A/N: I'm sure you all share my excitement in hearing that SWAT will be back in less than three weeks! I don't know about you, but these Covid months have been super long without my weekly fix. So here's another chapter to hold you over until then.

Thanks for continuing to review, follow, and fave! Your support means so much to me.

Enjoy! :)

The next evening, Reagan sat around the dinner table with her family. Lila and Matthew talked about their day with their usual animation, happy to share what their parents had missed while at work. Lila had aced her spelling test, and Matthew had made friends with a new kid at school.

"I'm so glad you two had a good day," Reagan said, grinning. She treasured this time with her children. It was filled with love and positivity (for the most part), which was so far from her job. It provided the balance she needed in her life.

As Matthew pushed out his chair, Deacon said to him, "It's your turn to clear the table. Lila—"

"Does this mean I need to load the dishwasher?" the girl interrupted, her voice a slight whine.

"Yes."

Her whine intensified.

"Lila…"

"Fine," she said with a huff, moving away from the table and clomping into the kitchen.

Reagan snorted. "I don't know why she acts like she's surprised; they take turns every other night."

Deacon's expression softened. "It's just what they do. I'd actually be surprised if they didn't complain."

Reagan laughed. "True."

A moment of silence passed between them and their eyes connected across the table. Reagan could tell that Deacon wanted to say something, but before she could ask him about it, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and sighed.

"It's work."

"Go ahead." Her husband would always understand the demands of their field, but Reagan didn't miss the flicker of frustration that passed over his features.

She answered the call.

"Detective Kay." She listened to the officer on the line, said, "Okay, I'll be right there," and hung up.

Deacon exhaled. "You need to go in?"

"Unfortunately, I do. There's been a homicide and I was given the case."

"Okay. I'll get the kids to bed."

Reagan got out of her chair and walked over to Deacon's. He leaned back to look up at her.

"Thank you," she said softly, and brought her lips down to his, savoring the brief moment together. "Don't wait up for me. Who knows how long this will take."

"How long have we been married?" he teased, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

Reagan stroked his beard-roughened cheek with her thumb, mirroring his sad smile. "I suppose I don't need to tell you that, huh?"

"Just be safe."

She tried to ignore the anxiety in the pit of her stomach at the unspoken words between them. Nodding, she said, "Always am."

When Reagan arrived at the scene—a driveway in a cul-de-sac of Suburbia, USA—the first thing she noticed was the scent of blood. A strong coppery tang floated on the warm nighttime air, and that gave her her first clue.

This murder had happened recently.

She approached the medical examiner, who leaned over the victim and then sat up to close a vial.

"What've we got, Sanderson?"

Dr. Mort Sanderson was fresh out of med school and had one of the sharpest minds Reagan had ever had the pleasure of witnessing. His iron gut and quick intuition helped make him a valuable asset to their crime-solving community.

The young man pushed up his black-rimmed glasses using the back of his gloved hand. "Larry Meyer, age 48, killed by multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. I would put time of death around 7:30 pm."

Reagan scowled and glanced at her watch. "That was only an hour ago."

Detective Whitney walked up beside her and nodded. "We've got officers canvasing the area, but I think the perp is long gone."

Reagan heard a sob nearby and looked up to see a woman sitting on the front steps, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "Who's she?"

"The vic's wife—Eva Meyer," said Whitney. "She got home seconds after it all went down. Said she saw her husband struggling with the perp, who then escaped in their car."

"Did you get a description?"

"She said it was too dark to see the perp and all she saw of the vehicle was that it was a light-colored SUV."

Reagan's face screwed up. "That's it?"

Whitney sighed. "Yeah. She's got a BAC of .16. I'm surprised she got home in one piece."

Reagan rolled her eyes and muttered a curse of frustration.

What were the odds? It was extremely rare for someone to interrupt a murder. To then be so intoxicated that they couldn't relay important information was like a slap in the face to Reagan. It would make her job just that much harder.

Turning back to Sanderson, she asked, "Any sign of the weapon?"

"Not yet, but I did find this." He held up an evidence bag holding a folded piece of cloth. "It was on the ground under the vic's car."

"Chloroform?"

"I think so. I also found a trace of blood under his fingernails—hopefully we'll get some DNA from that. I'll send you the results of everything as soon as I can."

Reagan thanked him and turned toward Whitney. She took in the sight of scattered garbage from a spilled rollaway bin.

"What're you thinking?" the other detective asked.

"I'll need more information, but my gut is telling me this was a targeted hit, or an abduction gone wrong."

Whitney cracked a smile. "Your gut? I think Lieutenant Cole is going to want something more concrete than that."

Friggin' Cole. "You know all signs point to those things. And you also know the value of listening to your gut. It's gotten you out of some pretty hairy situations if I can recall."

"Oh no I agree with you, but you know Cole's gonna be a hard-ass about this."

"What's new?" Reagan grumbled.

Making her way over the victim's wife, she stopped and waited for the woman to look up. When she did, Reagan put on her best sympathetic expression. She had no tolerance for drunk drivers, but Eva had just lost her husband and witnessed something awful. Being short with her wouldn't get Reagan anywhere useful.

"Hi, Mrs. Meyer. Would I be able to ask you a few questions?"

Eva shrugged. When she spoke, her voice was slurred. "I guess. It's not like I have a choice, right?"

Reagan tried not to sigh again. "Where were you this evening?"

"Out with my girl friends."

"Where did you go with your friends?"

"Blaze. We had dinner and some wine."

'Some.' Hah. Maybe a whole bottle?

As much as Reagan wanted to say this, she refrained.

"I'll need access to your credit card records to verify your whereabouts at the time of the murder."

Eva's bloodshot eyes widened. "You think I did this?"

"I didn't say that—"

"My husband may have been an ass sometimes, but I would never kill him!" Eva raised her hand and dabbed a wadded tissue at the corners of her eyes.

Reagan cleared her throat, noticing a nasty bruise on Eva's forearm. "Did you come in contact with the murderer?"

"No! I got home and Larry was struggling with someone. When I got out of the car, they ran away and... and..." Eva's face crumpled and she started crying again.

Reagan gave Eva a moment, but it probably didn't matter when she asked, "How long has your husband been abusing you?"

Eva's sobs stopped at once. "What? Why would you say that?"

"You said he was an ass and you have fingerprint bruises near your wrist."

For a few seconds, the other woman said nothing. Then, "I wore a bracelet that, um..."

Reagan squatted, resting her elbows on her knees. "You don't have to lie to me, Eva. He can't hurt you anymore."

Eva began to cry again, but it was different than before. "It started last year. He thought I was having an affair. He'd get paranoid if any man even looked at me. I was always faithful, but whatever I said or did wasn't enough for him—he never believed me."

"Did you tell anyone what was happening?"

"Yes, my friends..."

"The same ones you saw tonight?"

Eva nodded.

"Did any of them leave dinner early? Or do you think they told anyone else about the abuse?"

Eva must have been sobering up because she seemed to understand where this was going. "No, no way. We all left at the same time and I only just told them tonight! There's no way..."

Reagan gave her a comforting smile and pat on the hand. "It's okay, Eva. This has been helpful. Take care of yourself. I'll be touch."

After questioning the neighbors, Reagan and Whitney met back at the precinct. The smell of old coffee greeted them as they walked inside and plopped down in their computer chairs. She glanced at the schoolroom clock above Cole's door. It was almost midnight.

Reagan could see the man himself through his office window, arguing with someone on the phone; an all too familiar sight.

"How long do you think we'll have to wait before he comes out here and demands answers?" Whitney asked, combing a hand through his chin-length blond locks. He took the California surfer vibe to heart and was constantly at odds with their bosses over his hair breaking the dress code.

"Just give it a minute. Once he sees us… Oh, I spoke too soon."

Cole slammed down his phone, ripped open his office door, and marched over to them.

"The chief wants a press conference in an hour! We're to put the public at ease, assure them that some yahoo won't slaughter them in their driveway."

"But that did happen…" Whitney began.

"I suspect it was a love triangle gone wrong. You said it yourself, Kay! The husband thought she was cheating."

"But she wasn't. He was abusing her."

Cole scoffed. "And you took her word for it? The woman was plastered."

"She had bruises—"

"Oh, hell, Kay! We all have bruises! Whitney over here is like a fucking peach. You look at him wrong and he turns black and blue!"

Reagan attempted a deep breath. "Sir, with all due respect, I think there's more to this."

"With what evidence?"

She exchanged a look with Whitney.

Don't you dare mention your gut, was what his blue eyes said.

"The chloroform rag. I think he was supposed to be kidnapped but our perp was interrupted."

"That rag hasn't been tested yet."

"Then we should hold off on the press conference."

"That's not how this works, Kay, and you should know that by now! The chief has already sent down his orders—our job is to follow those orders."

Reagan swallowed her frustration and held her tongue until she could say, "Copy that, Lieutenant Cole," without wanting to throw up in her mouth.

"Good, because you're leading the press conference," he said, and walked away before she could respond.

"At approximately 7:30 last night, a man was murdered outside of his home in Gardena. We have not released his name yet, as we are still notifying extended family."

Reagan stared out at the sea of reporters, their flashbulbs jarring against the night sky.

"Detective!" they all yelled at once.

She picked one at random, a woman with bleach blonde hair and dazzling teeth.

"Have you made an arrest?"

"Not yet."

Another reporter immediately spoke up. "How was the victim killed?"

"He was stabbed."

"Do you have the murder weapon?"

"No, we do not. It was not recovered from the scene."

A reporter from the back called out, "Do you think the killer knew the victim?"

"It's possible, but we are still working to collect evidence—"

Reagan felt someone push her aside and Cole stepped in front of her, blocking the microphone. She tried to hide her surprise, knowing she was on camera, and simply chose to step back.

"Well, actually," he said, "we have reason to believe the killer is personally connected to the victim and his wife. It's early to speculate," but Reagan knew he would anyway, "but this may have been the result of a domestic dispute with a romantic third party." He continued on. "We want the public to know that they should feel safe in their homes, and that this was most likely not a random act of violence."

Reagan crawled into bed in the wee hours of the morning, hoping to catch a few hours of shut eye before the sun came up. She felt beaten down in so many ways but was too tired to think about it anymore.

Deacon didn't stir from his side of the bed until she slipped under the covers and pressed the palm of her hand against his bare back. She gently kissed his shoulder blade and he reached around for her hand, pulling it to his middle so it lay flat against his abdomen.

"Everything okay?" he whispered, his voice heavy with sleep.

She nodded, her hair grazing his back. She rested her cheek there and felt his even breaths. Everything was not okay, but in this spot, it seemed as though maybe it would be.