A/N: Super long chapter for you all this time! Thank you to WishfulThinker66 and lalez for reviewing, and to those who have faved/followed.
Enjoy! :)
Sometime around breakfast, Reagan snuck home to change. Her clothes hadn't started to smell, but after a two-hour nap in her desk chair, her blazer was wrinkled to the point of being unprofessional.
When she entered her house, the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes greeted her; it was the scent of love and comfort. Walking into the kitchen, she saw Lila and Matthew on barstools and Deacon turning off the stove.
"Mommy!" both children cried and slid off their seats to run over to her.
"Hi, babies!" she said, getting down on her knees and wrapping her arms around them.
Lila didn't want to let go. "I've missed you so much."
Reagan's heart panged in her chest. "I know. I've missed you, too."
"What about me?" Matthew asked, frowning.
Reagan smiled and acted playfully shocked. "Well of course I missed you, too!"
Matthew seemed appeased with this answer, revealing gaps in the baby teeth behind his wide grin.
As Reagan stood up, Deacon said, "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were going to be home. Otherwise I would have made you some pancakes."
She waved that off. "Don't worry about it. I hope you have coffee, though."
Deacon's dark eyes sparkled. "That I do have."
Behind her, the kids disappeared to get dressed for school. When Deacon moved to get her a travel mug, Reagan walked up behind him and slipped her arms around his rock-solid waist. He stopped for a moment and rested his hand on hers.
Loving the strength that he provided—in so many ways—she said quietly, "Thank you."
Deacon probably realized she wasn't just thanking him for the hot beverage, because he turned in her embrace so they could face each other, asking, "Are you okay?"
Those three words always carried so much weight. They had the power to crumble even the toughest guise.
Reagan felt her breath hitch and she blinked away the moisture that tried to seep into her eyes. "I don't know. I can't think about that right now."
Deacon's wounded expression made her regret saying anything other than, 'I'm fine,' but if she couldn't be honest with her own husband, then who could she be honest with?
With one hand, he cradled just under her jaw and swept his thumb over her cheek. After pressing a kiss to her forehead, he said, "I know this is not how you wanted to get promoted."
"I'm not even sure I wanted a promotion. I like working in the field. After this case, I'll be tied to a desk and running the whole department. I've never wanted that much responsibility. As crazy as it sounds, I kind of enjoy the grunt work—I'm responsible for myself and what I can bring to the table, and that's it."
Deacon was oddly quiet for a few seconds. His gaze didn't meet hers until he sighed and quirked his lips to the side—a smile that she knew was forced.
"I understand, baby. You'll have time to figure it out after this case."
She nodded, not liking the underlying tension that seemed to keep creeping up between them. Deacon had been acting a little off for the past...well...ever since the incident that claimed the life of their unborn child. In that case, she supposed she'd been acting a little off as well. To make matters worse, they'd barely had time to talk lately. Hell, she was lucky just to get a shower and few hours of shut eye at this point.
Knowing that she needed to stay focused on the case at hand, she touched Deacon's face and felt its bearded roughness beneath her palm. Looking directly into his eyes, she whispered, "I love you."
Deacon visibly relaxed in an instant, his gaze becoming tender. "I love you, too. So much." He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers. What began as urgent became fleeting as their kids ran into the room once more.
"Eww," Lila and Matthew said in unison.
The couple chuckled softly, Deacon's sweet breath ghosting over Reagan's lips. He had tasted like maple syrup and she didn't want to stop kissing him.
Unfortunately, they had other things they needed to do.
Deacon stepped away to finish packing the kids' lunches and Reagan filled her travel mug with coffee.
"I was thinking," Deacon began. "Work has been slow for me lately, and the chief said we need all-hands-on-deck for this case. How would you feel if I came to work with you today?"
Reagan took a sip of the dark roast and thought for a moment. While she wanted to have something of her own—to maintain what she had before this craziness—she understood that part of this new position was taking help when it was offered. Not to mention, the two of them had made a pretty good team back in the day.
She nodded. "Actually, yeah, that would be really nice. This case seems a bit outside of the norm; I could use another perspective."
Deacon smiled. "Great."
"I just need to change. I'll meet you guys outside in a few minutes?"
"Sounds good."
After dropping off Lila and Matthew at school, Deacon drove himself and Reagan to her precinct. He was thankful for this time with her. He desperately wanted to talk to her about her job, but this was not the time. Everything had blown up in her face and there wasn't much she could do about it. He didn't want to add insult to injury, especially when they were gifted this time together.
He reached across the center console and clasped her left hand where it sat in her lap, weaving their fingers together. Reagan looked over and gave him an easy smile. He thought back to the mornings he had picked her up from her beachfront house, back before they first got together. Her car had been in the shop and he'd driven them both to work until she got it back. They'd bonded and basically fallen in love over cups of coffee from his favorite café, a place that was unfortunately closed now.
Life had been so different back then. It seemed like forever ago. And yet, some things hadn't changed: He was still with the same team; Even after two kids, Reagan looked like she hadn't aged a day; and no matter what he told himself, he would always be afraid whenever she walked out the door, fearing it would be the last time he would see her alive.
He thought back to the early days of their marriage. They'd lived in Reagan's beach house for a couple of years. She had continued to work as a 'hopper' until her pregnancy. When he wasn't on call, they'd spent their evenings surfing, binging on TV shows, and making love.
It all was so much simpler back then.
Deacon squeezed Reagan's hand and glanced at her for a moment. "Do you remember the time I came home to our old house, and there was a strange man vacuuming our carpet?"
Reagan instantly laughed, and Deacon loved the sound, realizing he missed it.
"Yes! The vacuum salesman! I didn't think they still existed back then, but he was just so charming and wouldn't take no for an answer."
"So I come home to you watching some guy vacuum the living room..."
"And you're assuming I've taken in some kind of male concubine?"
They were both laughing now.
"Yeah, he was having a great time up until the point he tried to bribe you, and then I flashed my badge and told him to get out while I was still feeling generous," Deacon said.
Reagan shrugged. "At least I got to keep the fruit basket he brought with him."
"More bribery," Deacon quipped, and they exchanged an amused smile.
A few minutes later, they pulled into Reagan's parking spot at the precinct. They exited the car and made their way upstairs, to where Whitney had laid out an entirely new investigation board.
Everything about this case became all too real when Reagan saw each victim's photo lined up on the white board.
Whitney stood in front of the display, a chewed pen cap between his teeth.
"How many are there?" Reagan asked, stopping next to him.
Whitney looked over at her and Deacon for a second, and then refocused on the board. "Eighteen."
Reagan's stomach dropped. She'd known the number would be high but wanted to be wrong.
Next to her, Deacon braced his stance—feet hip-width apart and arms crossed. Reagan could tell he was settling in for the long haul.
"I'm still not 100 percent convinced it's a woman," Whitney said. "Dr. Sanderson may have found female DNA under Larry Meyer's fingernails, but there could be many different reasons for that. One example: maybe he was having an affair."
Reagan snorted. "That'd be rich, considering he was abusing his wife for having an affair when she wasn't."
"Or so she says," Whitney added.
"Oh come on, don't be like Cole."
Whitney gave her a fake smile. "It's not nice to speak ill of the dead."
"I won't sugarcoat it. I think he had something to do with his own demise. That press conference last night was a shitshow. He never should have said those things about Eva Meyer, especially after I told him that was the wrong direction to go with the case."
Whitney shrugged. "Maybe Eva Meyer is at the root of all of this."
"Did anything turn up yesterday when you went to that restaurant she had visited on the evening of the murder?"
"Blaze? No, not really. When I stopped in, the restaurant was closed to the public. I spoke to the manager, who let me review the CCTV footage from that night. None of Eva's friends left early."
Deacon finally spoke up. "Maybe they called or texted a spouse or boyfriend to go through with it?"
"It's hard to say. People are always on their phones now. I suppose we could check their cell records," said Whitney.
"Eva had different colored bruises, like some were old and some were new. It's possible someone suspected what was going on without her having to say anything—maybe a family member or co-worker?" Reagan suggested.
"I think we should rule out Blaze as a place of interest," Deacon said. "Maybe interview staff from that night and see the footage for ourselves."
Reagan nodded. "And Whitney, could you follow up on those cellphone records and do another interview with Eva Meyer?"
"Sure thing." He looked over at Reagan. "You still think it's a woman, don't you?"
Reagan admired his perceptiveness. "Actually, yeah, I do. Cole didn't have any defensive wounds. Speaking from personal experience, I don't think he thought too highly of women, so he wouldn't have seen the killer as a threat until it was too late."
Whitney said, "Well, I sure hope you're right, because we're grasping for straws at this point."
Reagan nodded in agreement. "We'll see you in a bit."
After Deacon and Reagan visited the manager of Blaze once more, collecting contact information for the staff and retaining a copy of the CCTV footage, they drove to see the top person on their list—Eva Meyer's waitress from that night.
Marla Stringer was the type of lady who had made a living from her job serving tables and never moved past it. Most servers in Los Angeles were aspiring actresses, singers or models, but Marla was a permanent part of the working class. Her salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a low ponytail and wrinkles edged every corner of her face. Her perceptive eyes watched Reagan extend a hand in greeting.
Returning the handshake, she asked, "My manager said you might be stopping by. What can I do for you?"
"Two nights ago, you served a table of women..." Reagan began.
"You're going to have to be more specific. I serve a lot of people."
Reagan held up a photo of Eva's table that was captured from the restaurant's security footage.
"Oh, yeah. That rowdy bunch. I remember them. Don't tell me something happened to that poor woman..."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh I caught one of them going on about her asshole of a husband; said he had been abusing her for years."
Reagan's attention perked and she could see the same expression of interest on Deacon's face. "I am aware of Mrs. Meyer's abuse. I'm actually here because her husband is the one who was killed."
"Oh! You must be talking about that Feminista person!"
"Who?" Deacon asked now.
"Feminista! I just saw it on the news—every station in fact."
"Ma'am, who is Feminista?" Reagan asked.
"That's what they're calling that female serial killer. For once I don't have to worry about that kind of thing. They said she's only killing men."
Reagan felt her phone vibrate in her pocket and took it out to glance at the message. It was from Whitney.
Someone leaked the case. Media is calling her "Feminista."
She let out a sigh and showed it to Deacon before stuffing the phone back in her pocket.
"Okay, let's back up, Ms. Stringer. The night you served Eva Meyer and her friends, did you tell anyone about what you heard? That she was being abused?"
Marla stared off for a moment. "No, I didn't have any reason to tell anyone—I live by myself."
"Okay—"
"No, wait! I said something about it to one of our bartenders."
"What did he have to say about it?" Deacon asked.
"Well, it's a 'she' for starters."
Reagan and Deacon exchanged a look.
"Go on," Reagan said to Marla.
"She seemed empathetic toward the woman. She's one of those extreme feminist types, loves going to protests and whatnot."
"What's this woman's name?"
"Audrey Winters. I've worked with her for a couple of years now. She tends to keep to herself, but she's a great listener and can be really passionate about certain things that interest her."
"I know this might be a stretch, but did you see her call anyone after you told her about Eva?"
Marla shook her head. "But now that you mention it, she did leave early—said it was a family emergency."
Back in Deacon's car, Reagan called Whitney.
"I need everything you can find on an Audrey Winters." She spelled it out for him and explained their findings from Ms. Stringer.
"You think she's good for it? I'd hate for her name to leak to the media and ruin an innocent person."
"Keep it between us for now. Run her name. David and I will be there soon."
As promised, they arrived at the precinct within fifteen minutes. When they got upstairs and approached Whitney's desk, he looked over his monitor with wide eyes.
"Find something?" she asked.
"Did I!" Whitney exclaimed, pointing at the screen. "Audrey Winters has been arrested multiple times for vandalism, threatening an officer, assault and battery... Listen to this: three years ago, she beat her boyfriend to a pulp because he made fun of Hillary Clinton's pantsuits."
Reagan scoffed. "Yikes." She glanced at the computer monitor to see Audrey's photo. The woman looked beautiful, especially considering it was a mug shot. She had a natural beauty, though, not the kind enhanced with products or surgery. Her straight brown hair had a healthy shine, and olive skin complemented her petite features. On the other hand, her eyes held a little bit of crazy.
"I also took the liberty of running Blaze against our victims' credit card records. Two of them have visited there in the last six months."
Deacon said, "And we can assume now that she's finding them second-hand as a bartender."
"It makes perfect sense," said Reagan. "Ladies come in and complain about their bosses, husbands, etc. As a woman, she lends a commiserating ear..."
Whitney nodded. "She must have a way to track their credit cards, or even just look them up on social media. A lot of people post their whole lives on there. All you need is a name and an approximate age, and you can find just about any address online."
"But she got impatient with this one," Deacon pointed out. "I mean, it was pretty risky of her to just leave work and go straight to her victim's house."
"You're right. Marla Stringer said Audrey hadn't done that before—leaving early. I think her time between kills is escalating. Like she can't hold her wad for as long..." Reagan said.
Whitney agreed. "To make matters worse, we only have two bodies, but 18 victims."
"I don't think we were supposed to find Larry Meyer," Reagan said. "When that happened, she killed Cole to send us a message."
"Well we need to send one right back," Whitney said, getting up from his desk.
Reagan could pick up what he was putting down. "Warrant?"
"On it!" he tossed over his shoulder as he headed down the hall and took out his cell phone.
Between the police chief and the mayor of Los Angeles, they had a warrant in-hand one hour later. Reagan and Whitney exited her unmarked SUV where it was parked behind Black Betty around the corner from Audrey Winters' house. Reagan popped the trunk and took off her blazer, replacing it with a bulletproof vest. She tied her long hair back with an elastic and watched Deacon circle the SWAT truck to meet her with the rest of his team.
"Hey, Cassie," Chris said, giving her a fist bump.
"Hey, guys," she said, smiling, and returned the gesture.
Deacon said to everyone, "All right, I'll take Reagan and Whitney in through the front, along with Street and Tan. Luca, Chris and Hondo cover the back. Winters' record shows a history of aggression so there's a good chance we'll be met with force, or she'll run. We need to be ready for anything." He looked at Reagan when he said, "I'll take point. Stay liquid, all right?"
Everyone agreed and got into a single-file line. They turned the corner and proceeded to Audrey Winters' house, which was quaint but starting to show signs of wear; Weeds had grown up in the yard and paint chipped from the blue shutters.
Luca, Chris and Hondo disappeared around the left side of the house as Deacon stepped to one side of the front door and waited for the okay.
"30-David in position," Hondo said through their earpieces.
Deacon glanced at Reagan again, his dark eyes focused. She nodded.
"AUDREY WINTERS, THIS IS THE LAPD! OPEN UP!" he said after knocking loudly with the side of his fist.
No answer.
On Deacon's signal, Street stepped up and used their battering ram on the door. It splintered around the knob and flew open. Deacon stepped in and Reagan followed behind him. The foyer smelled musty, like the windows hadn't been opened in a while, but generally their surroundings were stylish and orderly.
Deacon moved toward the living room and waited. "Gimme two."
Street tapped Deacon's shoulder and they all went on into the living room.
Deacon announced that the room was clear, so Reagan moved forward, standing to the side of the closed door that blocked their path. She looked to Street and nodded, indicating that he could open the door.
A deafening blast ripped through the air, and Reagan found herself on her back, staring up at a cracked and water-stained ceiling.
Everything seemed to come to a stand-still. She couldn't feel or hear anything.
And then it all came rushing back in painful and roaring clarity.
"Cassie!" Street and Whitney hollered, the latter's face appearing out of her left peripheral as Street carefully moved forward to clear the area in question.
Then Deacon was on her right. "Reagan!"
She took short, panting breaths. "...David...I can't breathe."
"Okay," he said, unable to hide the fear in his voice, "we need to get this vest off you."
Reagan shook her head and closed her eyes. "It hurts."
"I know, baby, but we need to see if the slug penetrated your vest."
As Whitney and Deacon each unstrapped a side of her bulletproof vest and carefully slipped it off, she managed to ask, "What happened?"
"Boobytrap," Street said, coming back into the room. "20-gauge set-up on the other side of the door." He glanced over his shoulder. "It was mounted off to the side, like they knew a police officer would be lined up with it and not directly in front."
Beyond the ringing in her ears, she could just make out the rest of the team announcing that the remainder of the house was clear.
Deacon lifted her shirt and skirted his fingers over her torso. She could feel the warmth of his calloused hands against her skin and welcomed it as shivers overtook her body.
"It didn't go through, thank God." He touched a spot that hurt, and she cried out. He apologized. "You've definitely got some broken ribs, though."
Hondo and rest of the team appeared on either side of her, behind the others. "A bus is on the way," he stated. "How're you doing, Cassie?"
She relayed the same short bits of information, but Deacon interjected when it became too hard for her to speak.
Before she knew it, a uniformed, middle-aged man was there, prepped with a stretcher. He introduced himself as Matt. Another paramedic tried to help load her onto it, but she was starting to come around.
"No. No, I can walk. It's okay."
They helped ease her up and out to the ambulance, where they treated her with painkillers and an ice-pack—the only things they could do with this type of injury.
After some time, she noticed the absence of Deacon and the other team members. Hicks probably needed to be briefed, and Reagan felt bad about the amount of paperwork this would create.
They were so close.
Audrey had definitely been here. She was a tricky one. The mounted shotgun had been unexpected—to say the least—but it was clear she wasn't residing at this location. Who knew how long that trap had been set up.
No, Audrey was taking care of business somewhere else. Now they just needed to figure out where.
As Reagan readjusted her shirt and tucked it in, she saw Deacon walking over to her with purpose. A fire in his eyes, that previously hadn't been there, made her stomach turn with uneasiness. She hadn't seen him this mad in ages—she feared for the person who would be on the receiving end of it.
"You okay?" he asked, but his words weren't kind like they had been that morning. It was as if he was asking out of obligation.
Frowning, she nodded.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Reagan glanced at Matt, the paramedic, and he said she was free to go.
They walked around one corner of the house and Deacon came to stop, turning to face her.
"I can't do this anymore."
The dip in her gut at his declaration ran so deep that it made her wince. "What do you mean?"
"I'm sick of this, Reagan. How many times do you have to have your life put in danger for you to say it's enough?"
"This is my job, David. You, out of all people, know what it entails."
"I do. But this is not the same. Not when you endanger more than just yourself."
Reagan's brow lifted. "Are you really going there?"
He gestured to her stomach. "What if you had been pregnant?"
"But I know that I'm not. We haven't been trying."
"That didn't matter last time!"
Ice crept into her veins. She wanted to feel hurt, but she was just too mad. "I already know that was my fault. I don't need you to throw it in my face! I think about that baby every damn day."
"And yet, here we are. Not much has changed. If anything, it's gotten worse. What am I supposed to tell Lila and Matthew when Mommy doesn't come home for good? That, at the end of the day, their mom chose her job over them?"
Reagan scoffed out a breath in disbelief. "How dare you! After all these years, how can you say that? How many nights have I sat up with them, telling our children that their father was at work, risking his life for strangers, knowing he might not make it home?"
"I've been doing this a lot longer than you; I've trained for it."
"As have I! What's your point?"
Deacon pointed a finger at the house. "I told you I was taking point. That was my team, and they take my orders. You fall under that, too."
Reagan thought her eyebrows might disappear into her hairline. "Did you seriously just pull rank over me?"
"You may be a sergeant now and this is your investigation, but I still outrank you. If you'd have followed my orders, maybe this wouldn't have happened."
"Oh okay. So then you would have been shot instead? That makes it so much better!"
"I'm not the one who has the ability to kill our child while on the job!"
Deacon's words had the power to rival the blast that put Reagan on her back less than an hour before. She was surprised she could still stand.
"So that's how you really feel?" she asked quietly. Her ribs ached and it still hurt to breathe—even more so now. "You think I killed our baby?"
Deacon visibly deflated, his shoulders dropping as his eyes lost their spark. "We've lost so much. The kids wouldn't be able to live without you. I can't live without you..."
Reagan didn't know what to say. She simply remained in place, holding her side, although her heart hurt more.
"I'm sorry, Reagan."
She shook her head. "No you're not. I can tell you've wanted to say these things for a while. I should've seen the signs. Doesn't make me a very good detective, huh?" She quirked her lips into a weak smile, but she wasn't the least bit humored.
Someone called to Reagan and she glanced over her shoulder, then looked back at Deacon.
"I can't do this right now. I have a lot of work to do." Then, she said, "I'll call you later."
She took in Deacon's expression one last time—his brow wrinkled against the blinding sunset; downcast eyes coming up to meet hers; hands holding onto the upper straps of his vest.
Before he could say a word, she walked away.