Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (grave mercy TXT) 📗

to the walls. Still, there wasn’t much Sash could do to keep Natalie from listening to Justice Delayed; her generation had no issue navigating parental controls and erasing browser history. Elle was pretty sure the girl had heard at least a few episodes.

“Yes, it makes me sad. I know the families of those kids loved them just as much as I love you, and I can’t stand what people did to them. But if I can help find those bad people and make them pay, then I think that’s a good thing. And that’s what I try to do.”

As they got to the bottom of the stairs, Natalie looked back at her. There was a somber depth to her eyes that had no business in a ten-year-old. “Are you good at it?”

“I think so. Yeah, I am.” Elle nodded.

“Okay, then you should keep doing it, even if it’s hard. That’s what Mom’s always telling me when I complain about swimming.”

Elle put an arm around the girl’s slight shoulders and pulled her in close.

They walked into the dining room where the light from birthday candles flickered on the table. Beaming, Sash started “Happy Birthday” about three keys too high, and they did their best to get through it. Everyone clapped as all ten candles extinguished with a whoosh of the girl’s breath.

Trying not to be obvious, Elle glanced at her watch every few minutes until finally, Sash announced it was time to go, since Natalie would be up late tomorrow. They had moved her usual Friday piano lesson to today so they could do dinner and a musical downtown.

By the time they bundled out the door, there was just enough time to get to Leo’s.

She ran up to her studio and opened the small safe under her desk, pulling out her handgun. She had gotten a permit to carry after a run-in with the angry father of the suspect in her season two case. She had evidence his son had been collecting and disseminating child porn for eight years, but the man chose to threaten Elle instead of directing his anger where it belonged. That was the only case she’d covered that still wasn’t resolved. She’d been sure she assembled enough evidence alongside the police in Alexandria to arrest the guy, but so far, nothing had been done. Still, there’d been enough public outcry that she hoped the guy’s life would be unbearable in a small city like that. The threats had slowed down now that a few years had passed, but she kept a gun nearby when she was out investigating.

“Hey, I’ve got to run an errand,” she said as soon as she was back downstairs.

Martín glanced away from the baking show he’d sat down in front of. “Where you going?”

Elle wrapped her arms around him from behind the couch and dropped a kiss on the back of his neck. “Just something I’ve got to check out for the podcast. I should be back in an hour.”

“Want some company?”

“Nah, you’ve worked all day. Thanks, though.”

“All right,” he said, blinking lazily at her. He already looked half asleep. By the time she got home, he’d be crashed out right where he sat.

She smiled and kissed him again. After bundling up, she walked out into the freezing night air.

It took about fifteen minutes to get to Leo’s apartment in Falcon Heights. He lived in an old three-story without an elevator, and she was panting by the time she got to the top of the stairs, coat unzipped. Her fitness routine had taken a turn for the worse since she started working from home. After regaining her breath, she knocked on Leo’s door, and it creaked inward an inch or two. It wasn’t latched.

“Hello?” Elle called out, and knocked again. “Leo Toca?”

“Are you the police? Don’t shoot!” someone shouted inside.

Elle gripped the gun at her hip, but didn’t draw it. “I’m not the police!” she shouted, then realized it might be unwise to let him know that. But it was too late now. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open the rest of the way.

There was a man kneeling on the floor, his hands covered in blood as he leaned over a body.

Elle froze, her mouth open. The kneeling man looked up at her, his face white with shock. She recognized him then, from his picture in that news article: Duane Grove, Leo Toca’s suspected chop shop associate.

Finally, she found her voice. “Did you kill him?”

“No!” the man shouted; then, more quietly, “No . . . I—I just came over to borrow something, and I found him like this.”

“I’m coming inside.” Elle’s fingers were wrapped tightly around her Ruger, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at Duane, waiting for any sudden movements. “Is he breathing?”

Duane took a shaky breath, arms stretching overhead at the sight of her gun. “No, I don’t think so. I just found him like this, I swear.”

On the floor, the victim was flat on his back, wide brown eyes staring at the ceiling. Elle didn’t really need to check for a pulse, but when she did and felt the stillness under her fingertips, she cursed.

The shots were at point-blank range, leaving a scorch mark around the hole on his forehead. Elle had never seen a murder victim in person—only in crime scene photos—so it was hard to know if they all looked like this. But the expression on his face was undeniable.

Leo Toca looked like he saw his attacker coming and he couldn’t believe who it was.

“He’s dead.”

As soon as Elle said the words, Duane Grove hightailed it out of the apartment before she could stop him. She sat back, staring at the body for a few minutes before she could will her limbs to move.

Finally, her fingers stopped trembling enough that she could dial 911. Once they had the details and an officer dispatched, she texted her old friend, Ayaan Bishar. Being in Crimes Against Children, Ayaan would probably have nothing to do with investigating