<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">Four years. Four years of laughter, of traveling, of sacrifices for each other. Four years of support, of loyalty. Then four months ago, the changes had begun. The fighting, the lies, the disappearing. She’d wake up at night and he wouldn’t be there; she’d wake again in the morning and he would be. He denied leaving every time it happened. It was tense between them; they avoided each other. It ate away at her. Then, four weeks ago, he was gone. Dead. Her world had crumbled.<br/>
<br/>
Days of lethargy, of asking why. She’d always known his job was dangerous, but she’d been naïve enough to think the unthinkable would never happen to him. Nathan had been too young, too clever and quick, to fall in the line of duty. Even when she had worried, his answer had always been the same. <i>Don’t sweat it, babe; I always come back, don’t I?</i> She’d always answered with a pouting yes, but the back of her mind had always added, <i>Until you don’t.</i> And that <i>until</i> had actually come. It’d been awful, too. <i>Rising Officer Gunned Down During Drug Bust. LAPD Mourns Loss of Future Police Captain. The Line of Duty Claims Another Officer.</i> She hadn’t looked at a newspaper or the news on her phone for a week after Nathan’s funeral.<br/>
<br/>
They hadn’t been married, but they’d moved in together nearly a year after meeting. His family was from Minnesota so they’d asked her to arrange everything while they figured out how to get to LA in time for the funeral. So she had. Four years of dedication to Nathan culminated in forty minutes of oak or cherry? Open or closed casket? The funeral itself had been a blur. She’d wordlessly sat with her family, her brother literally guiding her through the movements of sitting and standing, of greeting people who wanted to hug her. Nathan’s partner had briefly come by to speak with her, but he’d been there when Nathan died, so it’d been painfully difficult to even look at him, let alone comprehend what he’d said. Her family had taken her home not long after that and her sister had stayed with her an extra week before heading back to San Diego.<br/>
<br/>
Home was a stucco-style townhouse not far from the studio she worked for. A television stage manager, she’d moved to LA not long after graduating from college. She enjoyed her job, but had been so grateful they were between seasons when Nathan died. She wouldn’t have been able to focus enough to do her job. But then she’d spent time at home and everything had reminded her of him, so she’d begun taking long walks, going and sitting at coffee shops to read, shopping just to shop. And it was during those little adventures that she began to notice the same couple men popping up in the background, in an older model white Ford Mustang in the same parking lots. And she’d thought it odd, but had brushed it off.<br/>
<br/>
After four weeks of moping, of avoiding, of remaining stagnant, Genevieve Macias could do it no more. So she’d begun systematically organizing and packing up all of Nathan’s belongings. His mother rightfully wanted all of his items, so Gen had promised she’d have it all ready by the time they arrived with a U-Haul in a couple weeks. As she stood in the disaster that had once been their master bedroom, she realized that had been a lofty goal. Their normally neat bedroom was scattered with boxes, many of them half-full as she tried to sort Nathan’s clothing. The second bedroom Nathan had used as an office was just as destroyed, but she had stopped working in there the instant she’d found some photos in his desk drawer. She hadn’t wanted to touch anything else, just in case, and had immediately called Nathan’s partner to come get them.<br/>
<br/>
Sighing softly, Gen lifted the bottom hem of her red and white baseball tee up to wipe at her glistening brow. Packing was a lot of work, but it felt good to be productive. It gave her something to focus on. Eying the result of the afternoon of work she’d completed while classic rock rumbled from the little radio on her bedstand, she tried to decide how much more she could get done before giving up for the day. Her dark eyes roamed over the boxes while a hand pushed a stray curl from her face. Her hair normally waved and curled a few inches past her shoulders, but she’d pulled it back into a messy bun atop her head, so a couple of those curls had fallen down to tease her round, tawny face. The offspring of an Italian and a Mexican, her features were dark, her body curvy, and her temper often like lightning.<br/>
<br/>
Barefoot with tanned legs on showcase in a pair of black athletic shorts, Genevieve dug into the drawer of Nathan’s dresser she was trying to pack away. He’d always put his clothing away in his dresser so it always appeared neat…but he’d never had a system. Everything was mixed together, making it difficult to totally unpack. Plus she kept finding things stashed away. A flashdrive in a pair of socks, a business card with only a phone number on it between two shirts. Other odd little tidbits, including a discharged bullet. She hadn’t understood any of it and had set them atop the dresser with other various items she’d found, deciding to focus on clothes first. Everything in steps, she reminded herself. Slow and steady.</span><br/><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><br/>
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