The Departed

the cop, he pulled his credentials out. While he wasn’t sure, he had a bad feeling that “crazy bitch” the kid was referring to was Dez.
    The cop was politer than some, hiding his irritation behind a professional smile. “I don’t suppose your people would be a lady, would it? Looks kinda tall, dark hair?”
    “That’s not overly descriptive.” He glanced down, then met the man’s gaze. “Officer Lipscomb.”
    “Well, I can’t see her particularly well. As you can see.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder and Taylor followed his hand. And saw nothing. So he followed the gazes of the other officers…who were all looking up .
    Oh, holy hell .
    Other than that silent curse, he didn’t allow himself any reaction, though. Couldn’t afford that, because he didn’t want anybody to know he had no fucking clue what Dez was up to—and yes, it sure as hell was Dez up there gliding along a beam like some sort of whacked-out gymnast. Okay, even for her, this was rather odd behavior, he had to admit.
    She came to a stop near the crossing point of two of the beams, bracing a hand on one of the central supports that ran from the ceiling down.
    At that point, some moron with a megaphone decided she was secure. “Ma’am, you need to come back down. You’re not authorized to be up there.”
    Dez looked down.
    Taylor couldn’t make out the expression on her face, but he saw…something. He also knew the exact moment she saw him. If he wasn’t mistaken, her body stiffened in shock. Although from down here it looked like, for all he knew, she was just taking a breather before she stood up to continue her little dance across the ceiling.
    * * *
     
    TAYLOR.
    Dez closed her eyes. After a count of five, she took another look. Oh, yes. It was him. Like she could miss him. She could be in a dark, crowded room with a thousand other people and if he was there, she’d know it, sense it somehow.
    Swallowing, she dragged her eyes away from him. She couldn’t focus on him now, because that bucket was right beneath her and she had to look. Either she’d find what she suspected she’d find or she’d look like she’d lost her mind, and possibly get arrested. “Wonder if he’ll get me out of it,” she muttered.
    Then she braced herself and looked down.
    As the avalanche of rage and grief and disbelief rushed at her, she whispered, “I think I’d rather get arrested.”
    She wished she was wrong. She’d rather be arrested; she’d rather spend the night locked up, hell, a week…a month. Anything but this.
    Staring down at the restrained form, at those slumped shoulders and downcast head, a crack spread through her heart and started to spill black, bitter blood.
    “Tristan. I found her.”
    Then she looked up and focused her gaze on Taylor. She reached for her phone and entered a number she hadn’t used in over a year. She didn’t bother calling him—her voice wouldn’t hold for now. She was too angry, too pissed, too broken.
    She just sent a text and tried to figure out what they were supposed to do.
    THERE’S a girl in this bucket thing. Don’t know if she’s alive.
    Taylor had to read it twice before he managed to process it.
    Blood roared in his ears and for a second that dragged out into eternity, he couldn’t even get his mind to work. Then time resumed and he lifted his head and stared at Dez across the feet and open air that separated them.
    Even from here, he imagined he could see the torment on her face.
    Dez might not know now.
    But he did.
    This one was alive. Dez had a way of easing the pain of the deceased but she’d never been as good with helping the living and their pain haunted her.
    Son of a bitch .
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
    T HIS isn’t happening .
    Gnawing on his thumbnail, Brendan told himself this wasn’t happening. It was just some fucked-up dream and he’d wake up and it would all be okay. Maybe he’d just had a few too many drinks, had let some of that pussy Mark’s death-and-doom premonitions get the better of him. This wasn’t happening—he’d wake up and it would all be okay.
    But he didn’t believe it.
    Not really. It all felt too real. He knew it. He really was sitting in one of the conference rooms at the hotel, waiting to talk to the damn cops. He had to wait for his dad, and he had to talk to the cops. They all had to give statements.
    Fucking statements.
    Somebody was going to talk. Mark. Kyle. Beau…no. Not Beau—Beau had his shit together. But somebody. Shit,