There were exactly three eggs, half a carton of orange juice, and three small, probably expired cartons of take out in his refrigerator.  

It was a dismal estimate of his funding.  He probably had more than enough cash in his account to restock the thing, just that the task never failed to slip his mind.  There was always something more important to be done.  Standing in front of the open door was wasting electricity, so, without further deliberation, he pulled out the carton, and not bothering to reach for a clean glass, drained it.  It was bitter cold, stinging down his throat in a way that had nothing to do with acidity.  

Closing the fridge door, Gavin Verner leaned against the appliance with a sigh, the metal cool against the bare skin of his torso.  Still in baggy blue pajamas, he hadn't summoned the energy yet to actually prepare himself for the day ahead.  It was the usual.  A man has a job he hates, but can't get out of.  A job that was really a poor substitute for something better.  It made a comfortable living—he was never strapped for rent on the little apartment, he'd never wanted for pocket change, and had even contemplated getting a cat.  But it just wasn't what he wanted.  You didn't get the same satisfaction from patrolling a university campus after dark that you did protecting the populace at large.  The worst thing you ever found there were underage drinkers and stressed out students willing away their troubles at the end of a puff of illegal smoke.  

He wasn't meant to be there.  He was supposed to be back on the force.  There as no reason why he should have left.  Except for one—which only became obvious as he crossed the hall towards the bathroom.  He moved with a pronounced limp of the right leg, hobbling as if the mere touch of the floor was painful.  Given that he was once again working graveyard, he should have, by all rights, still been in bed.  

Even if the clocks said noon, the small apartment was shaded, looking like early morning with weak sunlight filtering through the heavy blinds.  The secondhand furniture, done up in shades of utilitarian beige, which had matched at one point, made blocky shadows in the dim light.  Glancing at the thrift-store clock, he realized he'd spent too much time hauling himself out of bed, and was going to be decidedly late.  That in mind, he turned the shower up to scalding, hoping the heat would wake him up.  

Couldn't the idiot have wanted a weekend meeting?  What was so hard about that?  They both had jobs to do, after all.

The thoughts flitted through his brain as the water pounded down around him, plastering unkempt, ash-blond hair to his head.  It slowly started to ease away the tension of too little sleep, and too much thinking.  He really needed to get out more—take his mind off things.  And, a nagging little voice informed him, the over-sized bed taking up the majority of his bedroom felt more and more empty the more nights he fell into the pile of down comforters covering it.  In response to said nagging voice, Gavin announced, almost viciously, “Fine, I'll get a cat”, and attacked the few days worth of stubble on his face.  

Twenty minutes later, he was dressed, and jogging.  With the hot water, and a usual dose of over-the-counter painkillers, the leg was about functional again.  But both he, and his superiors had known that without those two factors in play, he might as well have been on crutches for all it worked.  Luckily enough, the late March weather was warm, only a few clouds scattered across the hard blue sky.  Puddles dotted the pavement, easy enough to avoid, even running.  To add to his temporary good fortune, the town still hadn't quite grown into something beyond the university campus, and as such, most conveniences, such as his destination, were only minutes away on foot.  It was tucked along the coastline, surrounding a wide bay, boasting a community where everyone knew everyone, and everything that went on.  The word “shopping mall” was restricted to the line of shops off of the main street.  Commercial business had yet to invade, even with the population of college students ripe for the marketing.  

A perfect place for the out-of-commission police officer to fade into obscurity, he reflected, tanned face twisting into a frown.  He put on a little more speed, rounding a corner and ducking past a pair of bottle-blond students bemoaning the lack of cellphone reception in the downtown area.  Except it wasn't downtown as most people envisioned it.  One main road wound around the bayfront area, connected to the local highway, and branched off into small one-lane streets cluttered with brick and awnings.  There were few advertisements, and fewer department stores.  Most of the population consisted of fishermen, academics, retirees, and the seasonal college crowd.  His destination was one of the older brick buildings, half-hiding behind a bright new florist and an insurance agency.  

Stepping inside, he paused a moment to catch his breath in the coffee-laden air, before nodding to a few familiar faces, and making an unerring line for one of the couches pushed up in the back.  No one in town could say for sure how long this particular shop had been around, only that it had been a bar at one point, and before that, a speak.  Gavin didn't know how much of it he really believed, but the timeworn wood of the walls, counter, and floors spoke volumes.  Unlike his apartment, none of the furniture matched—ranging from bar stools, to small metal tables and chairs, to long, antique couches surrounding low tables.  The haphazard arrangement, combined with dim, warm lighting, gave the place a crowded, comfortable feel, even with the modern concessions to wireless internet and unpronounceable, caffeine laden concoctions.

“You're late,” someone informed him dryly.  “You owe me another round.”

Stifling a sigh, Gavin slid into a couch opposite a familiar, sprawled form.  Said personage was not looking up, lying on his back, head propped up on an arm, and long legs dangling over the opposite end.  True to his word, an empty, too-big mug sat on the table within arm's reach.  In his hands was a book, its title reading simply, Sociological Analysis for Morons.  “You were early just so I'd owe you,” Gavin informed the other.  “Weren't you?”

Dark eyes flicked up over the rims of his glasses.  “Maybe,” the other drawled out, closing the book.  Casually, he sat up, still somehow managing to look utterly at ease—a counterpoint to Gavin's rigid posture.  “And maybe next time, you should be on time.”

“Damn it, Leigh.”

That only earned him a Cheshire grin that sent several heads in the shop turning more obviously in their direction.  And not for the first time in their acquaintance, Gavin found himself wanting to throttle his companion.  Leigh Knight was the man on campus every student ended up daydreaming about—as tall as Gavin himself, lean, and with decidedly Asian features, at odds with his utterly non-Asian name, that made him far more exotic than anything else the little university had to offer.  He wore his hair fashionably long, which only served to garner more admiring looks from the student body.  It should not have bothered Gavin.  Leigh was a few years his junior—somewhere in his twenties—and had every right to get the attention.  Still, it would have been nice to have a conversation with the idiot without a flock of young women descending on them.

The one time that hadn't been an issue had been their first meeting.  Gavin been coming off a day shift, and had taken a shortcut through the university library.  However, instead of getting home early, he'd ended up tripping over a pair of long legs dangling off a small chair, and in the process of catching himself, nearly landed on the sleeping owner of said legs.  Once the initial shouting match had subsided, he'd somehow found himself carrying a motley assortment of papers back to a cramped office.  And from there, the other man had never left him alone, taking every opportunity to pester Gavin on his rounds, or haul him out of his apartment on his days off.  After a few weeks of the grudging contact, Gavin suddenly realized he didn't mind being bothered half as much as he'd thought.

Except when Leigh was being an aggravating idiot.  Such as now.

Grumbling under his breath, he snagged up the empty mug, and headed towards the counter, pointedly ignoring the victorious laugh from behind him.  The woman working it gave him an understanding sort of smile before moving to take care of his order.  Apparently, Leigh was a real regular around here.  Not that he was entirely surprised...  He leaned his elbows on the polished wood, trying to look something other than bored.

“5th Street's blocked off.”

“Yeah?  How come?”

Boredom turned into curiosity.  Idle coffee shop gossip was more entertaining at least than standing around waiting on drinks with nothing else to do.  Gavin turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of the speakers—two of the town's “artistic” types, a man and woman, complete with dark glasses and secondhand clothing to match.  One of them shrugged, staring into his paper cup.  

“Not sure.  Some kind of accident.”

“You know what happened?”

Now they had his complete attention.  His order arrived, and he barely had the sense of mind to slide the money across the counter.  It had to have been a serious accident for an entire street to shut down.  

“Lady plowed her car into a streetlamp,” the first speaker said, folding his hands.  “Glass and shit everywhere.  Looked really nasty.”

The woman shuddered, and Gavin's change came.  Nodding absently in thanks, he collected the items, returning to his previously empty seat.  He had half a mind to bring up the news, but having to push through a sudden collection of students questioning their professor on his latest excuse for an exam put it out of his mind.  A few of them shot him angry looks, which he ignored in favor of shoving one end of the sandwich he'd picked up into Leigh's still speaking mouth.  The other man half-choked, then recovered, glowering before sending the students off with a reminder of office hours.

“Never had you picked for the jealous type,” he grumbled, setting the food down in favor of the drink.  

“I'm not jealous, they were in my way, and interrupting.”  

“Uh huh.”

He tossed a napkin at his companion.  “Eat the sandwich before the caffeine intake kills you.  Why did you call me down here?” he asked.  “You know I work nights.  What's so important?”

Leigh held up a hand, smiling that same wicked grin.  “No you don't,” he said.  “Not tonight.”

“Yes,” Gavin corrected, tiredly.  He wasn't in the mood for one of these little games.  “I do.  I work graveyard.”

“No.”

Defeated, he dropped his head into his hands.  Any more of this, and he was going to get a migraine.  “Fine,” he groaned.  “Why don't I have work tonight?”

The grin hadn't faded, even when it was hidden behind the mug—which was being emptied at an alarming rate.  Although, he did pause long enough to actually start in on the sandwich.  “Because, you're going with me to a little party.”

He stared.  “Are you asking me...”  It was just so incomprehensible.  He had to be wrong.  “Are you asking me to...”  Now it was Gavin's turn to hold up a hand.  “Look, if you're...”

“Not like that, you hormonal idiot,” Leigh grumbled, all but glaring at him.  He tossed the napkin back, smirking faintly when it bounced off his friend's forehead.  “There's a new exhibit opening tonight, with a lecture by the new anthropology professor.”  A dark brow arched.  “Who is very much unattached...”  

Before that last statement so much as started to trail off, Gavin was on his feet, turning to leave.  He couldn't believe it.  Of all the things to pull on him, this had to be one of the worst.  He wasn't going to sit around and take this matchmaking bullshit.  Nodding tersely, he moved to pass the couch, and simply walk out the door.  The idiot should have known better than to try something like this.  

A light touch on his arm stopped him.  “Just... hear me out,” Leigh was saying, suddenly all seriousness and sincerity.  “How long has it been since Jordan?”

His foot twitched.  “Five years.”  Five years of no contact, save an occasional email.  Nothing but casual conversation, brief exchanges with the woman he'd given his career, and nearly his life for.  The woman who had both taken and broken his heart, as melodramatic as that sounded, even in his head.  “Six in May.”

“I don't know what's more depressing—the fact you're still keeping track, or that you could answer so fast.”  Movement of air beside him.  Leigh was on his feet, pulling him back to his seat.  “I'm not asking you to marry the woman,” he said, mercifully keeping the eye-rolling theatrics to a minimum.  “Just give it a try.  You're holed up in your little apartment alone all the time.  That can't be healthy.  And if all else fails, it's a night off with some free alcohol.”

The more he said “no”, the more Leigh was just going to try harder.  It was, annoyingly enough, easier just to give in, and agree to go to the damn party.  He still didn't have to give the other man the pleasure of winning so quickly.  So for a while, he just stared down at the polished tabletop, pale blue eyes distant.  The idiot was right... He did need to get out.  Thinking about her still drove him up a wall.  And work was no longer as interesting as it had been—if it had ever been interesting.  

“Sure,” he murmured into his hands.  “Sure.  Let's do this...”  

“Great.”  And the wicked grin was back, stronger than ever before.  “You can start by coming back to campus with me.”

Gavin raised a brow, staring at the other man skeptically.  “Why would I need to do that?”

“I left your ticket in my office.”

It was just like him to be that overly confident.  And Gavin was honestly too tired to start any kind of debate with him on the subject right now.  So instead, he heaved himself up, waited for Leigh to collect both briefcase and forced-upon sandwich, then followed him moodily out the door, hands shoved low into the pockets of his well-worn jeans.  He didn't even comment when his friend gave a table full of young women a cheerful wave on his way out, though their muffled squeals did end up hurting his ears.  

“You know, you could kill someone with that glare of yours,” Leigh quipped, catching the door for him.  “Might want to ease off a bit.”

He just rolled his eyes, starting down the sidewalk towards the campus.  They did end up speaking as they walked, mostly on the nonsense they usually talked about—other professors in other departments, the state of the student body, the cold—little, safe things.  He'd learned long ago not to poke around in the other's past.  As much as it annoyed him half the time, the normal Leigh Knight was much preferable to the moody, morose one that emerged when he did too much digging.  A few things had become clear after the first awkward conversation—Leigh was adopted, hence his name, he'd lost his birth family when he was younger, he spent his free time delving into records to try and figure out exactly what had happened, and that it was a topic that was very, very much off limits for discussion.  

The same could be said about his own background.  It was one of the few things they mutually agreed on.  In return, Leigh knew he was a detective on forced retirement, and didn't speak to his father.  The one thing that set their little agreement off-balance was the fact that Leigh knew about Jordan—one of the biggest disappointments of Gavin's life.

So preoccupied, they didn't notice where they were until they caught sight of the wreck.

It was just as bad as the two in the shop had said.  The car, a small, gray sedan, was wrapped all the way around a light post, which had in turn, fallen on top of the vehicle, crushing it like a tin can.  Glass and warped bits of metal were everywhere.  Even though experience told him the darker patches of pavement were probably oil stains, his brain couldn't help but wonder if they would test positive for blood.  One of the car's doors, the front passenger side, lay a few feet from the actual wreck, severed most likely in the rescue attempt. There was little chance the driver, or any passengers, had survived.  Judging by the lack of emergency personnel, the accident had happened sometime in the early morning—the only vehicles were salvage, and a token police cruiser, its driver lingering on the edges of the bright yellow police tape.

Instinctively, he started forward, putting up a hand to hold Leigh back.  He was reaching into his jacket for a badge that didn't exist when Leigh caught his outstretched arm, stubbornly holding him back, and reminding him he was no longer privy to anything the officer could tell him.  All the same, he shook off the restraining hand, continuing forward.  Somewhere behind him, Leigh muttered something less than pleasant under his breath—but his following footsteps gave him away.  

The officer's nameplate read “DOYLE” in familiar, blocky letters.  Steeling himself, Gavin, forced his eyes away from the uniform, and instead on Doyle's face, which was surprisingly an unfamiliar one.  Then again, he hadn't had a chance to meet much of the local law enforcement, and his social contacts extended to a few kind students on campus, a coffee shop owner, and an idiot.  In return, Doyle's shoulders squared, preparing for another round of questions from concerned citizens, a stance Gavin recognized all too well.  “Officer,” he said, formally.  It was hard not to slip back in to the usual conversation patterns he'd used before.  “Can you tell me what happened here?  Drunk driver or just bad plain bad luck?”

For a moment, he thought his offer would be refused.  After all, it might be sensitive information.  Or Doyle might just not feel like telling him.  But he saw the officer's eyes flick over him, noting his stance and posture, then up over his shoulder, back to where Leigh was undoubtedly making an ass of himself.  Then, amazingly, Doyle let out a tired sigh.

“We're not sure,” she admitted, running a hand tiredly over her pale and drawn face.  Gavin guessed she'd been one of the first on the scene.  “Damnedest thing.  No witnesses, just one totaled car and one dead driver.”  Her demeanor had shifted.  No longer was she the cop talking down to civilians, she was a cop talking to a comrade—searching for another opinion, someone to make sense of it all.  Some small part of him was hoping Leigh noticed.  It would show him.  “Skid marks just swerve straight into the pole.  We can't figure out what made her do it...”

He gave her a tired, understanding sort of smile.  “I hear you,” he said, rolling his shoulders back.  “Maybe something will turn up in autopsy...”

If Doyle answered him, he didn't hear her.  His attention had been distracted by the scene, in particular, the broken door.  Gouged deep into the door itself, etched around the handle, were five long furrows.  It could have been caused by anything, really.  But something was wrong.  Emergency crews wouldn't have done that damage.  Collision shouldn't have... He looked back up at the car, following its crumpled length down to the skid marks themselves.  “The car was coming... which way?” he asked abruptly.  

Doyle blinked.  “Towards us,” she said.  “Victim was, according to her husband, on her way to drop off the kid at daycare, then to campus when it happened... had a class.”

He heard Leigh shift, and felt the sudden tension in the air.  Normally, he'd have been concerned.  Now, however, there were more pressing things.  If the car had been headed in their direction... “Check that door, officer,” he said, gesturing towards the torn passenger door.  

When she raised an eyebrow, he elaborated.  “Look at it.  Those marks.  She must have clipped something, sent her spinning straight into the pole.”  

He hadn't expected a response, and, she naturally didn't give him much of one.  Just nodded, making note of the scratches in question with a quick glance.  “I'll run that by the boys at the lab when I get the all-clear,” she assured him, but made no effort to continue the conversation.  

It was clear, from her reaction, that their short-lived camaraderie was at an end.  Probably shouldn't have opened his mouth at all, he reflected.  The last thing anyone wanted was a missed observation being pointed out to them.  Himself included.  He gave her a quick nod, smiling vaguely, and turned back towards Leigh, who he fully expected to have wandered off, distracted by something shiny, or by a pair of bare legs flashing themselves at him.

Instead, the other man wore an uncharacteristically troubled expression.  Gavin barely had the time to quirk an eyebrow in question before he'd stepped forward to address the officer on his own.  “What was her name?” he all but demanded.  “The woman who died here...  Who was she?”

Stifling a groan, Gavin put a hand on Leigh's shoulder, going to pull him back and out of Doyle's way.  Like hell was the other man going to get the victim's name.  But, apparently, today was going to be full of surprises.  Doyle glanced at his companion, gaze softening a fraction around the edges.  Shaking her head, the officer said, “Pérez.  Marta Pérez.  She was—”

“A graduate student,” Leigh finished.  “At the university.  I know.”  With a curt nod, he started walking again, not once looking back at either officer, Gavin, or the smashed vehicle.