Detective Jorge Ramirez…

Stolen image, tacked to board and patiently waiting.

The skin beneath my wedding ring is red, made raw by years of abuse. I twirl the metal, around and around, searching for a solution.

I can't see it.

I can't see it.

Talk to me.

"I don't see it," I say as I look at the file photo in my hands, black and white copy of events gone past. Captain Kansan looks at me, fire in his veins, pulsing.

He isn't angry, he is waiting; waiting for me to see.

"That's cause you're looking at the photo, rookie," he tells me as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, his movements seasoned. I feel small, crushed under the weight of his experience.

"Aren't, aren't I supposed to be?" I stutter, remnant of a nervous twitch that I quickly learned to replace with tact and leadership. The other officers, older than me, start to snicker.

I shift on my feet and look at the Captain, only the Captain; focus.

"Hey, assholes, I've got a seven year old and her mom with fucking tags on their toes down in the city morgue. No names, nothing. Get back to work," he says, wiping the smiles off of their faces.

He exhales a steady stream of smoke and moves to stand behind me, my heart throbbing in my chest. "Don't look at the photo," he says as he taps the thick piece of paper, held tightly in my hands. "See." He takes another pull on the cigarette and waits for my inevitable doubt.

"I don't under…."

"I know, but trust me," he says and I do. I trust him, enough to close my eyes and open them again. I take a deep breath and look down at the photo. I think of nothing. I want nothing. I give… nothing. I wait.

The image starts to pop out at me as my eyes rake over the thin gloss, stinging from the visual assault. "Now, tell me what you see."

"Scratches on her neck, bruises around her right jaw. Decaying leaves, in her hair," I say, "pine needles." I pause as I look at the needles, tangled wantonly in massive ebony curls. There are no pine trees here, none. "She didn't die here," I whisper.

"Exactly," he says as he drops his cigarette to the ground and stubs it out, pressing the paper covered filter into the soft earth beneath our feet. "Don't watch the photos, listen to the victims," he says as we head back to the cruiser.

"Come on, we've got more work to do."

I trace his footsteps, all the way back to the car and back into the city. One word, simple and complete resonates through my mind, 'see.'

"I'm missing something. What is it?" I ask the photos across the room. They don't answer, they can't. Death, murder and mystery are portentous that way. I stand up, placing one foot in front of the other as I make my way across the room.

I stop, standing in front of the photos, the victims. Janna Monroe, body decomposed beyond recognition.

I bite the tip of my tongue, twisting my ring, over and over. "Red scarves at all the crime scenes," I whisper into the air as I shadow my hand over the photos. "Bite marks," I add to the list.

Twist…

"One survivor, Justin Taylor," I say. I place my hands on my hips and close my eyes. I relax my muscles, slow my breathing.

Focus.

I can feel the pulse of my heart, the damp sound of choking muscle as I struggle to take in just one more breath of air. His fingers press into the flesh of my neck, holding me steady, against the wall.

"Cops, you're all the same. You think you're so smart. You think you know everything. You don't know shit," he says as he repositions his fingers, pressing into my flesh. I can feel the blood as it floods my face, crashing through my body, wondering where to go.

"It's a shame really," he says as he traces a finger down my face and across my chest, pausing to pop open the buttons on my shirt, "we could have had so much fun together." Tremors flow through me, numbing my fingers and quieting my feet.

"Hmm," he says as his hand finds my cock. "Maybe we still can." My fingers never stop moving, working to pry his fingers from my throat. His fingers are even more frantic, a kid in a candy store.

He pulls me forward, stepping behind me as we move to the mirror across the room. The streetlight pours in, reflecting shards of artificial light across his hand and over my chest.

His grip is looser now.

"My mother looked beautiful in the moonlight," he says as he moves his left hand up and down my chest, his right held lazily against my throat and shoulder blade. "She would stare in the mirror for hours, looking at her bruises, crying." I can't stop my body from shaking.

I roll my lips into my mouth, a simple gesture, to swallow the tears that threaten to rip from me. He smiles, soft and sweet as he raises his finger to my lips, tracing the warm digit over my lips. Terror, so raw and white streaks through me as his finger slices through the air.

He pulls his index finger, perfectly manicured, into his mouth, letting it linger.

He closes his eyes and I can feel his dick, pressing into me through his jeans. He leans forward, opening his eyes to watch my reflection stare back at him. "Till death… do us part," he breathes into my ear.

He clamps down on the skin of my neck, biting until the flesh is broken. My knees buckle and he holds me steady as we sink to the floor. I catch the indentation on his finger, where his ring should be, as we drop out of sight of the mirror.

"Shit," I say as I open my eyes, my pulse speeding along with the dwindling possession. I look at the photos again. I step closer to the board, my breathing ragged and expectant.

See.

I can see the faint mark of a ring along the necks of three of the bodies, the shoulder of one and the thighs of another. I look down at my own hand. Distinct discoloration marks my skin as I slide my ring forward slightly.

My eyes travel the length of his body as he talks. "On Tuesdays I go to my son's soccer games," he says. He flips the flap closed on his bag and buckles the clasps. The clouds shift, burying his bag in illumination.

There is no glint from a wedding band, but the tan lines of a matrimonial band contradict his appearance. "Are you married, Mr. Matthews?" I ask, knowing the answer. He drops the mask, briefly and recovers just as fast. Josh moves, coming to a stop in the spot next to me.

"Yes, I am." I nod my head and smile as I point at his ring finger.

"You seem to be missing something," I say. He doesn't look at his finger but it jerks, just slightly.

Colorless anger pours from his cheery facade. I can't see it but I can feel it. "If you'll excuse me, I have to be going," he states. I hand him my card as he tries to rush past.

"In case you think of something," I tell him. He looks at me and then at Josh before disappearing out the door.

I grab my badge and my gun off my desk. I open my office door and step into the common area, a sea of desks, paperwork and endless amounts of death and hardship. "Hey," I say as I make my way over to Josh's office, the walls still blank.

"Hey, what's up?" he asks with all of his attention focused on the box on his new desk. Promotion to detective and a nice pay increase. I remember when it was me.

"I may have found something. Let's go," I say tapping on the doorframe and walking towards the front door of the station. I hear Josh as he grabs his things and falls into step behind me.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asks as we reach the car and I unlock the door. I hear the click of the lock and look over at Josh, telling him my thoughts over the hood of my cruiser.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Justin…

I watch the colors as they attach themselves to the platinum of my ring, holding on long enough to leave the slightest impression. The colors have come and gone as the time rolls past, leaving just enough color in their wake to tell the time.

"You've been laying there for over two days," Brian says as he stands next to the bed. I look up at him and clear my throat, the tightness of my jaw making the action slow and meaningful.

"I always knew you were good at math," I say with the smallest smirk I can produce. He huffs a laugh and nods his head.

"And I always knew you had a flair for the dramatic," he tells me as he pulls a cigarette from behind his ear and looks around for a lighter. I shrug my shoulder, he misses the motion as he turns and leaves the room, searching for his lighter.

"It's not something to be taken lightly," I defend as my eyes, once again, fall into rhythm with the colors. "It takes time and dedication to get to my level of expertise."

I sniff, long and hard as I push my bike up the driveway, tossing the two-wheeler onto its side. I use the back of my arm to wipe away the sweat, tears, dust and dirt that has gathered on my face.

Daphne is right behind me, her long braids hanging over her shoulders as she drops her bike down next to mine. "Wow, I think its bleeding even more now. Let me see it," she says as I stand next to her, raising my arm so she can see the large scrape.

"Yeah," I say as we both look.

"It looks really gross," she offers with a laugh as she reaches out her dirt covered hand. I take a hurried step back.

"Eww," I stretch out, "don't touch it." She rolls her eyes as I bend my arm at an awkward angle so that I too can see the large wound.

"You're such a baby," she says as we walk through my open garage door, pausing at the door that leads into the house.

"I am not. I'm older than you," I say, stretching myself to my full height as if that solidifies my eight and a half years on the planet. She crosses her arms and smirks.

"By like, what? Three whole weeks, Pfft," she says as she pushes past me and opens the door, walking into the house. I shrug as I follow her. She walks over to the refrigerator and pulls open the door.

"Hands," I hear my mother say as she walks into the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron that protects her clothes. Daphne huffs and moves over to the sink, washing her hands quickly. "Soap," my mom says as Daphne starts to walk away.

"Aww, Mrs. Taylor," Daphne says as she turns to wash her hands, again. My mother has her back to me, occupied with Daphne.

"I know, I'm so horrible," my mother says as she steps back in front of the tray of cookies that she's baking. "Forgive me for not wanting you to eat the germs of every girl and boy on the playground."

Daphne shuts the water off with a laugh, wiping her hands on her shirt. "Uh…" my mom says with a sigh before resigning us to a life of germs. Her eyes finally fall on me as I wander to the sink to wash my hands.

"Justin, sweetie, what happened?" my mom asks as she quickly moves to my side, holding onto my arm and raising it to her eye level. "Oh my God," she says as she looks down at my knee.

"He fell off his bike," Daphne answers happily, wiping away her milk mustache and nodding her head.

Huge tears fall from my eyes at her inquiry, staining my shirt with salted vengeance. "I fell off my bike," I say through choked sobs. Daphne rolls her eyes as she pours herself some more milk, grabbing the chocolate syrup.

My mom makes a face as she leads me over to the kitchen table. Daphne follows, sitting in the chair across from mine, popping the top off of the chocolate syrup bottle. "Let me get the first aid kit," my mom says as she leaves the room, returning quickly.

Daphne turns the chocolate syrup over letting it drizzle into her milk, chocolate strands marking the sides of the glass. "I have told you two to be careful when you're riding your bikes."

I look at Daphne and smile.

We were as careful as you can be while trying to stay on our bikes as we took turns spinning the merry-go round as fast as possible. So, technically, fell is a loose description. Flew off is the more appropriate account of what happened.

"We were, Mrs. Taylor," Daphne says as she stirs the chocolate into the milk, taking a deep gulp.

"Yeah," I sniff, the last of my tears leaving a trail through the dirt on my face. I wince as my mom pours hydrogen peroxide on my wounds. Daphne leans over the table, watching. I snatch the glass from between her fingers and drink the rest of the cold liquid.

"Hey," she complains.

"There," my mom says as she applies the last bandage, "you're as good as new." She kisses me on the top of the head and goes to put the kit away.

"See, I told you. Baby," Daphne says as she points at the tears on my face. I pout and smack her hand away.

"Shut up," I say. "That was for the effect."

"Sure," she says as my mom walks back into the kitchen, wiping her washed hands on her apron. She steps back up to the counter and starts to finish taking the cooled cookies off the cookie sheet. Daphne and I press our bodies into her, one on each side.

"One," my mom says and we both grab two.

"Why do I even bother?" She asks as she drops some more dough onto the cookie sheet and puts it in the oven. I grab a glass and the ice cream. Daphne grabs the milk out of the refrigerator. "Don't make a mess."

"We won't," we shout as we scramble back over to the table.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Brian…

"I bet," I say as I locate my lighter and light my cigarette, turning to watch him lying in the bed, watching the colors as they play against his ring.

A sharp knock on the door halts anything else I might say. I walk over to the door and slide it back. "Daphne," I say with a smile.

"Hey, Brian," she says with a smile as she gestures inside.

"Come on in," I say, moving to the side. She enters the loft and walks over to the kitchen, setting down the grocery bag she is carrying. "Sunshine, you have a visitor."

"Go away," he says without knowing who it is. Daphne frowns and I take a glance at Justin. Daphne turns to me as she tosses off her jacket.

"How long has he been in there?" she whispers.

I run a hand over my face and take a deep breath, smiling exhaustedly. "Over two days," I tell her.

Her mouth opens slightly as she looks back at her best friend, her eyes leaving him to trail across the loft. The sketchpad, charcoal and spilled attempts at art still linger on the floor. "Two days," she repeats as she swallows her tears and takes a deep breath.

I nod as I rest my upper body on the counter.  "I can't get him to get up for anything other than the bathroom," I tell her as we both look at Justin. He is up and down, in and out, happy and sad. He is blaming himself.

"Why don't you go out? See Michael or something," she suggests. I look over into her brown eyes and smile. "He'll be fine," she says, leaning into me,."I promise."

I stand up straight, lean over and kiss her firmly on the cheek.

"You're welcome," she says as I move away, into the bedroom to get my things.

"Daphne's here. She wants to see you," I tell him. His left leg moves, smoothing over the duvet and coming to rest again.

"I told you," he says dryly, "I don't want to see anyone." I walk over to the side of the bed and kiss him, my lips pressing against the corner of his mouth. He doesn't pull away.

"Do you ever listen to anything I say?" he asks as he steps in front of me, his hands hanging at his sides. I look up from my boards, eyebrow raised and waiting.

"No."

"Okay, just checking," he says as he walks back over to his computer and sits down. He knows I listen to every word that comes out of his mouth.

"I know," I say as I move away. "I heard you." I walk away from him, the hardest steps I have ever had to make. I hate walking away from him. Daphne is standing next to the door, her arms crossed across her chest, hair in curls.

I kiss her on the cheek and she smiles. "If he needs…"

"He'll be fine. Just go," she tells me as she unfolds her arms and slides the door open. I take one last look toward the bedroom and walk out the door. She closes it quickly before I change my mind and I hear the lock turn.

I wait before reluctantly moving toward the lift. I step inside and drop the gate.

I lean against the wall of the lift, closing my eyes and enjoying the distance that I am gaining from the loft. I can't shake the pressure.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Justin…

I can hear Daphne as she walks across the floor and up the stairs. She leans onto the frame of the bed and crawls up, stopping at my pillow. She lays her head down, her body facing mine. "Hey," she says quietly as if someone will hear our secrets.

"What are you doing here? I told Brian I didn't want to see anyone," I tell her, staring directly into her eyes. She sighs and moves her legs, just slightly.

"I know," she whispers, "I got the message."

"Then what are you doing here?"

She doesn't answer. She frowns and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. I hate when she doesn't answer me. I see her hand move up in front of my face and over my head, before flicking me quickly in the ear.

"Ow. Fuck. Shit, Daphne that hurt. What the hell did you do that for?" I ask and she smiles brightly.

"Doesn't matter, it's in the past," she says softly.

"No, not The Lion King, again," I moan. Daphne looks over at me and smiles, her socked feet slicing through the air as she lies on her stomach in my bed. I flop down next to her just as the opening song is starting.

"I love The Lion King. It's the best movie in the whole world." I scoff and lean my head on her shoulder as she starts to sing.

"Yeah," I say, "if you're six, not nineteen." She looks over at me and laughs, her lips parting slightly.

"Dare I say, Peter Pan?" I clamp my hand over her mouth.

"Shut up, that's classic," I defend.

"In his little green tights," she adds with a laugh as I start to tickle her.

"Come on, get up," she says.

"No, I don't want to," I tell her, a pain shooting through my right arm. I stop talking, stop breathing as I close my eyes and wait for the pain to pass. I take a deep breath and open my eyes.

"You okay?"

"No," I breathe, locking my eyes on her. She nods her head and moves in close, kissing me on the cheek.

"You will be. Come on," she slides off the bed and stands up, hands on her hips, waiting. I don't try to argue as she pulls me up off the bed, her grip on my arm relentless. "I brought you… a present."

"What, not food, please not food," I say. She stops in her tracks, turning to look at me.

"Fuck you asshole, I can cook," she says as she pushes me down onto one of the stools at the counter.

"Cereal is not cooking." She shrugs as she walks around the counter and starts to unpack the bag she brought.

"Chocolate syrup, milk, vanilla ice cream and homemade cookies," she says as she turns around and picks up the blender.

"Oh God," I say. I can't help the smile that spreads over my face as she opens the Tupperware container full of cookies. "Did you make these?"

"No, I called my best friend's mother and she was happy, having been banned from all contact, to help." I reach out and grab one of the cookies, breaking it apart. Daphne hands me a plate and we get started.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Brian…

"Brian," Lindsay says as she opens the door and lets me in. "How's Justin?" she asks as she closes the door. I walk over to the couch and sit down, making sure to avoid landing on Gus' toys.

"He's breathing. He's with Daphne, probably making a mess of the loft, knowing them. Last time it was an attempt at making brownies." She laughs as she comes to rest on the couch next to me. "Where's Gus?"

"Out with Melanie," she tells me. "How are you?"

"Fabulous," I tell her, sounding anything but convincing. She leans into me, placing her hand on my leg as our eyes meet.

"Beer?" she asks with a nod.

I roll my lips inside my mouth and smile.  "Got anything stronger?" She gives me a small laugh as she stands up, holding onto my hand and pulling me with her into the kitchen.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Justin…

"Brian is going to kill us," I say as we both look up at the counter from our spot on the kitchen floor. Daphne laughs as she leans back against the cabinets.

"It'd be worth it," she says as she sucks the last of our childhood concoction through her straw. Chocolate chip cookie shakes, the best. "So, are you going to talk to me?"

"About?"

"Justin, I know you, okay? Cut the shit," she says as she plays with the straw, stirring it around in the empty glass. She moves across the floor and scoots into place beside me. "You think it's your fault?"

I look over at her, forcing the tears in my throat to stay down. "Yeah," I choke out, clearing my throat. "I just feel like I'm… I don't know, drowning."

She listens as I talk, her hands idly pulling at her hair, tears trailing silently down her face.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Brian…

"What's this?" I ask as I reach across the table, avoiding the two bottles of Vodka. It was all she had, Beam has to wait. Lindsay looks over at the brightly colored flyer in my hand.

I would have used a different font.

"Huh? Oh. That's a flyer for the Art Explosion. It's coming up soon. Art students from different colleges and universities compete every year for the top prize. Sydney offered them the gallery this year. You should bring Justin. Get him back into the world of art."

I stare down at the flyer. "Maybe," I say.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Ronnie Jr. …

My back is against the wall, pressing into the side of my shed.

I pull my right leg in close to me as I look at the paper in my hand. The headline, 'Detective Ramirez, Optimistic about outcome of case', blazes up at me. I open the scissors in my right hand, trapping the paper between the sharp blades as I start to cut.

"I hate cops," I say into the chilled air.

I let the article fall to the ground, resting comfortably on top of a pile of photos. Photos of victims, newspaper clippings, any and all mention of my activities. I look down at the brightly colored flyer next to the pile.

Art Explosion. I look forward to it.

I crawl off of him, making my way across the studio and over to the kitchen. There's nothing here, save for some wine and a couple of bottles of water. I turn the water on, as hot as possible.

I slip my wedding ring from my finger and sit it on the countertop. It was always too big. I plunge my hands into the water, pausing to pump soap into my palm from the bottle next to the sink.

Surface ablution is illusionary.

I frown as the sunlight breaks through the window of the shed, dusting my lower half in heat. I let my eyes trace the tan lines on my ring finger. I can't remember where I put that ring.

I can't remember.

Remember.

I can't.

"You should have never taken it off," Alison says with a sigh as she drops my hand and walks away from me, back into the laundry room. I don't follow her. I stand in the hallway, watching my reflection in the mirror.

"I know," I say.

"After all," she says with a laugh, "we did say 'till death do us part'."

"Indeed."