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EPOV was written by Jill, but as always, the final chapter is a collaborative effort between us. Enjoy!

Much love, Jill and Ariel

Edward

Sunday, May 29, 2022

Seattle, Washington

::I::

Sometimes I can smell it in the air.

Like a sixth sense, as if my body can feel a pending shift in the world's subconscious, I feel it on my skin. It creeps up my arm as I drive with the window down, the wind reminding me it's okay to be real. To feel. I can hear the buzz in the air from everyone around me.

Change.

Now, this is the kind of change in the air I like. For a moment, I can feel the slight breeze blow life back into sails again after a long, predictable, and dark winter.

Dark in more ways than one.

It happens by the minute - change. Sometimes it's so minuscule even I can't detect it all the time, but other times, like today, everyone can feel it. Everyone knows.

Summer is here.

And is there anything better than a hot dog from Dante's to kick off the summer season?

Parking my car in the first open spot in the lot, I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and taking a slow and steady whiff of the air around me. The roar from my growling stomach insists the answer is no, there isn't anything better, and as I lock my car and make my way through Ballard's towards the awaiting food truck, I can practically taste the famous hot dog in my mouth. Soon enough, I find my place at the end of the long line of customers waiting to place their order. There are dozens of people itching to get their hands on a dog from Dante's Inferno Dogs today, and no one, myself included, minds having to wait in the rising temperature for their food fix.

Dante's is a staple here in Seattle, and since today is the first decent day we've seen around here in what feels like a lifetime, I'm not surprised to see other people had the same idea as me this afternoon. Days off from work can sometimes feel few and far between, so I tend to save my trips to Dante's for the right occasions, and today is looking to be exactly that. Overcast skies, a comfortable heat in the air, and two days off after working four grueling 10s is the perfect combination to earn a reward in the form of lunch from Dante's.

I've made it halfway in line to place my order when my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I answer it when I see Emmett's name appear on the screen.

"I'm in line," I say with a laugh in lieu of a hello. Even as I say it, I'm not sure I've managed to reassure him.

"It's my first Dante of the year," Emmett groans on the other end, "Hurry, bro."

"I'm going as fast as I can," I say, inching a little further up the line. "You know everyone in the state of Washington is here today, right?"

I don't think I'm exaggerating.

Even though the line is long, it moves quickly. The staff working the truck are efficient under pressure, no doubt used to inpatient people like Emmett McCarty, both over the phone and in person. Today, I'm in no rush, and I'm purposely trying to remind myself to enjoy the feeling of having nothing pressing on my plate for the next two days.

Even after all these years, sometimes it's easier said than done.

As I stand in line talking to Emmett, it's easy for me to pretend I lead a simple, carefree life. I don't mind standing in line, letting the Memorial Day weekend sun warm the back of the worn SPD t-shirt I threw on this morning. I don't mind listening to the conversations of the people around me, because for a moment, it makes me forget about everything else.

I sigh to myself a few minutes after ending my conversation with Emmett, peering over the heads of people in line to see how close I am to ordering. It takes a lot of purposeful practice to trick my mind into pushing away thoughts of work, and even though I'm technically off the clock, it's impossible to keep the little reminders of work at bay. It's easy for them to slip through the cracks every now and then. Some of my open cases are still sitting in the back of my mind, even on days off like this, but luckily I can ignore them for the most part and try to enjoy my weekend.

And first on my list is a round of hot dogs to take back to Emmett's.

"Edward!"

When they call my name into the Seattle air thirty minutes later with my completed order, I grab the bags with a smile and head back to my car feeling satisfied for the first time in days.

As I'm walking to my car, I try to ignore the fleeting feeling, that reminder of even more pending change coming my way.

Somehow I already know this is the last time I'll feel this free in a long fucking time.

::I::

"You know, when I first joined the force, I never thought a fucking hot dog would be what I looked forward to on the weekends," Emmett says later that afternoon after he belches his lunch into the air.

While the sun hides beneath a generous cover of gray clouds, they're harmless today as we sit on his deck overlooking the woods that line the edges of his backyard. It's spacious, quiet, and exactly what I need to escape the hustle of the city and the chaos it instills in my head.

On and off the clock.

"It's always the small stuff, isn't it?" I reply, thinking of the hot dogs we inhaled as soon as we had settled ourselves out on the deck. Exhaling loudly, I make myself comfortable in the patio chair. I close my eyes beneath my sunglasses, the typical absence of sunshine not making it any less bright.

"Guess so," Emmett sighs, and we both fall into a comfortable silence. Neither of us mind when we lose ourselves to the peace out here; if I didn't work long hours on-site, I would live in a place like this, too.

It's always been this way with us.

We've had a comfortable, strong, and quiet camaraderie from the minute we met back in college eighteen years ago. I learned quickly as we went through undergrad and then the police academy together that Emmett McCarty is a guy everyone would want to have on their side. Despite his looming size and booming voice, he's the biggest cheerleader and a proven solid rock of reliability, which I've leaned on countlessly during my role as a detective in the Seattle Police Department. While Emmett eventually put his brilliant mind to use as an Intelligence Analyst, I worked my way up the ranks to Homicide Detective, and the hours worked between the two of us have made us easy to fucking please.

And today, it all comes down to a hot dog.

"Phone off?" He asks, leaning back in his chair as he pops open a bottle of beer. He stops to toss one my way.

"No," I reply with a loud sigh, "but I did put up my out-of-office reply in my email. That counts, right?"

"It's something," Emmett laughs. "Who called so far?"

I shake my head with a laugh as I scan my list of incoming calls. "Newton, Yorkie, and Cheney," I answer. "All bullshit."

"Fuck them," Emmett replies. "If it's not Captain, then everyone else can wait until you're back on the clock."

My eyes scan the tree line, my ears zoning in to the sounds of the wildlife hiding in the Washington greens. My nose can't deny the smell of the moss and ferns; one day without rain here in Seattle won't take away the saturation left behind in its wake.

Similar to how a day off can't erase the burden of previous hours worked.

"Are we ever off the clock?" I ask, the bitterness in my voice heavy. I turn to look at Emmett before taking a sip of my beer.

He sighs in response, shaking his head at the somber accuracy of my words. "Sometimes I wonder what that's like."

I wonder if we'll ever know.

::I::

The next morning as soon as I open my eyes, it hits me in the gut almost immediately. Even though technically I have the day off, it doesn't feel like it, and I find myself anxious about my return to work the next day.

The truth is that I love my job. And I'm fucking good at it, too. But over the years, I've grown numb, and my view of the world has shifted to the point where nothing fazes me. What I've seen on the force, as both a patrolman and a detective, is mentally taxing and full of bullshit they don't prepare you for. I've seen families torn apart at the hands of others. I, myself, have torn families apart just by uttering a few simple words.

I'm sorry, ma'am. Your son is dead.

I'm sorry, sir. You're under arrest.

I've been cursed at and called more names than I care to admit. It's become custom, ingrained in my head, that this is the way it's supposed to be.

And nothing, no matter how many years I have under my belt, will ever change that reality.

But, like the true masochist that I am, I thrive on it.

"You need a vacation," my mother tells me over the phone Sunday afternoon. "Your father and I would love to have you here."

I'm fairly certain my childhood bed is ready and waiting for me, as it has been since I left Chicago for UW when I was eighteen.

"Thanks, Ma." I smile sadly into the phone. "Soon. I promise."

I hear her sigh on the other end. "Edward, you've been saying that for years now."

I hate being the one to make her sound like this.

"I know."

I go to bed later that night dreaming of a vacation I'll never take.

The next morning after showering off my morning run, I make my way to the balcony off the living room of my apartment. It's my favorite part of the day, and as I listen to the sounds of the city slowly coming back to life, I sip my coffee and hope to find some semblance of motivation to head into work.

Some days it's hard to remember why I chose this life.

Other days it's as if this life chose me.

It's a toxic relationship and I can't stop myself from going back for more, no matter the damage it causes to myself or anyone else in my path.

Sighing, I let my chin fall to my chest, acknowledging the fatigue that settles into my bones like a fever. It's heavy, exhausting, and ridiculously self-imposed, but I'll never be able to stop. It's a call I answer, again and again, unable to ignore it no matter the toll it takes on my mind and my body.

I'm hoping the steaming cup of coffee I hold in my hand will help ease some of the stress that has me awake before the sun comes up. It's in fleeting moments like these when the rest of the world is sleeping and some of the demons they possess remain dormant for a small breath of time, that I'm reminded of the reason why I do what I do. This quiet, this brief sense of peace, is what I pictured in my mind when I swore an oath to protect the citizens of Seattle. For mornings like these where the chirps of the birds and the water lapping against the banks below whisper promises of there being more to life than my own dismal reality.

I take a tentative sip of the coffee, my eyes looking out over the Sound in preparation for my day to begin. Mornings always arrive earlier for me than others, though there are times I walk into the office to find other lost souls like myself on a chase for answers that are never guaranteed to come in our line of work.

Closing my eyes, I exhale loudly as I rest my elbows against the rails of the balcony, the chill of the early morning finally waking me up the way I need it to. Leads for pending cases came in late last night and take over my thoughts now as the quiet minutes between me and the world pass by, and I need to be awake and coherent if I want to get ahead on the unsolved cases piling up on my desk and my mind. I'm wondering where to begin, how to delegate all the shit this city throws at me, when my phone rings from inside my pocket.

Against my better judgment, I reach to answer it, knowing once I take the call there will be no turning back. This call will turn into another, and then another, and tomorrow morning I'll find myself out here on this same balcony, contemplating every decision I've ever made in my life that has brought me here to this prison of monotonous hell.

"Cullen?" The brisk voice of Billy Black cuts through the serenity of the morning, and I scratch the back of my head in anticipation of the day ahead.

"Morning, Captain."

"Did I wake you up?" He already knows the answer but at least has the decency to ask.

"No," I reply, willing my legs to move towards the sliding glass door. "Heading over now."

Captain clears his throat. "I need you over at Puget Park as soon as you can."

"Puget Park?"

He pauses a beat, the kind that tells me everything is about to change once he speaks. "Someone reported a body."

And it begins.