The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting a dull, pale light over the parking lot of the precinct.
Mark sat slouched behind the wheel of his truck, staring blankly at the front doors as if he could burn a hole through them with his eyes alone.
He hadn’t slept.
The same white button-up shirt he wore the night before was wrinkled, his black tie pulled loose around his neck, and his dark dress pants were creased and dusty. His knuckles were still red and raw from when he’d punched his radio, scraps and dried blood all over his hand.
But he didn’t care.
All he could think about—over and over—was Ronnie’s face.
The way she had looked at him, the pain and betrayal.
And Kyle.
Fucking Kyle.
Mark's jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
Kyle had something to do with it.
He knew it deep in his
