

Back inside the house, Rick moved across the living room to speak with Ty but he was accosted a third time in five minutes. A flurry of blonde hair blurred before his eyes as Jessie Anderson flung herself into his arms in a body-racking sob. His arms stayed at his sides, too caught off guard by the sudden onslaught of tears.

"He's dead!" she wailed brokenheartedly. Her tears soaked through his Sunday best, staining his dress shirt. She didn't seem to care as she shuddered again, her nails like claws as they dug into him. "He…he was an awful husband but-but he was a wonderful dad. Who's going to father Ron and Sam?"

Rick peeled the blonde off him and said, "Ms. Anderson, please calm down. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your marriage with Pete, but if you're too upset right now—we've also got our grief counselor outside—"

"—I still loved him!" she exclaimed shrilly. Face screwed up and so red he doubted she inhaled much oxygen, she collapsed against his chest a second time. "He hurt me with his cheating and abuse but…I…I loved him!"

Rick was on the verge of forcefully prying her off him again when he heard multiple pairs of feet make their way up the front steps. His eyes shot to the door and his jaw hardened at the sight.

"Afternoon, Detectives," said Sergeant Michonne Masson. She walked through the door in a confident stride, as if she were the true lead on the Anderson crime scene. Behind her two other men followed, a tall and beefy dark-skinned man and a round, pale man with a mullet. She led the charge across the living room with an expression that was hard to read, seemingly a blend between agitation and amusement as she witnessed a hysteric Jessie Anderson slung around him. Giving him a head shake, she said on passing, "are you done? I'd like a word."

Michonne offered him zero chance to reply before she stopped in front of Tyrese. Her eyes dipped to the Alexandria P.D. badge hung off his belt.

"You too," she said.

"Spoke to our Captain—he said y'all would be showing up," Ty said almost excitedly. His dark eyes flittered between Michonne and the two men she was with. "I'm Ty Williams and that's my partner Rick Grimes."

"Introductions aren't necessary," she dismissed. "We don't have time to waste. I'm guessing the body's in the bedroom?"

Michonne disappeared down the hallway leading into the bedroom. Mike Whitlow and Eugene Porter closely followed. Ty didn't fall in line. First, he appeared confused by the curt dismissal then crestfallen, and finally indignant. He thumbed in their wake, the hand gesture a perfect expression of the blow to his ego.

"Who the hell does D.C.P.D. think they are rolling up with attitude?" he grumbled. "Who does that chick think she is?"

Unsurprised but slightly amused by Ty's vexation, Rick gave him a pat on the shoulder before he joined the others in the bedroom. On his way, he said gruffly, "that's my ex-wife."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

A/N: Thank you for reading! I love hearing from you in a review. Chapter two we'll find out a little more about what's going on between Richonne and if they can separate their issues together from their work. It should be next weekend. :)