The holding cell smelled of piss, bleach, and desperation. Duke sat on the metal bench, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Forty-eight hours in lockup and the walls were already closing in.
The click of heels on concrete made him look up. Not Valentina. She'd been here twice already, each visit tearing him apart more than the last.
Sheriff Sierra Santos stood outside his cell, her badge catching the fluorescent light. She wore civilian clothes today—tight jeans, a silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the hollow of her throat. The throat he'd kissed a thousand times before Valentina came back.
"You look like s**t," Sierra said, leaning against the bars.
"That makes two of us who've said that this week."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Can I come in?"
"Do I have
