Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains themes of domestic abuse, child injury/violence, alcohol use, and adult situations. Reader discretion is advised.
"Why'd you do it, Marcie?"
"Do what, Detective?"
"Why'd you kill your husband?"
"I didn't kill him. My son only wanted to protect me."
– • –
"Biff." Officer Martinez called out to the detective. It was the old nickname he'd given her when they were kids. Back then, he couldn't pronounce "Beth," and it became "Biff." It was also the name she came to love when she had fallen for him.
"I told you not to call me that at work or ever again," she scolded without lifting her eyes from the case she had just received. According to the file, an 8-year-old boy had gunned down his father while trying to defend his mother. But to Bethany, something didn't sit right.
"Why are you treating me like this?"
"You mean after I caught you in our bed with your work partner?" She raised a brow and flipped through the pages, her eyes still glued to the paperwork. Despite her cold demeanor, her heart ached. She took a deep breath, closed the documents, and dropped them onto the desk she was seated on.
"Biff—"
"Detective," she corrected sharply. "And I'm not interested in hearing your excuses. Same reason I ignored your calls."
For months, Bethany had been haunted by his affair. Every time she stepped into the precinct, she had panic attacks so severe she was forced to take a leave. Even though it was for the best, the time off only made things worse. For the first two months, she drowned her sorrows in alcohol before finally pulling herself together. By then, Estefan had already moved out of their shared apartment, claiming they both needed space. She couldn't stomach staying there either, so she moved into her parents' old house.
"Detective, the chief is calling for you," said a short, chubby woman with a curly bob.
"Thanks, Martha." Bethany smiled and popped a piece of gum into her mouth. She no longer had the energy to waste on her soon-to-be ex-husband.
"Biff—"
"Detective."
"Detective—can't we make this work? Do we really need to get a divorce?" He followed her toward the chief's office.
"Is it because I'm taking you for everything you're worth?" She spun around, a warm smile stretched across her face. She was already holding the door to the chief's office.
"Biff—" She shut the door before he could finish.
She slumped into the chair before the chief's desk, melting into it as her heart raced. She thought she was over everything, but clearly she still needed more time. She released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"Thank you for joining me, Detective Parker," the chief said while closing the blinds. "And welcome back on your first day."
"Thank you, Chief."
"I have good news for you." He grinned ear to ear. Bethany wasn't fooled — whenever he had "good" news, it was always terrible for her. He made his way to his desk and pulled a file from the drawer. "We recently approved a transfer. From Russia."
"Russia?"
"Russia." His grin widened.
"Okay…" She squinted suspiciously. What does a transfer from Russia have to do with me?
"When was the last time you had a partner?" he asked, though they both knew the answer: a year or two ago. Her last partner's stubbornness caused a suspect to escape. When Bethany reprimanded him, he called her a "heifer." Everyone in the Black community knows you never call a Black woman a heifer. Long story short: she was suspended for beating him unconscious with the butt of her gun.
"I don't need a partner," she muttered. It was protocol for all detectives to have one, but with her 95% success rate — and the rumor of what happened to her last partner — the chief let her work alone.
"Don't think of it as getting a partner. Think of it as friendship training."
"That's even worse."
"Take the file." He handed it across the desk. Bethany tucked it under her arm. "You'll be picking her up at the airport. She'll also be your new roommate."
"Roommate? Don't you think I'm too old for roommates?"
"You're also too old to be living in my house, but here we are."
Bethany placed a hand dramatically over her chest. "First of all, plenty of parents wish their kids would come home. Second, I'm 29. I'm still young."
"Mhm." The chief, also her father, placed his glasses on and returned to his work. "Now get out of my office."
Bethany grabbed her jacket and belt from her desk. Before she could leave the precinct, a shrill voice called:
"Where ya goin'?" Cindy, her childhood friend and the office's secretary, never understood the concept of an inside voice.
"I'm going home for a bit."
"Must be nice. I'm stuck handlin' all 'ese papers."
Bethany chuckled, shook her head, and headed to the airport. She didn't think it was a good idea to tell Cindy she was getting a new partner.
– • –
"Anastasia Walker." Walker? Bethany thought. "Age: 32. Height: 6'3."
Before she could process it, a knock hit her window. She closed the documents and tossed them into the backseat before rolling down the glass.
"Are you Bethany?" asked a tall woman with a thick accent, stooped down and holding a photo of her.
"Are you Anastasia?" Bethany asked, having already memorized the photo.
"You don't look like a Bethany," the muscular woman said. She had platinum-blonde hair and icy blue eyes.
"And you definitely don't look like an Anastasia," Bethany replied, unlocking the doors. She'd heard that comment countless times — that she didn't look or sound like a Bethany. She enjoyed making people uncomfortable by asking if it was because of her skin color.
Anastasia placed her luggage in the trunk and squeezed into the passenger seat. Her legs were far too long, and it took 10 minutes of adjusting before she finally fit.
"So, Detective Walker—" Bethany began awkwardly, keeping her eyes on the road.
"Anastasia."
"Excuse me?"
"Call me Anastasia. 'Detective Walker' is too formal."
"I see."
"Tell me about the case."
"Victims: Marcie Kensington, 48, and Timothy, 8. Deceased: Mark Kensington, 53. According to Marcie, Mark would get abusive when drunk. That night he threatened her life. He stabbed her in the thigh, and just as he was about to kill her, her son fired the gun. She says he only meant to scare him but ended up hitting him."
"The weapon?"
"A shotgun."
"Can an 8-year-old handle a shotgun?"
"Normally, no — which is why we're looking into it."
They pulled into Bethany's driveway just as her mother stepped onto the porch.
"Bethany Ann Marie Parker!" her mother called, making Bethany wince. The full-name treatment was never good.
"Mom." Bethany stepped out of the car, arms wide. "What are you doing here?" Anastasia followed closely behind.
"I came to clean after your father told me you'd have a roommate. Lo and behold, the house is filled to the brim with beer bottles." Evelynn whacked her daughter on the shoulder, her Jamaican accent slipping out. "How many times have I told you not to leave so many empty bottles on the counter? Hm?"
"I simply forgot."
"'Simply forgot?' Simply forgot?" She whacked Bethany a few more times. "Let me help you remember not to do it again."
Bethany darted into the house. She wasn't hurt — but who wants to be whacked by their mom at 29?
Evelynn turned to Anastasia with a warm smile. The contrast shocked the tall woman. Although Bethany lived at her parents' house, her parents lived a few blocks away.
"I'm so sorry about that," Evelynn said, smoothing down her dress and extending her hand. Anastasia shook it. "I'm Evelynn Parker. Lovely to meet you."
"I'm Anastasia Walker. The pleasure is mine. And please, call me Anastasia."
"My, what a lovely name."
They entered the home and found Bethany taking a chicken leg from a pot on the stove, the burner still lit. Whenever Evelynn came to clean, she always left food. She knew her daughter despised cooking.
After helping Anastasia bring in her bags, Evelynn gave her a tour. Once she was gone, Bethany and Anastasia headed back to work. Bethany still felt something off about the case. How did a child that young know how to use a shotgun? Yes, it was the 21st century and kids had access to the internet — but still. No parent would allow an 8-year-old near a weapon.
With Anastasia in the passenger seat, Bethany handed her the files to review. She planned to visit the Kensingtons' neighborhood — not to speak with the family, but with their neighbors.
If Mark had been such an abusive husband, surely someone would have heard something.
Right?