Eight
I almost got my wish. My head hit the pillow just after five in the morning and if I dreamed, I didn’t recall them. But I started awake as my phone skittered along the table beside my bed at half past eight. It was a precinct number and my heart leapt into my throat, throbbing painfully as I scrambled to answer.
“Detective Trenton,” I answered, my words still sluggish with sleep and my throat still aching from the fight only a few short hours ago.
“Sorry to call on your day off, Detective,” the dispatcher said. “But Captain Beech insisted you and Detective DeWitt report to the precinct this morning at nine thirty.”
I swallowed—it was less painful than when I went to bed—and blinked a few times, trying to shake the tiredness from my body. “Did she say what it’s about?”
“I’m afrai
