I set the coffee within her reach and settled back beside her, one hand resting on her leg in quiet support.
"The parents didn't make it," she continued. "But there was a little girl in the back seat. Seven years old. Amelia."
The story came out in pieces — the extrication, the child's questions about her parents, the ride to the hospital, the long wait until family could take custody. I listened without interrupting, asking gentle questions when she paused, letting her set the pace.
"She was so trusting," Izzy said, her voice finally starting to crack. "She believed me when I told her everything would be okay. She held my hand and told me stories about her grandmother's cookies and asked if the dragon princess could teach real dragons to be nice."
"You kept her safe," I said quietly. "In the worst moment of her life, you made sure she wasn't alone."
"But Jimmy..." She turned to look at me, and there were tears in her eyes now. "Holding her, taking care of her, being what she needed... it felt so natural. So right. And I realized something I've never let myself think about before."
I waited, sensing she was building toward something important.
"I want that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want kids. I want a family. I want to have little voices calling my name and bedtime stories about dragons and princesses and all of it." She paused, looking directly at me. "I want it with you."
The words hit me upside the head. Kids. Family. The future she was describing, the one she wanted with me, required something I wasn't sure I could give: the ability to protect the people who mattered most.
All I could see was Lisa Harris’ face. The hope in her eyes when I'd promised her safety. The way she'd trusted me to keep her alive, and how spectacularly I'd failed.
How could I promise to protect a child, a family, when I couldn't even save one woman who'd put her faith in me?
"Jimmy?" Izzy's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You okay?"
I realized I'd gone completely still, completely silent. She was watching me with growing concern, and I could see the exact moment when my lack of response registered as rejection.
"I mean, not right now, obviously," she said quickly, her voice taking on a forced lightness. "Someday. Maybe. It's just something I realized today, holding Amelia. I've never really thought about it before, but — "
"Izzy," I managed, but my voice came out hoarse, strange.
She stopped talking, studying my face. I wanted to explain, wanted to tell her about Lisa, about how the thought of beingresponsible for protecting the people I loved most terrified me beyond rational thought. But the words wouldn't come.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I shouldn't have brought it up. It's too much, too soon. I just... today was intense, and I wasn't thinking clearly."
"No, it's not — " I started, but she was already pulling away, both physically and emotionally.
"You know what? Let me tell you about something else that happened," she said, clearly trying to change the subject. "Something with work that you might actually be able to help me think through."
I nodded, grateful for the reprieve even as I hated myself for needing it.
"Santoro came by the station yesterday," she said, her voice taking on a different quality — harder, more controlled. "He basically threatened my promotion chances. Made it clear that the good ol' boy network doesn't want me moving up, and that he's got the political connections to make sure I don't."
The shift from personal to professional was jarring, but I found myself able to focus on this in a way I couldn't with the family conversation. This was a problem I could understand, maybe even help with.
"What exactly did he say?" I asked, my protective instincts finally kicking in.
She told me about the conversation — Santoro's veiled threats, his manipulation of the hose incident, his casual mention of how "everything reflects on your professional judgment," including the company she kept.
"He basically said that being better at the job isn't enough," she finished. "That it's all about relationships and politics, and I don't play that game."
Anger flared in my chest, clean and simple compared to the complicated terror of the family conversation. This was something concrete, something I could potentially do something about.
"That's total bullshit," I said firmly. "You're the best officer in that department. Anyone with eyes can see that."
"That's not how it works, though," she said with a bitter laugh. "Merit only matters if the people making decisions want it to matter."
I listened, feeling my protective instincts surge. This was concrete, something I understood. Not the terrifying abstraction of family and children and protection, but a clear injustice that could maybe be addressed.
An idea began forming in the back of my mind. Maybe … but I pushed the thought aside for now. This wasn't the time for solutions. This was the time to listen.
