Page 108 of Once Upon a Lie

But I always stop myself with one question: If I call her, what do I say?

“Hey, Teen. Sorry I detonated your heart with a text I didn’t even send myself. Sorry your brother threatened to shoot me in the dick in a government building. How’s your morning going?”

“Hey, sorry I’ve been lying to you since the moment we met, but I really do love you, so, yeah? What do you say?”

There’s no version of the truth I can give her without making it worse. There’s no version of I didn’t have a choice that doesn’t sound like an excuse. And God help me, there’s no version of me hearing her voice—hurt, confused, crying, angry—that ends with me hanging up like a good little soldier.

I’d run right to her. And that’s a big fucking problem in more ways than one.

Yesterday, I did something I wasn’t approved to do. Something I’m not proud of, but I’m also not sorry about. I drove past Magnolia. I wasn’t close enough to be seen, but I was just close enough to torture myself with the idea that I might spot her walking out of the lobby in sweats and a messy bun.

She wasn’t there.

So I continued my reckless, desperate stupidity and drove past The Hole Story.

I kept moving past her shop like I had an actual destination, like I was just another car passing through. I glanced at the sidewalk. The windows. The front counter that always looks warm even when the lights are off.

But I only got a glimpse of Sunnie and Cher behind the counter. There was no Teeny to be seen.

I’ve told myself a dozen explanations of why she wasn’t where I’d expect her in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon.

She was working in the back or she had to call in sick with a cold or she was in her condo crying and cursing my fucking name because I broke her heart.

Goddamn. I would love to choke out Nico Cordone. And I’m not talking in a metaphorical “I’m posing as a tough guy” way. I’m talking in a real way, where my fingers close around his throat and I watch his smug, cold CIA composure crack.

I don’t care what he said about why he let this happen. In my opinion, he didn’t protect her. He protected the mission and called it love.

I swear, my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching it since he pulled his gun on me.

This whole thing is so fucked I can’t see straight.

Mike said Valentina was cleared and I’d be back at MNPD like life could just go back to normal.

As if I could just shrug it all off. As if Valentina is just some case file and not the one and only woman I’ve ever truly loved.

For the past two days, I’ve been in hell, and it turns out hell isn’t fire at all.

Hell is knowing exactly where the exit is and being chained to the wall anyway.

Thursday, November 4

8:30 a.m.

I’m not supposed to officially start back at work until Monday. Cap told me to take a week and get my bearings again while the noise dies down after the paper runs the story clearing my name.

But at six this morning, my phone rang, and I saw Cap’s name.

I answered on the second ring.

“Maddox,” he said, brisk and tired. “You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Tracy says you’ve got paperwork that needs to be signed and in your file before you’re fully released back to homicide. She’s got it on her desk. Come in and handle it this morning.”

I didn’t ask what it was. I didn’t ask why it couldn’t wait. When Cap tells you to show up, you show up. And if I’m being painfully honest, having a reason to get out of my house felt like oxygen.

So now I’m standing in the bullpen again, wearing my own badge on my belt again, but it doesn’t feel like I’m back. It feels like I’m haunting the place.