Free A Brutal Tenderness by Marata Eros

image of Faith, and
my hand balls into a fist as I will myself to concentrate on this
victim.
“Why here?” I ask no one, but Adams responds.
    “The other body was just buried. We’re just  .  .  .” Adams
looks at the fresh grave of victim number eleven, Tawny Simon.
I tear off my glove and stand, toss it in the hazard collector,
and walk away from Adams, from memories of Faith. I’m
usually so controlled that nothing gets me. That modus
operandi isn’t working anymore.
Jewell’s gotten to me. The case has had me from the
beginning. For the first time in my life, the path leads nowhere.
Luke walks up to me. “I know I shouldn’t say this here.”
I look at him. The bruise and cut I gave him for his trouble
when he laid hands on Jewell are healing, but they linger as a
reminder to us. Of where we separate.
“Did you have to hit me this hard?” Adams asks with a
slight chuckle.
I turn, striding to him, and he holds his ground, closing the
small notebook he holds.
“I wanted to do more,” I say with feeling, anger a warm tide
rich in my voice.
My partner of three years and my friend of many more
stares at me, taking in my expression. “Do I need to go to
O’Rourke?” he asks softly, his voice having the barest hint of
menace.
“What are you saying?” I ask in a hoarse whisper, the profile
of Amanda Miller’s corpse mocking me as rain begins in a
steady drizzle, the forensic technicians crawling around her like
the maggots will in good time.
I close my eyes tightly for a minute, collecting myself—a
newly acquired habit.
When I open them, Adams says, “O’Rourke said to make it
look real. To entice this fucking limp noodle.”
I scowl. “There’s nothing wrong with that prick’s noodle,
Adams.”
He looks down, and we’re silent, thinking about the
criminal violation of Amanda Miller.
Of Faith.
“You’re too in your head on this, Steel.” He pauses, flicking
his hazel eyes to mine as the rain begins to drench my
nonexistent hair. “You’re not reacting well to our roles.”
“You hurt her. She had bruises, Luke.” I say, looking down
my nose at the two inches of height that separate us.
He stares at me for a long moment. “And that bothers you?”
he asks with a raised brow.
I tense; he’s circling private shit. “With her, yeah.”
Adams whistles low. “Wow. She’s the subject, Cas.”
I scrub my head, beads of water flying while the forensic
team curses the weather. Water is the great evidence destroyer.
“You think I don’t fucking know that?”
Adams just looks at me. “I think you need a goddamned
reminder when you start beating the shit out of your partner
for doing his job.”
We’re silent as the water darkens our clothing, the white
noise of the rain cocooning our conversation.
“What is it about this girl?” Adams asks in a soft voice so
the other agents can’t hear us. “Is it because of Faith? I know
you think she should have done something.” His voice says how
ridiculous that precept is. I shake my head, but he raises his
eyebrows. He doesn’t believe me.
“Don’t play the hero. I liked you better when you thought
she was someone to nail this fuck with. Keep your focus. Jewell
MacLeod is the subject. Period. We want to peg this guy. Are
you hearing me?”
I liked it better too; it was easier. But simple doesn’t mean
uncomplicated, and things have changed. I look back at Adams
as he waits for me to give him the answer he wants to hear.
I don’t. I can’t give it. “I feel you,” I evade.
“Good,” he says, clearly relieved. “I thought you were going
to go all white fucking knight or something.”
We look at each other, and he knows me. Really knows me.
That’s what happens when you’re partners with someone. Luke
isn’t just my partner. He’d seen firsthand what happened when
we were growing up together. Lived through my old man’s
alcoholic rages. Bore witness to my fury at not being able to
defend my mother.