He looks up. Our eyes meet through the glass.
Neither of us smiles. But his expression shifts—recognition that we survived this together. That what comes next, we'll figure out together too.
Then Reeves appears in my peripheral vision, holding a folder.
"Kane. Need you to sign off on these transcripts before we can file them."
I turn away from the window. Away from Rhys. Back to the business of closing cases and tying up loose ends.
My pen scratches across paper—signature, date, case number. All the official pieces falling into place.
Except one.
The Bureau's text message glows on my phone screen. A question I haven't answered. A future I haven't chosen.
I delete it without responding and hand Reeves his folder.
"We done here?" I ask.
"For now." He studies me. "You sure you don't want to reconsider? The Bureau could use someone with your skills."
"I'm sure."
He nods once and walks away.
13
RHYS
The paperwork for Sergei's transfer takes three hours. Federal forms in triplicate. Chain of custody documentation. Witness statements cross-referenced and initialed. Every detail documented because the Marshal is still out there and we can't afford a single procedural error that might let Sergei walk.
I sign the last page and push the stack across my desk to the federal agent waiting to transport the prisoner. He nods once, gathers the files, and leaves without a word. Professional. Efficient. The kind of agent who does the job without needing conversation.
The station feels empty after he leaves. Wells is out on patrol. Dispatch is quiet. Just me and the hum of the space heater struggling against November cold seeping through old walls.
I should feel satisfied. Sergei is in federal custody. Eight women rescued. Justice served.
But Sergei refuses to disclose who the Marshal is—if he even knows. The Marshal is still out there. The network wounded but not dead.
Emma's ring is still in my pocket, but for the first time, it doesn't feel like the only thing that matters.
Harlow did that. Showed me that surviving isn't the same as living.
I stand. Grab my jacket. She texted me earlier she was heading to the mining site. It’s forty minutes from town, and I need to see her. Need to know if what we started in that cabin during the storm is real or just adrenaline and proximity and two broken people finding comfort in chaos.
The drive gives me too much time to think. Too much time to doubt. What if she takes the Bureau job? What if Alaska was just a stopping point, not a destination? What if I am reading too much into heated looks and whispered promises made in the dark?
The mining compound appears through the trees. Federal vehicles still line the access road. Crime scene tape surrounds the office building and other structures.
I park near the equipment yard. Through the chain-link fence, Harlow stands with three men in hard hats and company jackets. She gestures toward the north perimeter, pointing out sight lines and access points. One of the men takes notes while another nods along. She moves with confidence, owns the space around her, speaks with authority that commands respect.
This is Harlow Kane in her element. Professional. Capable. Exactly where she belongs.
She's beautiful like this. Fierce and competent and completely in control.
One of the men asks a question. She answers, then demonstrates proper positioning for a new camera installation. The men follow her lead without hesitation. They recognize what I recognized from the start. Someone who knows her work and does it well.
Want hits me hard. Not just attraction or gratitude. I want mornings with her. Arguments about where to eat dinner. The ordinary moments that build a life together.
