"I should head out," Griff says, standing. "Let you two finish putting this place back together." He pauses at the door. "Dr. McKay, if you need anything, call. Holden's good at the strong silent protector thing, but I'm much better company."
"Noted," Fallon says, still almost smiling.
After Griff leaves, the apartment feels smaller. More intimate. Just me and Fallon and the wreckage of her life spread across the floor.
"He's nice," Fallon says, collecting trash from the counter.
"He's a menace." I grab another garbage bag. "But yeah, he's good people."
We work until the apartment is as clean as it's going to get without replacing furniture. Fallon moves slower now, painmedication wearing off, exhaustion winning. When she sways slightly while reaching for a book on the top shelf, I guide her toward the bedroom.
"Rest," I tell her. "I'll finish up."
For once, she doesn't argue. Just nods and disappears into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
I give her ten minutes, then pull out my laptop and start digging into Bruce Tanner's background.
Tanner joined Seattle PD eight years ago. Solid record for the first three years, then complaints started trickling in. Excessive force. Inappropriate conduct. Harassment of female colleagues. Each complaint investigated, each time cleared due to lack of evidence or witness recantation.
Classic pattern of someone who knows how to work the system.
His relationship with Fallon started years ago. High school sweethearts who reconnected after college. They moved in together quickly. Got engaged not long after.
Then the complaints from neighbors. Loud arguments. Sounds of things breaking. One noise complaint specifically mentioned a woman crying.
Fallon moved out. Filed for a restraining order. Cited emotional abuse, controlling behavior, isolation from friends and family, destruction of personal property. The order was granted. Tanner was ordered to stay away.
He violated it repeatedly. Each time, his fellow officers showed up and filed the report. Each time, charges were dropped or reduced.
The final straw came when Fallon's car was vandalized outside her workplace. Tires slashed, windows smashed, interior doused in bleach. Security footage showed someone matching Tanner's description, but the angle was bad and his lawyer argued reasonable doubt.
Not long after, Fallon disappeared. Changed her name from Fallon Walsh back to her mother's maiden name, McKay. Took a contract position across the country. Vanished so completely that even with police resources, Tanner shouldn't have been able to find her.
Shouldn't have. But someone found her. Someone blew up her boat, stole her research, destroyed her apartment.
Question is whether that someone is Bruce Tanner, or if Fallon has a different problem entirely.
I'm still reading when I hear the bedroom door open. Fallon emerges in the same clothes, hair tangled, exhaustion written in every line of her body.
"Can't sleep?" I close the laptop.
"Too much coffee. Too much adrenaline." She moves to the kitchen, fills a glass with water. "What are you researching?"
No point lying. "Your ex."
Her hand tightens on the glass. "And?"
"And he's dangerous. Multiple complaints, pattern of violence, obsessive behavior." I keep my voice level. "But the bomb bothers me. Domestic abusers usually escalate to physical violence, not sophisticated explosives."
"You don't think it's him."
"I think there are other reasons you could be targeted." I stand, giving her space but staying close enough to catch her if she falls. "Your research documented vulnerabilities in base security. That information is valuable to people who aren't ex-boyfriends."
Fallon processes this, face pale. "So either Bruce found me and hired someone to build a bomb, or someone else wants my research and will kill for it."
"Both options are on the table until we know more."
She sets the glass down with deliberate care. "I should have stayed in Seattle. Dealt with Bruce properly instead of running."
