Joss Carter loathed cases like this.
She surveyed the kitchen, the small family room.
A child's artwork papered the refrigerator door. Action figures abandoned on the carpet.
A crooked wall hanging, an overturned chair. Dinner still on the table.
In the hallway, she bumped into a lanky figure. He caught her arm. Looked surprised to see her.
"Carter."
"John. What are you-" Carter stopped herself. Why did she even bother. Gave him a look.
He was scanning the main area just as she had, took a step back into the hallway when two other officers popped in the front door. The red and blue of the police lights flashed across the room.
He turned back to her, shadows accenting his face. A question.
"Neighbors called in a domestic disturbance."
"Thought you worked homicide, Joss."
"Her husband's connected to an earlier case of mine."
He didn't ask, stayed hovered in the hallway.
She eyed him. "And you?"
"Checking up on Monica."
Carter nodded slowly. She leaned her shoulder against the other wall. "You gonna tell me how you know about Monica Lewis?"
A half smile from Reese, a little less playful than usual. No.
"Didn't think so."
"Where is she?"
She sighed. "At the station again."
"Again," he repeated.
"Yeah, again. This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last. Every time she defends him, she just strengthens his story. One of these times..."
Carter trailed off.
It was a homicide in the making.
"She never presses charges." Carter didn't understand it, wouldn't pretend to. She shook her head.
Even when Paul-
Her mouth was pressed into a frown, but the expression turned more curious at his darkened profile. "You okay?"
"Fine." Agitated. He turned from her, studied the hallway. "You said the husband."
"Anthony Lewis," she responded absently.
Reese stared at a broken vase on the floor, fresh flowers with broken stems. Felt a twinge in his gut.
If a neighbor hadn't-
Voices from the other room.
"There was a boy-"
"-probably ran away-"
Reese looked back to her.
"Her son," Carter explained. "They didn't find him in the apartment."
A flicker on his face, she wasn't sure if it were a product of the lighting or real.
"He run away before?"
"No." She saw a glint of something as he turned, reached out to lift the corner of his suit jacket. The badge, clipped along his belt. "John."
Reese pulled away at the tone, the jacket falling back in place. A smile, unapologetic.
He slipped from the hallway, feeling Carter's eyes on him.
There was an angry buzz in his head. A hollow in his stomach.
He had missed it.
Checked the closet, under the bed. A toy trunk next to the window.
Wasting his time on Jeremy Collins.
Thought a minute, made his way back into the hallway.
He pushed the door open slowly, a slight squeak.
Voices were muffled in the other room.
The bathroom was small. Black and white hexagonal tiles, chipped in the corner. Toothpaste globs in the pedestal sink.
He waited.
Heard a soft hitched breath.
Squatted down, slowly pulling back the plastic shower curtain.
Brown eyes stared back at him. Wide and frightened.
"Hi," Reese whispered. "I'm a cop." He swallowed the lie as he rested on his heels. "Can you trust me?"
The boy couldn't have been more than five, legs pulled up to his chest, barefoot. Marvel superhero pajama pants.
Reese unclipped the badge from his belt, holding it in view. Kids liked badges.
The boy hesitated. A slow nod.
"My name is John."
There was a faint bruise on his upper arm, peeking out just slightly from the short sleeve of his white t-shirt. He unfolded his legs, cross-legged now. Looking small in the tub.
"What's your name?"
"Frankie." The boy had a soft scratchy voice.
"Let's find your mom, Frankie. Okay?"
Another slow nod, braver now.
Reese took him under the arms, easily lifting him from the tub.
Moving slowly, back in the hallway. He hesitated there, not moving into the main room. Cleared his throat.
She turned, mouth opening slightly. Then closing.
"Take him to his mom." Gently unfolding the skinny arms from around his neck, passing the child to Carter.
"John." She glanced in the direction of the voices.
"No CPS." The little boy's eyes were trained on him, he avoided them and stared at Carter.
She turned back, shook her head. "I can't-"
"Joss."
"John."
"They'll make it harder."
She held the stare.
"Fine," she finally muttered, shifting the child's weight on her hip. Shit.
She glanced at the commotion in the side room, strategizing her exit.
Turned back and swallowed another curse at the empty hallway.
In the back recesses of the Library, shadows branched between the stacks. The empty corridor of the abandoned reading room.
Finch reshelved a volume slowly. Running his fingers along worn spines as he settled the book back in place.
Reaching, just an inch too high, a shooting sensation made its way up his spine. He stiffened, holding the shelf in front of him, knuckles white.
It passed, mostly, and Finch moved forward again stiffly.
Another two volumes in the crook of his arm, he set them back in their respective places.
Slowly. Methodically.
Pausing as he passed the Special Collections shelf. It was evolving into a special collection of guns and ammunition. And grenades, it appeared.
Oh, Mr. Reese.
He shook his head.
A topic for some other day.
Back at his desk, Finch sat carefully. Back straight. He let his arms rest on the tabletop, clenched his fists.
Unclenched them, breathing out.
Breathing in.
He had brought a few volumes back from the stacks with him, he opened one absently. A finger tracing the text.
Staring at the blinking cursor in front of him. He closed the books, examined their bindings.
In light of the recent developments in Monica's case, receipt of a new number had been an almost welcome surprise.
It could afford them a certain division of labor.
He glanced back to the computer screen. Opened the com line.
"Mr. Reese."
A moment passed. Outside the window he heard the sound of tires running through puddles.
It must have rained.
"John?"
"Finch."
He could hear the distinctive background noise of a public place. The clinking of glassware.
Finch frowned. "Where are you?"
It wasn't his business, really. What Reese did outside the numbers.
He typed the digits with one hand, watched the lines fill in beneath them on the screen.
But it kind of was.
"Mr. Reese."
Reese was still silent on the other end.
"Nothing you can do tonight." Finch said it gently.
"I know," came the mild tone. The sound of an exhale. "It's late, Finch."
Finch wasn't sure if Reese meant it or was pushing petulance in return for the previous evening.
He let it go.
"And Harold? If you're still at your desk you owe about six stretching routines."
Finch felt a smile pull at his lips. "Good night, Mr. Reese."
He's in a pantry. The smell of cinnamon. Cloves and other spices.
He flinches at the thud. A shattering. His mother's muffled cry.
Reese shot up, gasping for breath. His fists were clenching the thin sheets.
He released the grip, shoved off the covering. Laying on the hard hotel bed, street noises drifting in the open window.
Heart pounding in his chest.
He sat up slowly. Let out a breath. Rubbed a hand down his face, feeling a slight spin.
Reese glanced at the digital display on the nightstand. Stared at the blank wall.
Two or three drinks hadn't been enough.