TWO WEEKS LATER:
𝗥ueben held the golden-embroidered glass door to the police station open for Rayne before being consumed by the air-conditioned interior himself. Constant chatter, buzz, and the monologue chirp of desk phones greeted them like a well-oiled machine.
He watched the way Rayne's hands ran up and down her biceps, trying to hinder the goosebumps raising along her summer-kissed skin, and somehow, he knew it had nothing to do with the temperature change.
When he lifted his vision, the reasoning had them halting just a few steps away from the door. The tension was palpable—so thick he could slice it with the knife hidden in the sheath above the cusp of his high-top sneakers. Unfamiliar eyes and blame-filled questions slammed into their chests as the faces of sworn officers sneakily shot glares in their direction.
Ever since Niccolió Moreno—formally known as Asher Moore—was outed as the rat, Los Angeles Police had little to no reputation, nor public respect. Having a murderous traitor hidden in their forces, best friends with the late Chief of Police did little to garner anything but trepidation.
And if that wasn't bad enough, every time someone associated with the Torres name walked into this building, they were met with blooming feelings of disgust and hatred, as if they were the sole cause of Jonah Myles's murder—as if his involvement hadn't been personal.
"Ignore them," he whispered.
"Kind of hard when they're glaring."
Rueben shook his head and took a step forward. He could handle being made the villain—he'd done it his entire life, but when they directed that anger toward the people he loved, especially Rayne, who'd done nothing but fight for her brother's life—that was where he drew the line.
"Do you have anything to say?" he spoke to the room, "Because if you don't, kindly fuck off."
"Rueben!" Rayne grabbed his arm, hushing him.
She wasn't quick enough.
At the sound of his voice, interns, complainants, and police officers alike stopped their casual strolling and faced him, not bothering to hide their contempt. Rueben merely crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, offering nothing more than a dare—a dare to speak up.
"Stop it," a new voice demanded.
Rueben managed to peel his eyes away from the twitching mouths of state workers to view the person who'd broken the silence, even if it was to lessen the tension. Auden gave him a small shake of her head, unnoticeable to anyone but him, before directing her hawk-like stare at the members of her police force.
When Jonah died, as second-in-command, she was acting interim Chief.
"Get back to work, now," she snapped, "And stop patronizing the Torres family."
Rayne twisted her engagement ring and ducked her head, not interested in being the center of attention as Auden beckoned them to follow her. As soon as they passed through the back doors, he slipped his fingers between hers, stopping her hesitation and anxiety before it consumed her.
She looked up at him with a small head movement, shaking those beautiful beach-wave curls out of her face, and gave him a knowing smile. Her golden-brown eyes twinkled under the fluorescents, and it wasn't until Auden provided them with a revolted scoff of disapproval, did they realize they had fallen into a longing eye-spoken conversation.
Apparently, too romantic for the new chief.
"Don't make me change my mind about inviting the both of you."
Rueben rolled his eyes.
But Rayne asked, "Why did you ask for both of us?"
"Figured Rueben would need some support."
"Meaning?"
Auden suddenly halted in front of an oak door. Turning with her arms surprisingly uncrossed and an apologetic look plastered on her face in place of her normally jaded one, he felt his heart lodge in his throat. He bit down on the bile threatening to make an appearance as Rayne's hand tightened around his own, hoping to offer a bit of the support before he even knew what lay behind Auden.
"I know it took more weeks than you would've liked, but it took us a while to identify the remains."
"Remains?" he echoed.
She grimly nodded, "No body, no fingerprints, no teeth—it was like solving a puzzle without the right pieces."
Rayne cringed next to him at her blatant explanation.
"I'm glad you came to us first though," she concluded, facing the door again, "It wasn't a bomb like you were expecting, but I don't think the reality is much better."
The conversation trailed off as she unlocked one of the interrogation rooms and allowed the three of them to slip inside. By the way Auden checked the hallway before shutting the door, he had a feeling she wasn't supposed to be letting them in on evidence—even if they were the ones to collect it.
His breakfast churned in his stomach.
"What is that smell?" Rayne asked, scrunching her nose up.
Rueben looked at her, and it was then that the scent hit him like a truck. Holding back a gag, he pressed the back of his free hand to his nostrils, ignoring the rottenness and its easy ability to make his eyes water. He watched with concerned eyes as Auden walked up to the lonely box on the table; she angled her head away from the flaps as she pulled them open and stepped back.
Rayne had more balls than him.
Pulling out of his grasp, she took three ginger steps until she lifted onto the tips of her toes and peered in. Almost as if it was instinctual, a hand slapped to her mouth and she pivoted, making it to the trash can in the corner just as soon as the vomit ruptured past her lips.
He took a step in her direction only to be halted by Auden's arm and a stern head shake.
"That's horrifying," Rayne grated over the metal rim, "Who would do that?"
Auden tipped her chin up, urging him to take a look.
Peeling his Converse out of the concrete mold he put himself in, he mocked Rayne's previous steps until he was standing right in front of the package. He swallowed a deep breath before he leaned over and examined the contents.
Just like his fiancé, he instantly felt forced liquid rising into his mouth, but unlike her, he strained to remain where he stood. His irises glazed over from the vigor of the smell, but he looked anyway. He stared at the sunken skin—so tight it was already indenting over his jaw and cheek bones.
Hollowed eyes bore at nothing, faded from the piercing blue that haunted his nightmares and now stood nothing more than a depthless puddle of murk. His hand trembled on his chin as he raked over the platinum hair, stray for the train of jet-black down the middle—his chest heaved with panic so unknown to him as he recognized the head of his older brother.
The same one that tried to kill him.
—and the same one he wished he could've saved.
"I'm going to be sick," Rayne's voice tore him from his trance.
He looked over at the same time she grabbed the mini trash and ambled over to the door. Face still inches away from the rim, hoping to catch anything else she might retch, and a hand grazing over the length of her belly, she did not shoot him another green-faced glance before disappearing into the hall.
"So much for the support," Auden sighed.
"Leave her alone," he retorted without thinking, "She's not like us. She's not used to seeing this."
"How lucky we are to be desensitized."
Rueben ignored her pessimism and stepped a foot away from the box, having seen enough, even as someone who'd seen countless beheadings in his life. Feelings he didn't know he had rose to the occasion, plaguing him with things that could never bear any truth.
Rigo never wanted to be saved, he was content where he was. But at the same time, all he could moor over was their first and last conversation—the one where he desperately admitted that he deserved the title burdened on Rueben's name, that it should've been him.
It burned the backs of his eyes, inducing tears that he would never shed, but would acknowledge. They were so alike, yet so different. Drowned under the influence of their parents, forced to undergo a mind-altering consumption of ideals that would've never been adopted if they had been given a chance to become their own person while they still had the chance.
"Here."
Auden's gloved hand came into view as she handed him a manilla-colored one. He didn't even question why she wanted his hands protected as he slid it on—the answer came a few seconds after she obliged in the form of two clear evidence bags with red seals.
"These were extracted from the package."
"What are they?"
He held up the first one, twisting it as the light captured a calm honey-brown on a clump of straight hair.
"Hair and fingernails," she handed the other bag over to him.
Rigo didn't have brown hair, "Whose?"
He placed the bags on the counter, not needing to see more as she let out a deep sigh.
"We ran them through CODIS, the national DNA database."
"And?" he folded his arms over each other, "—did you get a match."
"Yes, but I'm hesitating."
"Why?"
That sympathetic gaze he was so not used to seeing in her black-hole eyes reappeared.
"They're a match for Lilliana Torres," she conceded.
His heart jump-started in his chest, "Why are you hesitating then? This is great news!—it's proof that she's still alive after all this time."
"That's why," she shook her head, "The last time we got your family's hopes up, it wasn't truly her, it was Rayne's late bodyguard's sister. This case is a textbox example of the perpetrators toying with law enforcement."
"What're you saying?"
"I'm saying that this doesn't mean your sister's alive, it just means they've saved enough pieces of her to distract us—to make us fall off the wagon with happiness instead of remaining focus-driven."
"So that means—"
"There's a fifty-fifty chance," she nodded, "—that Lilliana Torres is alive, or her body was preserved in anticipation for this very moment."
Rueben absorbed the verbal blow in the base of his stomach.
A part of him hoped she had been put to rest months or years ago.
But that sordidly selfish hope that she still lived continued to rule the kingdom in his heart.