How things look. The unofficial motto of every old boys' club since the dawn of time. It doesn't matter what actually happened. It matters how the people in power choose to describe it.
My crew had done what any crew would do. They just didn't have to think about how it would be twisted — they'dnever had to. That was a weight they didn't carry. I didn't blame them for it.
And honestly? If it hadn't been the car, it would have been something else. A call I ran that made him look slow. A commendation that should have been his. The way I answered a question in an officer's meeting. Men like Santoro didn't need real reasons. They just needed excuses — something to point to when they did what they were always going to do anyway.
The car just made it convenient.
Even so, those were problems I could at least fight, even if the deck was stacked. But the biggest problem — the most unsolvable problem of all — was Cap.
I sank onto my couch, the worn leather sighing under my weight. I picked up my phone, my thumb hovering over his contact. I'd seen him yesterday for his treatment, and he'd looked …tired. More than tired. The strength that had always seemed to radiate from him, the quiet confidence that had mentored half the department, was fading, eroded by the relentless poison of his illness and the equally toxic poison they pumped into his veins to fight it.
My job was to run into burning buildings. To face down chaos and wrestle it into submission. But I couldn't fight this. I couldn't command the cancer to stand down. I couldn't force a solution. All I could do was drive him to his appointments, sit with him in sterile waiting rooms, and pretend I wasn't watching the best man I'd ever known slowly disappear before my eyes. The helplessness was a physical weight, a crushing pressure in my chest that no amount of training could prepare me for.
I forced myself up, busying my hands to quiet my mind. I cleaned my already-clean kitchen. I organized my bookshelf by color, then by author, then back by color. I did a brutal HIIT workout in my living room until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned, the physical pain a welcome distraction fromthe emotional kind. By the time I finally collapsed back onto the couch, exhaustion had won. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind that only comes after forty-eight hours on duty.
I woke up three hours later, still restless, my body refusing to accept true rest. The afternoon sun streamed through my windows, highlighting the sterile functionality of my living space. No photos on the walls, no personal touches that might reveal who I was beneath the uniform. Just clean lines and practical furniture.
Unable to sit still, I grabbed my keys and headed down to the parking lot.
My father's 1995 Ford F-150 sat in my assigned space like a shrine to everything I'd lost and everything I was trying to become. Miguel Delgado had restored this truck with his own hands, teaching me to hold a wrench before I could properly hold a pencil. The forest green paint still gleamed despite its age, the chrome bumper reflecting the afternoon light.
I popped the hood and began my ritual inspection. Oil levels, coolant, belts, hoses — everything Miguel had taught me to check. The mechanical precision of the engine was soothing in a way that promotion study materials never could be. Here was something I could understand completely, something I could fix if it broke.
"That's a beautiful truck."
I looked up to find Mrs. Park from apartment 3B standing nearby with her small dog, both of them watching me with friendly curiosity.
"Thank you," I said, wiping my hands on an old rag. "It was my father's."
"Was he a mechanic?"
"Firefighter. But he liked to tinker." I closed the hood, signaling the end of the conversation. Mrs. Park meant well, but I wasn't looking for neighborhood friendships.
"Well, he did beautiful work. Have a nice day, dear."
I watched her walk away, feeling the familiar pang of guiltthat came with keeping people at arm's length. But letting people in meant letting them see your vulnerabilities, and in my line of work, vulnerabilities could cost lives.
Back in my apartment, I made a simple dinner — grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, brown rice. Fuel, not pleasure. As I ate, my phone rang with a number I recognized but dreaded.
"Hi, Mom."
"Mija," Carmen's voice carried that particular mix of love and disappointment that only mothers could perfect. "How are you? You sound tired."
"Just got off shift. I'm fine."
"Are you eating enough? Taking care of yourself?"
"I'm fine, Mom." I could hear the edge creeping into my voice.
A pause. "I heard about Captain O'Sullivan. Ramona Martinez's daughter works at the hospital. She said he's been in for treatments."
Ramona Martinez. Of course. The Latino community in our city was small enough that everyone knew everyone's business.
"He's fighting it," I said carefully.
"Ay, mija. This job …" Another pause, heavier this time. "Maybe this is a sign. You could go back to school, get your nursing degree like you always talked about. David has connections at the hospital where he works."
David. Her new husband, the accountant. Safe, stable, everything my father hadn't been.
