Ray.

~~~

The empty bed didn't surprise me anymore. The sound of water running from the bathroom confirmed what I already knew—Sam was in the shower. The room carried the pleasant chaos of the night before: my t-shirt and jeans scattered across the wooden floor, her dress draped over the back of a chair near the open window. A cool morning breeze drifted in, the faint scent of jasmine mingling with the air.

I ran a hand through my hair, glancing toward the bathroom. We needed to talk—really talk—but mornings always seemed to test my stamina. I took a deep breath, the faint hint of soap teasing my senses as I pushed open the bathroom door.

Steam clouded the air, but it didn't obscure the sight of her. Sam stood with her back to me, water cascading down her body and foam clinging to her curves. My breath hitched, a familiar pull stirring in my chest—and lower. She had that effect on me, no matter the situation.

Without thinking, I stepped into the shower. The coolness of the tile underfoot contrasted with the heat radiating off her. My hand slid around her waist, pulling her back against me.

"Good morning," I murmured, letting my lips graze the curve of her neck. My growing arousal pressed against her, and her soft moan sent a thrill through me.

Her head fell back onto my shoulder, her damp hair tickling my face. My fingers traced a path upward, finding her nipples beneath the soapy foam. The way she responded—soft gasps, her body arching into my touch—made my pulse quicken.

"Morning," she whispered her voice a mix of sleepiness and need.

She turned in my arms, her hand cupping my face. The kiss she gave me was anything but tentative—hungry, consuming, and utterly Sam. Her lips melded with mine, her taste intoxicating. My hands roamed over her slick skin, exploring every curve.

Before I could process what was happening, she dropped to her knees. The sight of her there, water dripping from her lashes, was enough to leave me breathless. Her mouth enveloped my hard dick, her tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles that made my head fall back against the glass.

"Sam..." My voice was hoarse, barely audible over the sound of water.

Her pace quickened, her hands and mouth working in unison, and I tangled my fingers in her hair to keep my balance. The tension built rapidly, but I wasn't ready to let go—not yet. I pulled her to her feet, capturing her lips in another searing kiss.

I turned her gently, pressing her front against the glass. Her soft moans encouraged me as I kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, my hands gliding down her body until I reached the heat between her legs. My fingers swirled around her stiff clit, before I plunged two fingers inside her tight heat. She shivered under my touch, her forehead resting on the glass, and her pants deepened as I fastened my movements.

"Ready?" I asked, my voice thick with desire.

Her moan of approval was all the answer I needed. I guided myself into her slowly, savoring every inch. She braced herself against the towel bar, her back arching as I began to move. The sounds she made—soft gasps, breathy moans—were a symphony I never tired of hearing.

Time seemed to blur, each moment more intense than the last. My hands gripped her hips as I lost control, pulling out just in time. The water washed away the evidence of our passion, swirling down the drain.

Sam leaned back against me, her smile lazy and satisfied. Our heavy breathing echoed in the small space, a reminder of how utterly consumed we'd been by each other. A sharp knock on the door shattered the quiet.

"There are some people here to see you," Molly's voice called through the door.

"Little busy," I rasped, burying my face in Sam's neck, her laughter vibrating against my chest.

"It's the cops," Molly added, jiggling the handle.

"Fuck," I muttered, the mood evaporating instantly. "We really need boundaries with her."

"I'll talk to her," Sam said, bending to pick up the fallen soap. "We'd better hurry."

By the time we made our way downstairs, Detective Hudson was standing near the kitchen, his partner Lincoln sipping water as Molly twirled lazily in a chair. Sam's hair was still damp, and I caught a lingering whiff of her shampoo as we approached.

"Sorry for the intrusion," Hudson began, his tone measured and polite. "We figured it would be less stressful to talk in a familiar environment. May I?" He gestured toward the couch.

I nodded, though I could feel the tension settling in my shoulders. Whatever this was about, it couldn't be good.

Hudson took the lead, settling onto the couch with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times. Samantha and I exchanged a glance before following his lead, bracing ourselves for whatever was coming next.

"Can I get you something?" Sam asked, her voice carrying a polite edge as she lingered near the couch.

Lincoln waved off the offer with a casual smile. "Your friend was kind enough to treat us while we waited," he said, nodding toward Molly, who was now leading Spot out of the room.

Sam sank down beside me on the right side of the couch, her presence a small comfort against the tension I felt. Hudson sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stroked his mustache—a habit I'd noticed in our previous interactions. Lincoln, in contrast, leaned back against the sofa, his relaxed posture making it clear he preferred to play the quiet observer.

"Did something happen?" Sam asked, her tone careful. Hudson's sharp gaze flicked to her before exchanging a brief look with his partner. "We were supposed to meet you at the station tomorrow," she added, the worry in her voice unmistakable.

Hudson cleared his throat. "The official statements are coming out today," he said. "We thought it would be better to discuss things with you before they're announced."

"Official statements?" I repeated, my brow furrowing.

"With high-profile cases like this one, we aim to eliminate as much speculation as possible," Lincoln explained, his voice calm but firm. "The press interest has been intense, prompting our captain to fast-track certain parts of the investigation. Don't get me wrong—we've been thorough. Every resource we had was dedicated to this."

"It seems pretty straightforward, doesn't it?" I asked, crossing my arms.

Hudson gave a slight shake of his head. "On the surface, maybe. But beneath it? We had to sift through thousands of files. In the end, we connected Scott to the Murphy case."

"Scott killed Paul," Sam said softly, her voice cracking slightly.

Hudson nodded. "Yes. Murphy used unorthodox methods to gather information, methods that ultimately made him a target. He was kicked off the force for ignoring protocol. For Scott Shaw, Murphy's actions—specifically bugging Scott's computer—were the trigger."

"What do you mean by that?" Sam asked. Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt into a tight coil, her nervous energy palpable.

Hudson sighed, leaning back slightly. "Back in June, just days after you both left Los Angeles, Murphy planted spyware on Scott's computer. Among thousands of photos and videos of you, Scott kept a video diary. In it, he detailed why and how he killed Murphy."

Sam's mouth opened, but Hudson quickly cut her off. "You can't see it. There's no need—it's deeply disturbing."

"What do you mean by disturbing?" I asked, my arm tightening around Sam's waist as she leaned into me. Her quiet sniffle against my shoulder made my chest ache.

Hudson hesitated before answering. "Let's not dwell on it. The crucial point is that the diary gave us the evidence we needed. Without it, we'd have little to connect Scott to the murder."

"And the shooting?" I pressed, needing to know.

Hudson's face darkened slightly. "Scott's intent wasn't to kill himself when he entered Miss Morris's apartment. He wanted to confront her, hoping she'd admit to having feelings for him."

"So, he was insane," I said flatly, the anger simmering just below the surface. "And when he didn't get what he wanted, he chose the easiest way out—at her expense."

Sam's quiet sniffles turned into soft tears, her head buried against my shoulder. The damp warmth of her tears soaked into my shirt, and I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, wishing I could take away her pain.

"We can't confirm his exact mental state," Hudson said carefully. "What we can say is that the case is closed. Paul Murphy's death was at Scott's hands and the shooting? All evidence points to Scott acting alone. You're in no danger."

"You thought we were in danger?" I asked the edge in my voice sharpening. Hudson nodded, standing slowly from the couch. "And you said nothing?" I shot back, frustration flaring.

"It wasn't clear at first," Lincoln chimed in, his calm demeanor doing little to subdue my irritation. "We had to consider every angle, including Miss Morris's financial situation and your status. Either could've provided a motive."

"Your so-called star status added complexity," Hudson added. "We kept you here for your safety."

I shook my head, feeling the weight of the past month pressing down on me. Sam's trembling beside me only fueled my frustration. But as much as I wanted to lash out, I knew the detectives had done their job. The answers we sought were finally here, even if they came with more questions than comfort.

"One more thing," Hudson said, pausing at the door and turning back to face us. "It would be wise to recheck your security system in New Rochelle. That's where you're planning to move, right?" I nodded, unease creeping into my chest. "Scott had access to the home security feed," Hudson continued. "We found plenty of videos from that house. For safety's sake, secure all your electronic possessions in general. Don't take any chances."

His words hit like a punch to the gut. The thought of Scott watching us, invading our privacy so intimately, made my stomach churn. With a formal goodbye, the detectives left, leaving the room heavy with silence.

Sam stayed on the couch, staring out the window. Her puffy eyes looked hollow, her thoughts clearly somewhere far away. I sat beside her, unsure how to bridge the widening gap between us.

"You knew, didn't you?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Her head tilted slightly, confusion in her furrowed brows. "What?"

"You knew Paul got into Scott's computer," I said, watching her closely.

Her eyes met mine, hesitant but honest, and she nodded. "Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice was softer than I expected, more hurt than angry.

Sam sighed, shifting in her seat. "Paul said he might get into trouble because of it, and I didn't want to drag you into it too." Her voice wavered, and she rubbed her temples. "I need my meds." She stood abruptly, heading for the stairs.

"Don't you think you're taking too many pills?" I asked, standing to follow her.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder, her expression a mix of irritation and exhaustion. "I'm in pain, Ray."

"I get that," I said, climbing the stairs behind her, "but the pain should be easing by now. It's been weeks."

She spun around at the top of the stairs, her gaze sharp. "Have you ever been in this kind of pain?" I shook my head, guilt creeping into my chest. "Then don't tell me how much pain I should or shouldn't be in," she snapped, turning toward the bedroom.

How did I not see it before? As I watched her, it clicked—the agitation, the frequent pill-popping, the way she seemed to spiral before she reached for the bottle. The realization hit hard. She wasn't just drunk last night—she'd mixed her pills with alcohol. It was a dangerous combination, and it wouldn't take much to push her over the edge.

By the time we reached the bedroom, she was already shaking a pill into her palm. I watched her swallow it, her movements brisk, almost automatic.

"We need to talk," I said, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. She paused, glancing at me, her defenses already growing.

The weight in my chest rose heavier. I couldn't keep pretending this wasn't a problem—not when it was staring me in the face.