At 3 a.m., my phone rang, and the sound sliced through the dark like a knife. My twin sister’s voice came through broken and wet with terror.
“Sis… come get me. My husband—”
Then the line died.
For one second, I sat frozen in bed, my heartbeat punching my ribs. Elise never called at night. Elise never cried. Even eight months pregnant, swollen ankles and all, she had joked through pain like it was a sport.
I grabbed my badge, my Glock, and my keys.
The rain was coming down hard when I reached her house fifteen minutes later. The windows were dark except for the upstairs bedroom. A shadow moved behind the curtain.
I pounded on the door.
It opened three inches.
Mark stood there in sweatpants, hair messy, face calm in that ugly way guilty men practice in mirrors.
“Julia,” he said. “This is not a good time.”
“Move.”
His mouth twitched. “Your sister is emotional. Pregnancy hormones. You know how women get.”
Behind him, I smelled bleach.
My hand tightened around my badge. “Where is she?”
He widened the door just enough to block the frame with his body. “Sleeping. We had an argument. It’s a family matter.”
The words landed cold.
Family matter.
I had heard them from bruised wives, terrified children, and men with blood under their fingernails.
“I’m not asking again.”
He leaned closer, his breath sour with whiskey. “You may wear a badge, but in my house, you’re just her bitter cop sister. Always judging. Always jealous because someone chose her.”
A sound came from upstairs.
A small, animal sound.
My sister.
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