His Ever After (Love Square) by Jessica Ingro Page B

a piece of paper. I push the door open further and take a step in to see what the note says, and my body immediately freezes when I see her.
    Brooke is lying in the bathtub. The water is tinted crimson from her blood.
    No! No, no, no, no, no! This cannot be happening!
    I panic and rush to the tub, dropping to my knees quickly. I lift her naked body up and hold her to me. Her body is limp and there is no life in her whatsoever. Her eyes are shut and her skin is gray. There are slits going up the length of her forearms. She must have done this to herself hours ago, because there doesn’t appear to be any more blood pouring out of them.
    Please god, this can’t be the end of her. She doesn’t deserve this shit.
    I grab the cell phone from my pocket, scrolling through the contacts to the number I need and hit dial.
    “Zimmerman,” my Captain answers gruffly into the phone.
    “Duane, this is Jacob. I need you to come to Brooke’s and my apartment right away.” Even I can hear the desperation lacing my voice.
    “What’s wrong, son?” After a long pause he says concerned, “You need to tell me what happened. Are you in trouble?” I can tell by his tone that he wants answers, but I can’t force myself to say the words out loud.
    “Jacob. What’s wrong?” He asks again, this time more forcefully.
    “It’s Brooke. She’s… she’s dead Captain. I couldn’t help her.” I force my mouth to open. I have no idea what I’m saying or if my words make sense. All I can do is stare at Brooke and wonder how the hell it came to this.
    “You need to tell me right now what happened. How were you involved in her death?” Now he really sounds worried. I imagine my silence is leading him to believe that I killed her. Which I suppose I did. Although I didn’t take the knife to her wrists, I certainly played a part in it.
    “I just came off the hostage situation we had last night. I stopped at the florist down the block before heading home. When I got here the place was trashed. I found her… she was in the bathtub with both of her wrists cut. I…” My mouth is dry and my throat feels like I swallowed a bucket of sand. I finally force myself to grit out, “I think she killed herself.”
    I vaguely hear Duane tell me to sit tight while he makes some calls. He assures me he’ll be here as soon as he can. I hang up the phone and sit on the bathroom floor, holding Brooke and rocking her cold, lifeless body back and forth.
    And then I cry. I cry for her and her broken spirit. I cry for our unborn child. I cry because I couldn’t help her. I cry because I couldn’t be what she wanted. But mostly I cry because this is all my fault.
    Duane and several of our fellow officers arrive shortly after, along with the paramedics. When they take her from me, I feel hollow. Like I’m a shell of a man.
    The coroner declares her dead at the scene, while I sit on the edge of the bed and answer questions. I can see the sadness and pity in everyone’s eyes. They take the suicide note into evidence, offering to let me read it before they do. I don’t have the strength to see what it says. I don’t know if I ever will.
    I walk into the kitchen, after the paramedics transport Brooke’s body to the hospital and everyone finally leaves, so I can pour myself a glass of bourbon. I knock it back and welcome the burn that accompanies it.
    I need to call Brooke’s parents, and I need to call Emma. I’m just not ready to do it.
    I fill my glass again and go to knock it back, when the door opens and Brad comes in looking worried.
    “What the fuck?” He asks when he sees I’m covered in blood. “Jacob, man. What the hell happened? Why were there a ton of officers here and why are you covered in blood?”
    “Brooke’s gone. I found her in the bathtub…” I choke on the words. Deciding not to finish, I pick up the glass and down its contents.
    “Holy, fucking shit! I’m so sorry, dude. You need to get out of these clothes so we can take