The day moved without her. Conversations shifted to other cases. The lighting changed as the sun dropped behind the building, leaving the bullpen bathed in a dull amber glow. Erin forced herself to answer two more routine media inquiries, each one an exercise in control, and finally exhaled when the last call ended.
She didn’t realize how long she had been holding her breath until her chest ached.
When the clock hit six, she was still typing. The bullpen had thinned out, a handful of detectives lingering, a few patrol officers waiting on reports. The TV near her desk ran silent footage of her own press conference, subtitles crawling across the bottom.
She looked away just as a burst of motion caught the corner of her eye. A sergeant jogged past with his radio clipped to his shoulder, voice tight. Another followed. Then someone shouted from the far side of the room.
“Shots fired! Boston Common!”
The noise doubled. Phones rang. Chairs scraped back. Erin’s stomach dropped.
“Units on scene reporting multiple injuries,” the radio crackled. “Possible homicide.”
Erin was already on her feet when the call sliced through the bullpen.
“A homicide in the Common. Major response.”
Her pulse jumped hard, sharp enough to make her vision tighten. She grabbed her notepad, her bag, and her radio without thinking. Someone called across the room, “Calhoun, you’re up. You’re lead on comms.”
“Copy,” she said, though her voice felt like it came from somewhere far away.
She hit the stairs fast, her shoes echoing off the concrete, and pushed through the heavy door into the cold night air. Her cruiser sat where she’d left it, dew gathering on the windshield. She climbed in, turned the key, and the engine roared awake beneath her shaking hands.
Dispatch chatter crackled immediately.
“Units on scene confirm: female, early twenties.”
“Possible witnesses fleeing toward Tremont.”
“Notify Command.”
And, buried fast between calls — quiet, clipped, like someone hadn’t meant to broadcast it:
“…mayor’s daughter…”
Erin’s grip tightened on the wheel. Her breath hitched once, hard.
She pulled into traffic, lights flashing, siren weaving her through the downtown grid. The sound became one long note in her bloodstream. She tried to focus on the road, but her mind kept snagging on that one impossible phrase.
The mayor’s daughter.
The city blurred past — brick buildings, shuttered shops, empty sidewalks — all streaked blue and red as she threaded through intersections.
When she turned toward the Common, the sky itself seemed to pulse with the glow. Dozens of cruisers. Floodlights cutting through the trees. Tape strung in a wide perimeter. The shapeless movement of uniforms, EMTs, detectives converging all at once.
She parked half on the curb and was out before the cruiser fully stopped. The cold air hit her like a slap, carrying sirens, radio crosstalk, and the rising buzz of onlookers whispering behind the tape.
Erin squared her shoulders, shoved down the tightening in her chest, and started toward the cluster of lights.
The night swallowed her whole.
Thirty Four
The scanner popped like it was angry. A voice cut through the hum of the newsroom, and every head lifted at once.
“Shots fired, Boston Common. One down. Units en route.”
Chairs scraped. Phones started ringing in clusters. Henry leaned over the assignment desk, one hand gripping a stack of rundowns, the other cupped around his ear. “Who’s closest? I need a crew rolling in sixty seconds.”
