No one stops him between Steve and the Mustang. One rookie comes hustling up, saying "Detective --?" but backpeddles so fast when Danny stabs a glare at him that he almost trips.
He's not needed here. HPD, Steve, Rachel -- they've all made it amply clear. He's not needed here, and he's probably not needed anywhere else, either, so he just finds his car keys, ignores the burn in his shot arm when he opens the car door, and drops inside.
When he closes the door, it's blessed, perfect silence. All around him, like being in an egg, and he can take a deep breath, feeling like he hasn't been breathing at all, all day, from Mr. Hoppy to the garage to staring at those numbers to now. Smooths a hand down his tie, feeling his pulse start to settle, and glances down. Turns his wrist.
Those numbers. Six perfect zeros, that haven't blinked once since they hit the end. There must have been a beep, some kind of notification sound or buzz that he missed because he and Steve were too busy shouting at each other, guns up, to notice. He knows there was, though. People have said so.
They've said it's life-changing. Most, with smug arms around each other or comfortable hands entwined, said it was life-changing. That the numbers counted down, and they knew right away.
Like he knew when Rachel's rental car smashed into the back bumper of his black-and-white. Like he knew when she came down the aisle, blushing and beaming and the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen until the day Grace was born.
He wonders if every one of those people are liars.
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He's not needed here. HPD, Steve, Rachel -- they've all made it amply clear. He's not needed here, and he's probably not needed anywhere else, either, so he just finds his car keys, ignores the burn in his shot arm when he opens the car door, and drops inside.
When he closes the door, it's blessed, perfect silence. All around him, like being in an egg, and he can take a deep breath, feeling like he hasn't been breathing at all, all day, from Mr. Hoppy to the garage to staring at those numbers to now. Smooths a hand down his tie, feeling his pulse start to settle, and glances down. Turns his wrist.
Those numbers. Six perfect zeros, that haven't blinked once since they hit the end. There must have been a beep, some kind of notification sound or buzz that he missed because he and Steve were too busy shouting at each other, guns up, to notice. He knows there was, though. People have said so.
They've said it's life-changing. Most, with smug arms around each other or comfortable hands entwined, said it was life-changing. That the numbers counted down, and they knew right away.
Like he knew when Rachel's rental car smashed into the back bumper of his black-and-white. Like he knew when she came down the aisle, blushing and beaming and the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen until the day Grace was born.
He wonders if every one of those people are liars.