Page 29 of Carter

All day Saturday and even worse on Sunday, I went over our conversation. What I should have done better. What I should have done differently. I’ve replayed it so many times that there is no way I’ll go into his office today and not give him everything he needs. Hopefully, enough to do something about this. It’s up tome to do this, to help find Ryan’s killer. There’s no one else out there who says a damn thing. It’s just me. Ryan isn’t here to take the lead and figure things out for me. That’s the dynamic we fell into. Ryan was the caregiver. He took care of me, all the time.

We were only together for two years, but I knew he was my forever. So much that I quickly fell into letting him take control of everything. It was easy for me because I’m not that kind of person. I can survive, I can do what I need, but I’m not the one to take the lead on things. That’s just not who I am. It makes me uncomfortable.

But I can’t be that person anymore. At least not when it comes to this. If I just have to pretend for a little while, to get through this and help find Ryan’s killer, I can do that.

There’s a gentle snow falling when I get outside, but it’s not as cold as it usually is. I take that as a good sign.

Ryan loved the snow. Maybe this is him telling me I’m doing the right thing.

I shove my hands into my pockets and duck my head as I make my way to the subway station to get to the precinct Nash works at. It’s not as busy as it usually is this early in the morning, which is a surprise, but maybe it’s because I’m going in a different direction.

I get off at my stop, make my way up to the street, and check street signs and the map on my phone to figure out where I’m going. It’s a ten-minute walk until I reach the building I need.

Warmth blows from above when I open the door and step inside. The floor is shiny with big, square tan tiles. High ceilings. Pictures of the city and officers from over the years hang on the walls on either side.

Straight ahead, an old man with a big white mustache sits behind a large glass window, typing away at a computer. A few chairs line the wall to my right, while a locked glass door on theleft leads into the rest of the precinct. Through it, I can see a long hallway with doors along one side.

“Can I help you?” the guy asks as I reach the window. He’s in uniform, a to-go cup of coffee sitting on the desk opposite the computer.

“I’m here to see Detective Bennett.”

“Is he expecting you?” the man asks in a not-so-friendly tone. The kind of tone I’m used to when dealing with cops.

Nash is definitely an exception.

“No,” I answer, then realize I don’t know if he’s even here yet. What time does he start? What time is it? What if he’s out fighting crime or something?

“Name?”

“Carter Evans.”

He picks up the phone, dials a number, and waits as it rings.

“There’s a Carter Evans here to see you. Uh, no, there’s no one here. Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He hangs up the phone and brings his attention back to me. “Have a seat. He’ll be right down to get you.”

I nod and take a seat in the chair on the end and look around the space. It’s clean. Expensive. Not like the police station in my area that looks like it was built in 1900 and no one ever upgraded it.

It’s quiet in here. There’s a stillness to it that I find calming. So calming, it has me relaxing, and I imagine I could fall asleep right here. I slept like shit all weekend because I couldn’t turn my brain off. I hope getting it all off my chest today will help with that.

Nash comes into my view behind the glass wall, and he pushes open the door, stepping halfway out.

“Carter,” he says, sounding concerned. “Is everything okay?”

I get up.

“Uh, yeah. I was hoping we could talk?” I say.

“Sure, come on.”

He holds the door open for me, and I walk beside him as he leads us to an elevator that takes us to the fifth floor. We go right and turn into an office that looks like any other office I’ve ever seen. A desk with a high-back chair on one side and two on the other. Two large windows overlooking the city. A filing cabinet, a coat rack, and another small desk against the wall with a printer/copier machine and drawers beneath.

I hang my coat on the rack as Nash closes the door.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing for the chair at the desk. He moves around to sit in his chair.

It creaks as he does. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I should have called.”