Ford
I FEEL LIKE ABSOLUTE SHIT.
Coupled with yet another shitty and sleepless night, and I'm a living nightmare. Dark purple crescents mar the skin under my bleary, bloodshot eyes that can rival Genevieve's.
Enduring a lecture before lunch is hellish and I find my attention constantly drifting to the avenue that is Genevieve McGuire. She's a constant on my mind, and nothing I can do will ever prevent that.
After hanging up on her last night—it's undeniable: I'm a dick—I never messaged her to explain. I couldn't articulate my chaotic feelings into words, especially apologetic ones at that. Who knew that the entire ordeal would be fucking with my head as well as Genevieve's?
Intimacy. It fucks us all.
What's detrimental is that I haven't supplied her with her first dose of Bullet for the day. I just couldn't face her and have to explain, because if I can't transfer my feelings into a simple message, there's no way I can express them to her face.
My resolve persists until I'm sitting in my Audi after lunch to go to David Abrahams' house, though my engine is merely idling as I'm waiting for Jeremiah—figured I could do with the intimidation that is his muscles, buzzcut and tattoos. He's more than happy to join me for the adventure, especially after I informed all the guys this morning. Even Harris who was only marginally pissed that I'd managed to achieve some feat in the investigation of the girls was impressed.
My fingers fumble for my phone and I pull up my recent messages to Genevieve, which consist of the four mildly irritated ones she sent last night when I was supposed to call her, and then a couple after my abrupt hanging up, though I ignored those too. Now, I settle for what I hope to be an olive branch.
Ford: I'll call you after I'm done visiting David Abrahams
Her response is snarky and full of attitude, but I know it's what I deserve after the shit from last night.
Genevieve: This time I won't care if you forget to call me
Feisty.
Suddenly the passenger door jerks open and Jeremiah is groaning as he sinks into the car. He slings his backpack into the backseats, careful not to scratch any of my interior, and then as he's tugging at the seatbelt, he turns to me and frowns. "You look even worse than you did this morning."
I roll my eyes and rev the engine, pulling away from the parking space. "Don't remind me," I mutter, and even as I speak it, I can feel the fatigue creeping into my body and I already know that I'm due a day where I just space out and sleep. Maybe even Jeremiah senses it too. The fatigue mingling with the guilt is a lethal combination.
Jeremiah's quiet as he navigates us to David Abrahams' house. Turns out, it's a quaint little building. Flowers border the front of the old-fashioned build with a neat walkway from the gate to the front porch. I know from viewing his West Point profile that he resides with his wife, as recently their only son has flown the nest and moved out. It's a small mercy to have one less person to worry about, but the wife will be the tricky one.
Pulling up, Jeremiah sizes up the house. He exhales loudly, nostrils flaring as he gazes up at it. With a simple jerk of my head, he follows me through the gate, politely locking it afterwards, and I'm pressing the doorbell just as he sidles up to me. It's a few moments' wait before a statute of a man is approaching through the fogged glass that boasts of a belly you would not attribute to a stealthy hitman. Or private investigator, actually.
Dread settles in the pit of my stomach, and I know it will only continue to fester throughout the looming discussion with David. There's no chance in hell that he's our hitman Interpreter, but it's curiosity-piquing that he manufactured the profile on the illegal side of West Point. It's distinct that he's done it on the behalf of someone else, but if he can provide us with a name, then that's the golden prize for Detective Barrera.
