Chapter 28: Crossing A Line

Returning from the camping vacation meant a return to the busy life I'd made for myself.

After coming back, I called Dad to let him know that Mark had proposed ("I'm happy for you, Lexi!"). Dad told Carmine, who told Cody, who announced it to everyone at the Grotto. And sure enough, once I'd returned to the restaurant to see what the damage was—if any—I even had my Regulars, including Darla and Todd, congratulating me on one of the busiest days of the year.

I had to meet with the restaurant's vendors regarding a snafu in the shipment logs; had a meeting with the licensing lawyers, who were on my ass about renewing the permits; and on Tuesday afternoon, I famously buckled down to get my finances in order.

As well, I had to contend with the fact that Ally was taking a different job as a manager in another workplace. Her work ethic and having taken on managerial duties in my stead was an impressive feat for a young woman like her, an attractive bullet on her résumé. Genuinely happy for Ally, I threw a party for her at the restaurant.

Brady made a sushi bar that Ally was always fond of, and I made cupcakes. The sushi and cupcakes were made in excess so there were plenty of leftovers—seeing as it was almost dinner time, I took the rest to the precinct in Tupperware bowls.

I met the Desk Sergeant, who was pleasant enough. He asked who I was; I told him and that I was here to see 'everybody', offering avocado sushi rolls and a cupcake to boot. He thanked me and let me on my way.

The corridors curved into aligned offices, all of which belonged to detectives before it opened into what was presumably a breakroom. I smiled warmly, seeing Mark talking to Kerry about something that sounded like an investigation.

Something, something, fingerprints. Something, something, weapon, and crime scenes. It was like listening to a technical version of 'Clue': 'It was the butler…in the conservatory…with a crowbar' plus police jargon.

"Hey, Hoffman." Kerry said surreptitiously, noticing me. "Your fiancée is here."

After Mark told Angelina about the engagement, it took less than a whole two hours before the precinct knew about it—all thanks to her. Granted, I couldn't blame her; she was just happy for her brother and wanted everyone to know about it.

Mark turned around and smiled when he saw me. "What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too." I placed the cupcakes and sushi on the table.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, of course. I just threw a farewell party for Allison and we made too much of everything; thought I'd bring it here."

Kerry cleared her throat, saying, "Why don't I just go alert the cavalry" before she touched my shoulder warmly, and headed out of the break room to leave us alone.

"How'd the party go?" Mark asked conversationally.

"Successfully sad."

"I thought you were happy for her."

"I am." I sat on the edge of the breakroom table, adding, "I'm just not looking forward to finding a new assistant. It's going to be hell."

"You'd better start hunting then."

"I'll sooner find a unicorn with reptilian wings than someone half as good as she is."

"Maybe you're not looking hard enough."

"Or I just need to lower my expectations." I conceded, crossing my arms. "I'm happy for her though. Better hours, bigger paycheck—that girl deserves it."

Mark suddenly leaned in and kissed my cheek.

"What was that for?" I asked curiously.

"Just being supportive."

"If you want to be supportive, you could kiss more than just my face."

"Well, that's all you're getting for now."

"Mm-hmm." I fiddled with his tie suggestively. "I like how you sprinkled 'for now' in there, implying that something might come later?"

Before Mark could give any sort of answer, Matthews came strutting through the door, actively looking for the mentioned food: "I heard we had sushi or something in here—well, well, hello there, Mayville!"

"Always a pleasure seeing you, Detective." I sighed.

Matthews sidled right next to me, leaning his weight against the table as he said, "It's always amazing to me how you use the word 'detective' to show favoritism. With Mark, you make it sound like a pet name. When you use it to greet me, it sounds like a thinly veiled rendition of 'fuck you'."

"What can I say? It's an art." I said modestly.

"I bet. I heard about the engagement. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"Tell me something, doll face. What in the world made you say 'yes' to this loveable stoic?" He clapped Mark on the back.

"Well, I didn't have any reason to say 'no'."

He took a cupcake out of the bowl. "That does leave us in a fair predicament."

"Such as?"

"What am I going to call you when you're no longer 'Mayville'?"

"I don't know, but don't call me 'doll face'." I said coolly.

"It's only a term of endearment."

"'Doll face' is too intimate."

"You're marrying one of us, honey. That means we're gonna be family." Matthews grinned. "That's as intimate as you can get. I'm surprised your daddy didn't educate you on that unwritten law—seeing as you seem to know most of them already."

I leaned on the table. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a very slapable face?"

"A few, but I don't see how that's relevant. Anyway, come the day of your wedding, you and I are gonna be brother and sister—by police standards."

"So, how does that work when you're fucking another cop?" I asked, taking a cupcake from the bin. "Does that mean you're just fucking your own sister?"

Matthews smirked at Mark. "I love her to death, man. Her mind works quick."

"If you don't knock it off, she's going to throw something at you."

"I don't mind the abuse. I feel like she's into that sort of thing." Matthews teased. "Aren't you? Doll face."

I tossed the cupcake at him. Mark laughed as Matthews slowly wiped the icing off his face, licking the rest that landed around his mouth.

Rigg came into the break room, holding a cup of coffee and looked as if he was on his way home when he saw his partner, laughing, "Dude, what happened to your face?"

"I got what I deserved, evidently," Matthews admitted, wiping the rest off with a napkin.

Rigg smiled at me happily. "Hey, Alexis." He glanced at the table. "Whose cupcakes?"

"They're from a party." Matthews responded.

"Whose party?"

"My assistant's leaving so I threw her a farewell party." I explained airily.

"Sounds like a big to-do; that was nice of you."

Matthews murmured, "At least she can be nice to someone."

I armed myself with another cupcake and pretended like I might throw another before Matthews hopped behind Mark, who rolled his eyes at the man's childish antics.

Rigg said good-humoredly, "Some of us were going to go to Frank's for a drink if you wanted to come. Should be a good time like before."

Matthews said dully, "The last time we all drank together wasn't exactly memorable."

"You drank your weight in beer, man," Rigg reminded. "Alexis had to coach you to drink some water just so we didn't have to carry you out."

"See, I don't remember any of that."

"You did everything she asked, believe it or not."

"Maybe I'm just low-key willing and wanting to do what I'm told." Matthews offered. "I guess I'd be better at my job if I was drunk all the time."

Mark and Rigg shook their heads and said simultaneously, "I don't think so."

They had all gone out plenty of times since I'd met Mark. I hadn't gone with them myself—It wasn't because of the run-in with Creepy Guy. It was just that I was a busy woman. This time around, however, my plans were open. I just had to drop by the house, get a change of clothes, and I'd be good to go.

"So?" Rigg said readily, looking at me. "What do you say?"

"Are Kerry and Tracy going to be there?"

"Tracy's got a date with her book club. Kerry and Mark are working on a suspect so I'm guessing whenever they get his 'heartfelt' confession, they'll be joining too." Rigg glanced at Mark as if to verify this assumption; Mark returned it with a considerable nod.

"I guess I'm down for it."

"The odds are stacked against you now, Mayville." Matthews giggled, rubbing his hands together meticulously.

"We're not playing 'Drink If You've Ever'," Rigg warned.

"Why not? I'm good at it."

"You were hammered by the end of it."

"Yeah, but I think I won that time."

"Kerry said you passed out the moment you got in her car. You lost. If anyone won, it was these two," Rigg waved his hand between Mark and me. "They're the only ones that got laid that night."

"I'm pretty sure I got laid."

"I'm 100-percent certain you didn't."

"I thought Kerry—"

"—You didn't." Rigg said wholeheartedly, grinning.

"I feel like Mayville and I deserve a rematch, though. Five men against one woman? I think I've got a chance."

"No. It just means we're evenly matched," I challenged.

"Got a lot of confidence over there. That's gonna hurt when you go down. That might be a problem for you."

"Your problem is that you don't like losing to a woman."

"Don't make this about feminism, doll f—oh shit!"

I sent the second cupcake flying at Matthews, who sighed when it hit his head. He rolled his eyes and walked out of the break room without another word, presumably to the bathroom to wash the icing and chocolate cake out of his hair with the S.W.A.T. leader heading out after his friend, once more leaving us alone in the breakroom.

I gave the doorway a passing glance before saying freely, "So what did this suspect of yours do this time?"

Mark said bluntly, "Triple-homicide."

I looked at him, slightly startled by his response, even though I'd expected some sort of answer. I just wasn't anticipating how straightforward he was about an ongoing investigation.

"Not another passive-aggressive husband, I hope."

"No. This is something else."

"Suspect killed three people…that's unpleasant."

"Three that we know of." Mark replied casually as I sat on the table; my feet swayed a little as I looked up at him. "I think he's committed more."

"It's a guy?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And he's not talking, huh."

"Not the most talkative type, no."

"Sounds like someone I know." I teased, adding, "I noticed you're taking the whole honesty thing to the extreme telling me all of this."

"I promised that I wouldn't keep anything from you." Mark reminded.

I smiled inwardly. "And I appreciate that more than you'll ever know. However, I'm just going to play the devil's advocate here. A more future-oriented officer might say that this sort of leakage would be career-ending. News reporters would kill to be in my position."

"News reporters have killed for much less in the past."

I licked my lips thoughtfully. "I'd kill a man for a nice bagel."

"Really, now." Mark returned, cracking a grin.

"Oh, yeah. Give me an everything bagel with strawberry-flavored cream cheese and you've got yourself a hitman. One bagel per hit. If it's someone in the mob, my price goes up."

"What's the price of a mob hit?"

"A blueberry muffin."

"Is that it?"

"I'm not talking about the ones coming from a package, but like a real muffin. Baked from the oven, placed on a platter. Actually, upgrade that to a coffee cake—I love those more."

"Well, you're not asking for much, are you."

"You're underestimating the value of a really good coffee cake. It's soft, sweet, and it melts in your mouth…"

"Sounds like someone I know." Mark said slyly, taking my knees and separating them so he stood between my legs.

"Well, that is a provocative position in which you've placed yourself." I said carefully, looking up at him. "Do you know how much danger you're in right now?"

"All too well."

"As a courtesy, I should warn you: I've brought ammunition." I comically shook the Tupperware of cupcakes.

He smiled at my humor. "I'm aware of the danger that comes with the territory."

"You think you've brought the right artillery to handle the fire fight?"

Mark brushed his lips against mine. "I'm not expecting much of a fight."

He slipped his tongue between my parted lips, enveloping me into a kiss that I wasn't expecting to be fervent, his hands moving to my backside to push me closer and thereby spreading my legs wider.

He wasn't quite the same man I'd met all those months ago, not the same Mark that was full of self-control when I'd been introduced to him in the interrogation room, or how closed off he was when we were alone in his office. It was as if that time at Marshall Grounds had knocked something loose. Or, maybe, this was just a side of him only I'd become privy to see.

I felt it behind every passionate kiss, the way he went from first to fourth gear in a single pump of his clutch. I wanted to feel ever rev and commit every moment to memory.

The most dangerous drug I'd ever known had a heartbeat, and mine beat too fast when his hands ran down my back and past the waistband of my skirt, down to the hem.

Not while he is here, I thought. I wasn't going to get my fix this soon.

Not while he was at work, when he played the part of a detective, not especially in such an open space like the break room where anyone could walk in on us at any point in time.

Yet, he lifted the hem of my skirt up just enough; it pooled around my waist as he discovered my less than innocuous secret.

Mark smirked against my mouth as he whispered, "No underwear?"

"What's the point of wearing any when you always tear them off?"

"I'm starting to feel like you had a different ulterior motive for visiting me."

"What, other than dropping off cupcakes? I can't imagine."

He barraged me with another passionate kiss, pulling a longing moan from me as he slipped his fingers between my thighs, scissoring them just over my clit, massaging in slow firm circles that neither touched between my petals nor graced my pearl where I needed him most.

"I haven't really done anything to you yet and already you're starting to tremble."

"You don't need to do anything." I looked up to meet his eyes with what I knew to be both pining and modesty. "Knowing what you're capable of is enough."

"Well, that's flattering."

"It's not flattery if it's true."

He pressed his lips against mine as he uttered against them, "You'd have me take you on any surface, wouldn't you?"

"Anywhere…"

"…And everywhere." He started to rub my clit at an agonizingly slow pace.

I gasped in desperation, "Please, don't."

He wasn't going to let me off that easy as he said knowingly, "Don't what?"

"Don't tease me." I begged. "Not here."

I feared at any point he'd be forced to stop just when I needed him to keep going. Someone would walk through that door just when I was about to get off. It'd be just my luck.

I could take that game at home as I was guaranteed some sort of light at the end of the tunnel, but I wasn't sure if I could handle that here. I didn't have any idea when I'd be able to come if we were interrupted, knowing it wouldn't be until much later. And that was too damn long.

"You like it, though, don't you." His fingers slid in between my pussy lips, knuckle-deep, pushing them in and out as he relished the slick sound of it, making my cunt slippery and that much more sensitive to his touch.

I stifled a moan, grabbing his wrist with the intention of stopping him. If I had genuinely wanted him to stop and made that desire known, he would have respected it. But even as I took his sleeve to stop him, I hadn't found the will to follow through.

I didn't just 'like' what he was doing to me. I loved it.

I needed it just as I needed him—just as he needed me, his desire made evident by the noticeable bulge in his pants. By making me feel hot and bothered, he had been working himself over; lust was a double-edged sword.

His voice was in my ear: "I can feel how much you want it. You want to be fucked now more than ever."

"No…" It was hard to even speak without stumbling over my own desire. "N-no, I don't."

"The thought of being caught gets you off, doesn't it?"

I shook my head even as I closed my eyes, inevitably losing myself to him.

"Oh, I think it does." He drawled.

While he finger-fucked me with one hand, his other hand touched my breast outside of my shirt, lightly pinching my nipple and with enough pressure, pain turned to pleasure, and it made me whimper in need.

"Stop fighting it." He drowned out my heated moans, shoving his mouth on mine, swallowing my sounds.

I couldn't fight him. Not now. Not ever as my imagination took over.

"That's my good girl," Mark praised as I gave in.

He muffled my moans, kissing me again as he finger-fucked me faster to a point where my hips lifted and responded to him, gyrating to meet his pace and reach the orgasm I was desperately chasing after.

I imagined him fucking me in this room, taking his belt off, unzipping his fly, and feeling his hard cock slip inside my cunt just as easily as his fingers had; the way the table would shake and creak under our combined weight as he fucked me on top of it.

I imagined how everyone else in the precinct might glance over their shoulders and at each other if they heard us.

I imagined him pinning me to the table, unable to move or escape as he lifted my ankles over his shoulders, tearing off my blouse and exposing myself to him and anyone else that might look in.

I swore I had heard someone passing by the door—just then, I came so hard I grabbed onto him to keep myself from falling forward, digging my nails into his shoulders to steady myself.

With the euphoria freshly passing, he took his fingers out of my cunt and brought them to my mouth; I licked them without hesitation, tasting myself.

"I told you I wasn't expecting much of a fight." He said smugly, taking a napkin from the dispenser above the sink and wiping the remainder of my excitement off his hand.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" I asked breathlessly.

He said distractedly, "What do you mean?"

"When I first met you, I'd have never thought you'd do this sort of thing. Not in a million years."

"I wasn't going to."

"Until?"

"Until I realized you weren't wearing anything under your skirt."

I said mischievously, "You just couldn't help yourself, huh?"

"I could have. I just didn't want to."

"Mm-hmm. The next thing you'll tell me is that 'you can quit anytime you want'. I'd say you've got a bit of an addiction, Detective."

He looked at me quizzically.

I slid off the table to smooth out my skirt. "When you can stop, you don't want to. When you want to stop, you can't. That's addiction."

"That's only for drug addicts."

"That's for anything. Drugs, booze, cigarettes, sex, masturbation, video games, porn—if it can be done repeatedly, it can become addicting."

"Well, then." He touched my chin, tilting it up and said smoothly, "It's a good thing I'm marrying you."

"Is it, really."

"I'll get my fix anytime I want, so long as you're willing to give it to me."

"Oh, don't worry about that, honey. As you can see, I'm always willing. Even when I'm not." I put my arms around him. "You wanna meet at the house or at Frank's?"

His arms wrapped around my waist as he said business-like, "I still have to finish up with the suspect."

"Ooh, I don't suppose I could watch you do that? I'd love to see you at work when I'm not the one sitting in the chair…although, I'll admit being on the receiving end was pretty hot too."

"Maybe another time."

"Why, is there a scheduling conflict?"

Just as I asked, a rather stark man wearing a dapper suit and a badge walked into the break room for a cup of coffee.

He greeted us in what could have been mistaken to be a cordial voice: "Good evening, Detective Hoffman." (He smiled at me.) "I don't think I've met you before. Are you another detective?"

He stirred his coffee with a spoon, clinking the plastic utensil against the edge of the equally plastic cup.

"Only when someone's cheating on my best friend. Or when I need to book a mildly questionable vacation utilizing the dark web."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a joke. I'm kind of known for my warped sense of humor."

"I see. So, who are you exactly?"

"My name is Alexis Mayville." I gestured to Mark indicatively: "I'm his fiancée."

"Charmed." He said although he hardly sounded genuine this time around. He held out his free hand for me to shake; I firmly took it. "Detective Mallard, Internal Affairs. You know, I recognize your name from the—"

"—Yeah, yeah, the news story."

"Exactly." He took a sip from his coffee.

"I'm famous." I joked.

"Or 'infamous'."

"How do you figure?"

"A lot of the guys at the office and I had a running bet to see whether you'd be arrested or not. All the evidence seemed pointed at you for a second there."

"Only for a second." I reminded. "The security footage showed everything that happened."

"Even so, it would have been a clever way to commit a murder and get away with it.""

"Mallard." Mark sounded civil but there was an underlying protective edge to his tone.

Mallard smiled politely and backtracked, "Naturally, it was all speculation. Cops throwing out theories. Would you like to hear mine?" (He was being rhetorical, obviously, since he continued without delay.) "My theory was that the drunk went crazy, and the security guard got in the way. Suddenly, you had 'no choice' but to put the unwelcome guest down; from what it sounds like, you two didn't have a good back-and-forth to begin with."

"He repeatedly harassed my staff." I remarked flatly. "And he was belligerent on a nightly basis. I doubt you'd have found his presence to be amiable either."

Pretending like I hadn't said anything, he said dismissively, "I read the reports."

"Well, I guess you just had to be there."

"It all just seemed to go down way too smoothly." Mallard peered at Mark with notable cynicism and obvious disdain. "Even you considered that angle prior to the interrogation with your now-fiancée. Interesting how that happened, by the way."

It looked as though Mark was ready to put an end to this conversation, steadily getting more irritated with IA's insinuations and condescension. As I stepped forward, Mallard peered at me carefully as if I were a poisonous spider that had just started making its way over to him.

"Are you one of those types that just like to play around with conspiracy theories, or can you not see when you're crossing a line between speculation and being just plain insulting?"

"I was just making a simple observation." Mallard replied airily. "Just seeing how you might respond."

"Threatening quietly, you mean."

"Pardon?"

"That's what you people do in Internal Affairs. You threaten quietly."

Mallard's grin disappeared. "For a civilian, you seem to have a strong opinion about IA. I guess I'll have to keep a close eye on you." He shot a warning look in Mark's direction as if this were any indication where his career might be going before leaving the break room, saying silkily, "It was nice meeting you, Ms. Mayville. Congratulations on your engagement. I wish you two a good night."

I glared after him once he'd left the room. "What a putz."

"Forget about him." Mark said dismissively.

"What's his problem?"

"He's having a bad day."

"Which means he's trying to make your all's day just as bad. I guess he's the reason why I'm not going to be able to watch you in interrogation, huh."

"Like you said: 'scheduling conflict'."

"Takes longer to get to the truth when you've gotta dance around all that red tape."

Mark sighed with renewed realization. "Your father really didn't hide anything from you, did he."

"I told you he didn't. But, you know, there's the theoretical way of doing things, taught in academies and clinicals. Then there's the practical way things are done. It's not just a police thing. Speaking of police things…"

"I'm tied up here."

"I could just wait for you. I've plenty of cupcakes to pass around."

"It's going to take a while, babe."

"For you, I can wait for hours. But don't be surprised if Matthews gets a dessert shoved up his nose."

"I'm sure he'll have deserved that one just like he did with the other two."

"Oh, you know it already." I moved closer to him, fiddling with the hem of his tie. "You know what we should do when we get done at Frank's?"

"What do you think we should do."

"We…" I wrapped my arms around his neck as his linked around my waist again. "We should take a long, hot shower together."

"You are insatiable."

"Maybe, but you'd get your fix tonight." I suggested sweetly.

"I can't say 'no' to that, can I."

"I don't think you could even if you wanted to."

"I'm going to say that it's irrefutably your fault."

I pretended to be upset: "Now, I feel just awful."

"As you should." He glanced at his watch. "However, I do have to get back to my suspect."

"I think you should make the murderer wait a few more seconds. Leave him there to think about his life choices."

"He's been alone in there for three hours already."

"Make it four. It's good practice for where he's going. If you want to do a whole 'scared-straight' thing, we could send Matthews in there." I scrunched my nose playfully. "Your perp can learn what it feels like to be butt-fucked by a cop who really doesn't give a flying hell about what anyone thinks. Now, see, I might pay a raffle to see that show. Might even get me going a little."

Mark admitted lowly, "I think it's sexy when you talk like that."

"Don't I know."

"Mmm."

"So, when is Mallard supposed to leave?"

"In an hour or so."

"A real nine-to-five cat."

Mark said humorously. "Can you guess what his type is?"

"Easily. He is a guy that will clock in 30 minutes late," I narrated, stepping back to put my hand on the sink, mimicking punching in and out of a time clock. "Then clock out 10 minutes early. He'll drive home to his three-story house—"

"—No detective could afford a three-story house on his salary."

I pointed in the direction Mallard had left. "That suit of his was 500 dollars, easy. He's posh, thinks himself above everyone else, so he likes to look better than anyone else—no matter the cost. The price of vanity is always much too high. Am I getting his personality right so far?"

"So far." Mark sat backwards in one of the break room chairs, obviously intrigued.

"Should I continue?"

He gestured for me to go on as he took one of the cupcakes for his own.

I put my hands on my hips and said with a dramatic continuance, "As I was saying! He'll go home to his three-story house that he can't afford, in an expensive car that he also can't afford—that motherfucker has detrimentally high APR percentage rates. From there, he'll make his dinner in a microwave."

Mark said entertainingly, "What, no wife?"

"Not with his sexism." I rolled my eyes. "I'd say he'd have a one-night stand here and there, but no one with a high self-esteem would say 'yes' to that narcissist."

"Why would you assume that?"

"He's an asshole."

"No, I meant why did you assume he's a narcissist?"

"His attitude towards me said it all." I leaned my back against the counter. "He didn't know who I was, where I came from—I could have been part of the FBI or someone making five times his wage, but he didn't consider any of that before he started talking down to me."

"You gave him your name. He knew who you were."

"And he automatically launched a whole conspiracy about me being guilty without having ever interrogated me. The security footage caught literally everything that happened in the Grotto. It didn't matter to him. He just conjured the worst possible scenario about me and made it known after finding out I was your fiancée—sounds like he has a personal dislike towards you, by the way. Just from that, I think I got a good idea about who and what he is. Wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say you were right on target."

I smiled and added as an afterthought, "You really didn't like him talking down to me like that, did you."

Mark finished eating the cupcake and said pointedly, "I don't like anyone talking to or about you like you're beneath them."

I practically glowed at that response as he stood and moved to the counter, washing his hands.

"Even so," I muttered, "I wonder if Mallard thinks I orchestrated Martin's death. He seemed bent on his theory…"

"I wouldn't think too much on his opinion if I were you. IA doesn't even put much stock in what he has to say."

"But—"

As if driving the point home, Mark caressed my face with one hand and said firmly, "Lionesses do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep."

Incidentally, he cornered me against the sink.

"That's romantic. But, um, preference-wise, I'd rather be a wolf."

"Dare I ask why."

I said sweetly, "Wolves mate for life."

He pressed his lips against mine in a tender kiss, which I returned whole-heartedly. That kiss slowly became hungry as his hands moved down and squeezed my butt and I entangled my hands in his hair, pulling him closer to me as humanely possible.

His hips grinded into mine unintentionally, and he lowly growled, "Fucking hell, I want you so much."

"Oh, yeah? I bet I could get you really hot and bothered: I should tell you the various ways I've thought about punishing your murder suspects."

"You are infuriating."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'."

He pulled back, putting some distance between us to cool himself down, although that didn't stop him from eye-fucking me.

"Dad mentioned that my mom would have put him in the pendulum story if she was angry enough."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The pendulum—you know, from Edgar Allan Poe? They used the most satirical, sadistic fucked-up shit in the medieval ages. This was probably one of them. Instead of a normal looking thing you'd see on grandfather clocks, you'd have the normal pendulum swinging back and forth" (I imitated the way one would do so). "It'd stand about eight feet tall, maybe taller, with a blade connected to the bottom. And with every swing, it would get closer and closer to the guy's belly, and then ccckkkk—it'd slice right through."

Mark winced. "That sounds excruciating."

"I know, and that's without the rats climbing on 'em."

"'Rats'?"

"Have you never read the story?"

"Not since grade school."

"Oh, well, the narrator guy is bound to this kind of slab. And the guy has rats climbing all over him," I explained, rubbing my arms and legs indicatively where the rodents might go. "The pendulum keeps getting closer to slicing him up. Like really fucking close. And throughout this whole thing, he's going through this mental anguish, the classy literary equivalent of 'oh no, I'm gonna die' and 'oh no, there are rats'. Anyway, halfway through the story, he finally gets this spicy food stuff and puts it on all over his binds, so the rats eventually bite the shit out of that. It's all an attempt to save himself."

"Does he save himself?"

"In some form or fashion. But then he gets to deal with the whole 'pit' getting hot. Admittedly enough, once the pendulum part was done, I got really bored and just tuned everything else out. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Mark said fondly, "You're just so animated when you talk about this stuff, I'm just glad you found something that entertains you this much."

"Yeah, putting people in vague medieval fucked-up traps and watching their life slowly eek out before the clock ticks down is super enjoyable." I said jokingly. "Imagine actually being in that kind of situation though; I think that'd be a life changer."

"If that doesn't change your perspective, nothing would."

"If you incorporated that into your work, you'd probably expedite those confessions and boost your conviction rate. Maybe you should put your suspect in a pendulum trap. 30 seconds of hell versus four hours in time-out…" I lifted and lowered my hands, palms facing up, to resemble a balancing beam. "I think the former would make your job easier. Not only that, but we could be going to Frank's right now so we could get to that shower a hell lot sooner."

"You make a fair point on all counts that if such a thing even existed, I'd probably consider it."

"I could make one."

"I thought you were only familiar with robotics—not mechanical engineering."

"Robotics is only an interdisciplinary branch of mechanical engineering. Like how mechatronics is combining mechanics and electronics. It's all just a focus." I said smoothly.

"And you could make something like that?"

"You sound so skeptical." I giggled. "Drawing the blueprints for the torture trap wouldn't be the obstacle. It's getting the materials. I mean, Home Depot can only carry so much!"

"Alexis, baby," Mark gently wrapped his arms around my waist again and looked at me with a serious expression. "You're honestly the only person in this world that can turn me on and creep the living shit out of me all at the same time."

"Knowing I can make dangerous contraptions is doing it for you, huh."

"In a weird way, yes."

"That is, by far, the highest compliment I've ever received!" I said happily.

There was a shuffle of footsteps in the doorway; Mark and I turned to see Kerry standing there, looking at him expectantly and, to be fair, a little pissed off.

"Has he said anything yet?" Mark asked, business-like.

"Not a damn thing." Kerry said cattily. "He hasn't so much as said a word. All he does is just stare at me with the deer-in-the-headlight look. He just acknowledges me, but nothing else. I can't get him to talk. I've tried getting into his head—"

"—You've done it before."

"I need someone to dig first. You know how I work."

"Well, at least he acknowledged you."

"Not that it's any better."

"Where is he now?"

"I just threw him back in the cell. Seemed the only thing left to do since he wasn't interested in talking to me."

"I guess brunettes aren't his type."

"I guess I'll just paint my hair red then, because he's not going…to…" She trailed off as she peered at me, coming to some unspoken epiphany.

She and Mark exchanged glances as if they'd just had an entire conversation in five seconds. Instantly, Mark held up a hand.

"No." He said firmly.

"I'm not getting anywhere—no one has, not even you!" Kerry insisted.

"No!"

"Listen. Mallard is gone! He's not coming back. He won't know," Her voice wreaked of desperation and this reminder was offered as if to ease whatever hard stance he'd already taken. "As long as the suspect isn't coerced or placed under duress at the time of the confession—"

"—I said no, Kerry."

I glanced between them. "What is it between you two?"

"She can read people better than anyone you've ever met, including the other officers here," Kerry told Mark as if I hadn't said anything. "Those were your exact words."

"Who?" I demanded.

"I'm not putting her in a room with a murder suspect!" Mark argued, his temper flaring as he gestured to me.

Oh. That's the issue.

Placing me in the middle of an interrogation without any police training seemed unorthodox, something Detective Mallard of Internal Affairs would look down on, no doubt.

"He's already killed three women," She pressed. "Without a confession, he's going to walk!"

"Then you put someone else in that room with him."

"There is no one else to put in the room with him!"

"Then let him walk—" Mark retorted.

"—You honestly don't see—"

"—Wait, wait, wait…" I said quickly, stepping between them and turning to Mark. "I can do it."

His tone softened when he spoke: "I don't care if you think you can. You won't."

"Why not?" I encouraged. "As long as you or Kerry are present, you're protecting the sanctity of the investigation, right? So, even if I'm a part of the interrogation, it's still legitimate."

"You're not legally able to interrogate anyone."

"'Interrogate' implies that there's a back-and-forth going on between you and a suspect. From the sound of it right now, it's only been a monologue. If you or Kerry were in the room while he, say for example, vented to me or otherwise implicated himself, that would hold in court. Yes?"

Kerry nodded. "Just as long as he didn't give his confession under duress or was coerced—"

"Goddamn it, I said no!" Mark said heatedly, pointing at me. "You are not going in that room with him."

I held up my hands in surrender to his temper.

He told Kerry, "You are going to drop this subject altogether—"

"—Hoffman—"

"—That's an order!"

As he strode out of the room, it occurred to me that Mark outranked a lot of the detectives here. He outranked Matthews, Kerry, Fisk (who I'd heard call him 'boss' a few times), and Sing for certain, although I wasn't sure if he'd gained enough seniority to outrank Detective Tapp. That explained his objectivity—or, as Matthews called it, 'stoic' personality at work—as he was their supervisor in some way, shape, or form. Always the most professional.

The last time I'd seen him angry was when he was pulling Baxter off me. That was pure defense mode. Raw. Primal.

In this situation, his anger seemed to disguise something more so.

Fear.

He was afraid to put me in the same room as someone who was suspected of killing three people. Not that I blamed him.

I guess my contemplation and concern for Mark and the situation in general showed on my face since Kerry walked over to where I stood, trying to comfort me.

"Don't worry." She said, getting a cupcake out of the bowl. "He just needs time to calm down."

"I've never seen him like that before," I admitted. "I've seen him angry, just not this kind of angry."

"It doesn't happen often. I'm sure if you were anyone else other than his significant other, he'd be on board."

"You know, for sure, that your guy killed three people?"

"I'm sure that he has."

"Do you have any proof?"

She let out a scathing noise.

I inquired politely, "How do you know if you don't have any evidence to prove that he did?"

"You can see it in his face." She explained, indicating her own. "You can see it in their eyes. He's killed people, including the three redheaded girls. They're just the three that we know of so far."

With context, it sounded like this guy had a proclivity for redheads, and it sounded like he'd been a lot more open with Kerry than Mark, if one would even describe that kind of behavior as being 'open'.

If this suspect saw me, a female redhead, maybe he'd open a little. Kerry said she needed someone to dig first; once I got the shovel in, Kerry could take it the rest of the way and I'd leave the interrogation altogether.

I questioned, "How did he kill them?"

Kerry licked the icing off the cupcake first before telling me: "He strangled them to death."

"With what?"

"His bare hands. Held on until they stopped breathing."

"What did he do with them after?"

Kerry grimaced, and tossed the cupcake into the trash bin, saying bluntly, "He had vaginal intercourse with their corpses."

"Maybe he's impotent."

Kerry tilted her head to the side, licking her thumb where the frosting had remained as she said intriguingly, "Why do you think that?"

"He can't perform with a living woman, so he kills them to feel powerful then has sex with them for the same reason. Maybe he got rejected one too many times, or he just has a thing for dead women. For all I know, he spent too much time in his mother's basement with a blow-up doll and wanted one that felt more alive but wouldn't fight him."

Kerry leaned against the counter next to me as she said impressively, "You've never even met the asshole and you already know as much as I do."

"You're telling me you don't have much of anything, then."

"That's what I'm telling you."

I turned to her completely. "What would it take to convince Mark to let me talk to your murder suspect?"

"He'd have to know that you aren't going to do anything to jeopardize the investigation." Kerry listed off immediately as if she'd banked on my support to persuade her former partner. "He'd have to know that you're not going to try and hurt the suspect—ultimately, they're innocent until proven guilty. You can't coerce the suspect. You can't intimidate him with threats of physical violence, mental anguish, or anything that could be remotely used as duress in the court of law."

"What if I could manipulate his emotions?"

"Such as?"

I shrugged. "You mentioned dying your hair red to make you seem more approachable. I'm naturally redheaded—and he's killed three redheads that you know of, be it out of self-loathing, or overcompensation. It's obvious he has a soft spot for them, even if it comes from a macabre, twisted place."

Kerry ran her tongue over her teeth thoughtfully. "What would you do?"

"Just what I said. I'd just talk."

"Yeah." Whether she knew it or not, she'd glanced me up and down with affable consideration. "I bet you can be a real femme fatale when you wanna be."

"If it means getting what I want, I can be."

"Convincing Hoffman to let you go in there isn't going to be easy. We could just go in the interrogation room together—"

"—I'm not going behind his back."

"I'm just saying that it's an option."

"Maybe for you." I countered hotly.

Kerry held up a hand and said apologetically, "I didn't mean for that to sound backhanded. I just want this guy to confess already so we can put him where he belongs: in a six-by-five-foot room with only bars on his cell for comfort."

"I think we all want that." I said strongly, taking her hand. "Follow me."

We walked to Mark's office, not finding him there. I was at a loss of where he might be next. Kerry signaled for me to follow her with the nod of her head, leading me to a room which was dimly lit.

Mark stood behind what appeared to be a look-through window to another room—it was the other side of the two-way mirror that faced the familiar interrogation room in which I'd been seated the first time I had met him.

His arms were crossed, facing the window with a pensive gaze before he glanced over his shoulder, acknowledging me. However, he didn't say anything.

"She's just going to talk to him." Kerry insisted, although her tone was gentle.

Maybe Mark had come to the same conclusion we had: Nothing else had worked, and the suspect had a soft spot for redheads. Perhaps this was the only way in the end.

"Fine." He said dryly, looking at her. "But you stay with her the entire time. Handcuffs stay on him. I'll be observing from here."

Kerry smiled a little now that he'd relinquished his orders before she nodded dutifully, leaving to fetch the poor sod.

Once she'd closed the door behind her, Mark looked at me as though he'd readily say something more about my most recent actions; instead, he used the same instructive tone as he had with the other detective.

"Don't go anywhere near him."

"I'll stay put." I promised. "I won't lead, coerce, or threaten. I'm just going to talk to him."

"Getting to know someone who won't give you anything to go on is not an easy feat."

"And yet, I got to know you, didn't I?"

The slightest acknowledgement of that revelation softened his scowl; however, he said factually, "Yes, but I'm not a criminal."

"What separates us from the criminals is a very fine line decided by society, whose morals and practices are barely a cut above the beasts that slither on their bellies or leap on all fours."

"And you think you'll be able to respect that type of creature long enough to find out what he's done?"

I took his hand and interlaced my fingers in between his. "Not everyone is looking to be respected or feared. Most just want to be understood. No more than what you or I want."

He stood rigidly and I urged him to look at me.

He did.

"I won't do this if you don't want me to."

Mark said unhappily, "Kerry was right. We've not made any progress. Whether I like it or not, you understand people in a way none of us ever will."

"I understand people in a way neither of you ever will. But it's not by choice," I corrected.

The door of the interrogation room opened. Kerry walked in with the mysterious suspect. My breath hitched uncomfortably when I realized that the suspect was no mystery to me.

"There's nothing I hate more than feeling empathy for a man with whom I have nothing in common nor respect," I said quietly. "Especially when it's a man I've known for three years."

Mark looked at me, disarmed. "What are you talking about?"

I nodded my head towards the window. "I know him. He hasn't spoken to me in almost five months, but I know him."

"How do you know him?"

"His name is Drew." I said darkly. "He's my next-door neighbor."