The voice cut through the pulsing music, low, quiet, so totally, horribly familiar. I looked up, the moment snapping into focus as I realized what Dylan had been trying to do: hide me. In the shadows of the narrow hall, Detective DeMarcus Jackson stood with his eyes blazing like hot, glowing coal, exactly like they had a month before from the bottom of the stairs leading to Grace’s apartment. It was the first time I’d seen LaSalle’s former partner since the funeral. “Detective Jackson.” I kept my voice strong. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. The artsy dreadlocks and big diamond earring made him look like a musician. His silky black shirt made him look successful in a dangerous kind of way. But he was a cop. And he was trained to hide what he thought. Blending in kept him alive. He could be anyone, I remembered thinking once. Like a chameleon, he could shift in the blink of an eye. But in that moment, I knew exactly what he thought. It glittered in the way he looked at me, the surprise and the disappointment, the accusation.
