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“It looked like a panic attack to me,” he says.
“Kinda felt like it, too.”
“You wanna talk about it?” He asks.
I nearly scoff but think twice. I know he’s just trying to be helpful, but there is no way I want to tell this guy all the shit going on in my head right now.
I’ve barely begun to process everything. He sure as shit doesn’t need to listen to me recount how I just found out my dad isn’t my dad, my mom cheated with his brother, so my uncle is my real dad, which means my cousin is my sister. On top of that, the girl I love almost died because of a stunt I pulled, and I feel guilty as hell for it. Pack on the PTSD I have over my brother’s death, shove that into a twenty-four-hour time frame, and then it all makes sense why I’m about to lose my shit.
“Not really,” I chuckle, and he nods.
“It’s a lot to take in, I get it,” he says.
“Yeah.”
I rub my hands down my face, trying to level out. I feel like I’m coming down off the worst adrenaline high, only without the dopamine hit to make it all worth it.
“I noticed her car isn’t down there,” I say after a minute.
“Yeah, I had it towed for her. Monterra P.D. was gonna leave it. Makes me wonder how many of these deaths haven’t been reported.”
Probably a hell of a lot more than he can imagine.
I shove my hands in my pockets, staring out across the red rocks when I remember the paper from the guard. I pull it out and read over it again.
Two men, blue Nissan, T0L0CST, The Cast.
“Blue Nissan,” I say, a thought forming in my mind.
“What?”
“A blue Nissan,” I repeat, turning toward him. He turns his head in my direction, his face a mask of confusion.
"Yeah? What about it?"
"I may have an idea. You have access to the impound lot, right?" I ask, ready to leave this place and return to the car.
"Yeah, why?" he asks, following behind me, keys in his hand.
"Because if they hit her, their paint will be on her car," I say.
Recognition shines brightly in his eyes. "Probable cause," he says triumphantly.
"Exactly."
We drive back to the impound lot. The guy out front didn't even blink an eye when Sander pulled up. He just lifted the traffic arm and waved us through.
The place is all but deserted, and we easily find Keaton’s car toward the back.
The sight of it threatens to send me headfirst into another panic attack, but I do my best and breathe through it.
We have a job to do, and me losing my shit isn't going to help matters at all.
Sander gets out and rounds the vehicle. I follow him, watching as he pulls a set of latex gloves from his trunk.
"Hear, put these on," he says, passing a second pair to me.
"Uh, I don't think we need to worry about prints or anything. I mean, you're a cop, so we're okay to be here, right?" I ask, looking around like I expect someone to jump out and catch us tampering with evidence or some shit.
