Some people stick with you; they burrow so deep inside that you have no choice but to integrate them. Make them a part of you.
That’s Layla Sinclair.
My old partner’s life complimented mine and made me a better cop.
Her death left me carved out and hollow.
I lean back in the passenger seat of the cruiser listening to some bullshit Brittney Spears because it’s always the driver’s choice. That doesn’t change at least.
Sometimes life just flips on you. The coin twists, faster than you can imagine, and nothing is the same.
“Cheer up!” the driver tells me in bubblegum pink tones. “Was it the coffee, Devan? Did I not get the order right again?” Detective Naomi Elison slaps herself on the forehead hard enough that her head hits the back of the seat and the car takes a sharp jerk to the left. “I’m sorry!”
“Watch the road,” I tell her with a grimace. “And it’s not the coffee, Detective Elison.”
“What is it? You’ve been so quiet. Did I do something wrong?”
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Stop talking.”
