Page 121 of Double Standards

“Lexie,” I frown, the disappointment sharp in my chest. Why does she feel the need to lie to me? Doesn’t she know I’d believe her—no matter what?

“Drop it,” she sighs, standing upright and dumping a dustpan full of broken glass into the kitchen trash with a sharp clatter.

“Who did this? Were we broken into?” I glance around, my gaze sweeping the room. The stools are scattered across the floor instead of lined neatly beneath the kitchen island. Couchcushions lie tossed like afterthoughts, and the coffee table—well, it’s barely recognizable as furniture anymore.

“No,” she cuts in quickly, crouching to retrieve her handcuffs and service weapon from beneath the wreckage. She tucks them into her belt with practiced ease.

“The place is trashed!”

“Cassie, please!” she pleads, voice cracking as she bows her head. Her shoulders slump under the weight of something she won’t name. “Drop it.”

She’s still in her work clothes; jacket torn, expression unreadable, which means she hadn’t been home long before I arrived. Whatever happened, it’s fresh. And raw.

I bite my tongue and nod. “Okay,” I say softly, crouching to gather the soaked towels scattered across the floor. They’ve soaked up most of the water, but everything still feels damp.

“How was your night?” she asks, her voice muted, barely above a whisper.

“I bumped into Cooper,” I answer without hesitation. Lexie’s head lifts sharply, eyes going wide.

“Or rather, he followed me.”

“What? What did he say?”

“That he was sorry,” I reply as I move around the kitchen island, joining her at the sink. I wring out one of the heavy towels, the water running red around my fingers from a faint nick I hadn’t noticed.

“That’s it?”

“Well, he didn’t really get the chance to say anything else.” I shrug, laying the first towel across the drying rack. “Hunter knocked him to the floor before he could get another word out.”

Lexie sighs, her focus fixed on tossing the ruined flowers into the trash. “I don’t like these men, Cassie,” she mutters, voice low. “They’re dangerous.”

I glance up, studying her. There’s something she’s holding back—something buried beneath the surface that only grows more troubling the longer I watch her.

“What happened here, Lexie?” I ask again, softly this time, almost timid. But it’s useless.

She exhales heavily, drops the plastic container on the counter with a dull thud, and walks off toward her room without answering.

I stay where I am, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall. I know her silence won’t last forever. It never does. Whatever happened here she’ll have to talk about it eventually. If it had been a break-in, wouldn’t she want me to know? Wouldn’t she want me safe?

The questions claw at me, spiraling, dragging me into a maze of possibilities that make less and less sense the deeper I fall into them.

Her door slams shut, the sound echoing down the hallway like a full stop. The silence that follows is louder than anything else.

By the time I finally drag myself to bed, the living room and kitchen are cleared of sharp edges and shattered glass. The place looks almost normal, but nothing feels it.

Emotionally wrung out and physically drained, I collapse onto the mattress, uncaring of the clothes still clinging to my skin or the tension coiled tight in my muscles. I let the darkness take me, hoping for stillness. For silence.

But the quiet doesn’t last.

By morning, I’m swallowed by a storm of paperwork and an endless string of phone calls, the weight of reality crashing back in before I even have a chance to breathe.

As soon as the day is over, and I’m stepping out of the office building, the evening air hits me like a balm—cool, sharp, and brimming with the kind of silence that makes me feel human again. Until I see the familiar SUV parked outside and that familiar ache I’ve been avoiding returns.

Trigger leans against the car, arms crossed, ankles stacked, smirking like this is just another casual drop-in. But I seethrough the act. He’s wearing a mask of charm to cover the cracks beneath. The bruising on his cheek is already turning a sickly purple, and his busted lip looks like it’s been split more than once. I stop in front of him, unimpressed.

“What happened to your face?” I ask flatly, eyes raking over the damage.

“If you need to ask that question, you need your head checked.”