Rhapsody

28: when life gives you lemons

Maverick spends the better part of the morning washing away scabbed bits of blood that crumble from the fresh cut on his forehead. Beneath his fluorescent bathroom lights, he sees the weight of the entire week's sorrows on every inch of his skin. The purple half moons beneath his eyes, the gaunt cheekbones, the chapped lips, the hollow throat.

He was down for at least a minute or two after Jonah struck him—and damn, did the wolf pack a punch.

It's been over eight hours, and Maverick still can't tell what stings his pride more. Knowing that Jonah could be out there heaving his last breath while Maverick is here, not able to do a damned thing about it, or knowing it was Callum who plucked his soggy body from the puddles after he was knocked clean unconscious.

His older brother is never going to let him live this one down.

The lights in the precinct don't help at all when Maverick arrives sometime later. Bright, ugly, and intrusive, they feel like they're burning holes into the back of his skull. It's akin to a death sentence when Maverick's head is throbbing this madly.

Unable to focus, he spends the better part of the morning just staring into space, hoping to high heaven the Ibuprofen kicks in soon. He hopes the hood he pulls over his forehead, too, is enough to cover his greasy locks and bloodshot eyes. He's not ready to field any questions from his nosy partner.

"This is it?"

Speak of the devil. Emery's voice cuts through his hazy stupor like a hot butter through knife, jolting Maverick back to reality.

"Your big piece of evidence is a lemon?"

"This is a one-of-a-kind work of art from someone who witnessed a murder. So yes, I'd say it's a big piece of evidence." Maverick turns the page clockwise in his hands. "I just don't know what it means."

"It's a lemon." Emery scoffs. "It doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe the kid just really likes fruit?"

Maverick frowns. The drawing that Jacob gave him is creased after spending the better part of the afternoon and night all crumpled up in his pocket. Compared to the vivid crime scene the kid recreated in his first drawing, this second one is lackluster. A single, yellow lemon sits blandly on the middle of the page. No context whatsoever.

It doesn't even have any shading.

"Maybe we should get him into the police sketch artist program," he says. "Refine these skills a bit."

"You said the eyes of the victim were black."

"Yes, black. Jet black."

Emery frowns. He twirls a pen in his lithe fingers, his eyes flitting about the precinct, but says nothing.

"Or ink black, maybe? Like a startled squid." Maverick slaps the drawing back down on his desk. "You know what? I'm not sure the exact shade. But they were pretty dark. Corner to corner. All black. It looked like there was no pupil. Or it was all pupil. Is that even possible?"

Maverick shivers, remembering the eyes from Gabriella's crime scene. He searches Emery's face, though he isn't surprised to find an expressionless void. The wolf has been oddly pensive since he returned from the full moon, and that's saying something, considering Emery would probably choose to speak less than five words per day if given the chance.

He stares at Emery's hands, studying the pattern of veins and fine bones laying beneath the skin. He imagines that unblemished skin ripping apart, pretty bones thickening into something beastly, clean cut fingernails sharpening into claws. It's one part beautiful, one part morbid how perfectly Emery's body can piece itself back together, just the way it was before, so that one might never know how brutally the full moon tore it to shreds.