She was so wrong.
Maybe not about Rafe.
He might not be able to forgive her, but I sure as hell could.
34
NOELLE
The storm that had been brewing all day broke as I pulled into the precinct parking lot.
Sleet hammered the windshield like a barrage of tiny bullets.
I sat still, the quiet interrupted by the pelting sleet, and rested my forehead on the steering wheel.
Each splattering drop echoed in my heart.
I’d driven all night to get back to the city, my mind replaying Bishop’s blood on my hands and Rafe’s cold dismissal.
I’d listened to our conversation, my confession, on repeat until I felt sick.
The wire sat in an evidence bag on my passenger seat.
Such a tiny thing that had destroyed everything I’d come to love.
No.
Not so tiny.
I couldn’t blame the device.
I’d chosen to wear the wire.
This was on me.
I took a fortifying breath, grabbed the wire, and crossed the parking lot.
The precinct buzzed with its usual early morning energy when I walked through the doors.
I’d washed up and changed clothes, but nothing could remove the feel of Bishop’s blood.
Conversations died as I passed, replaced with whispers, snickers of laughter, and sideways glances.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Detective Morrison leaned back in his chair, a smirk twisting his lips. “How’s our undercover superstar doing today?”
I kept going, but his voice carried across the bullpen.
“Hey, Hart. Heard your big operation went tits up. Literally.”
The snickers turned into uproarious laughter.
I stopped, even though I knew it was pointless.
I was sick to fucking death of this bullshit. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Come on, Noelle.” Detective Rodriquez joined in, his tone mocking. “We all heard the recordings before your wire went dead. We heard you getting cozy with the bikers.”
“Detective Hart.” I ground the title out between clenched teeth. “And I was doing my job.”
