Page 51 of Punishing Penelope
The front door is locked. Of course, it is. Backing up, I move across the street in the dark and scan the façade, counting the stories and the windows until I’ve figured out which are his. They’re all dark.
Frustration turns to worry, then into a growing lump in my chest. Pacing the sidewalk, I stop and pick up a pebble, looking left and right to make sure there are no cars. I move to a good spot in the middle of the road, take aim, and throw it. The little rock hits the window with a sharp ping, and I wince. At least my aim was spot on.
Nothing.
Another pebble, same nothing, and no reaction after the third. The fourth hits a lit window on the second floor, and I retreat. A car blows by too close, honking, making my skirt flutter. I flip him off and step back, my heart in my throat.
I’m at a loss. Where is the guy?
Last night, he worked late. So, he’s at work. He’s busy catching the bad guys, jumping off buildings, and whatnot. The bodycam footage hammers mercilessly on my mind while I hit the streets again to get to his precinct. I keep the gnawing feeling of pending doom at bay. He’s just working late and… is too busy to make a quick call. Right? It’s not as if he promised me tonight.
The lady at the reception can’t get on the phone quick enough for my liking. Her face changes as she listens to whoever is on the other end, then she pushes a button and turns to me.
“Who did you say you are?”
I didn’t, and she knows it. I’m also pretty sure she recognizes me damn well. Somehow, I doubt this is the time to flash my press ID.
“I’m his girlfriend.”
She narrows her eyes, skepticism written all over her face. “Someone will come talk to you.”
Her words are clipped and her face impassive, but I detect stress, and it makes my pulse spike. I slam my palms on the desk.
“What happened?”
“Please, sit down, ma’am.” Her voice is frosty, and it’s obvious I’ll be in trouble if I push.
Taking a step back, it’s as if a ghost runs through me, and I grow ice cold. Phone in hand, I hit our news site, and it’s everywhere. A shooting. Two cops dead, two injured. I’ve been so buried in work, I haven’t kept up with the news. My heart stops for a moment, and the text blurs. When I read the names, none of them is his, I’m ashamed of the relief I feel. Someone’s dad, someone’s husband, isn’t coming home tonight.
I step forward and hold up the phone to the lady.
“Where?” I snarl.
She hesitates, then takes pity on me. “Cedars—”
I spin around and run down the stone steps to get to my car. My stupid, impractical heels slow me down, so I stop to pull them off, then I sprint.
He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.
So, why hasn’t he called me?
Chapter Twelve
Peter
Getting shot hurts like fuck. Being abruptly woken up from the smooth buzz of a deep morphine slumber would suck if I wasn’t staring at an angel.
She’s a little fuzzy around the edges, but she’s sooo pretty. She reminds me of someone.
Someone important.
“You’re beautiful!”
The angel punches my arm.
“Ow!”
“Are you high?”