For a split second, I considered telling her everything about the holding cell, about Ronan’s cabin, about how it felt to be truly seen by someone who should have been my adversary. About how I’d pushed him away to protect him, only to find out he’d denied any connection to me, anyway.
The words stuck in my throat. Saying it aloud would make it real in a way I wasn’t ready to face. Would force me to acknowledge how much it had mattered, how much I’d lost before it even really began.
“Just watchlist stress. Makes everybody connected to law enforcement feel like a potential threat. Even the good ones,” I confirmed as we resumed our walk toward the parking garage.
Talia blew out air, clearly not buying it but deciding not to push. “If you say so. I’m here when you’re ready to talk about whatever’s really going on. No judgment.”
We reached our cars, parked on different levels of the garage. Talia gave me a quick hug. “Love you, girl. Get some rest, okay?”
“Love you too. Let me know when you get home.”
As Talia entered the stairwell of the parking garage, I unlocked my car and slid into the driver’s seat. I sat in the dark thinking. The world expected me to keep fighting, to be the strong one, but tonight, all I wanted was to admit how much it hurt to let go.
14
RONAN
Captain Jordan caught my eye from the front of the room, giving me a subtle nod that meant both solidarity and warning. Stay cool. Don’t make waves. We’d already talked about this in his office before the meeting.
“You’re lucky they even allowed you in the room after that stunt at the memorial. Half the brass wants your resignation letter yesterday,” Todd said, voice low despite the closed door.
I didn’t bother explaining that standing between federal officers and peaceful citizens wasn’t a “stunt.” It was my job, the one I’d sworn an oath to do, but those details mattered little these days.
Agent Harrison from Homeland Security stepped to the front with a remote in his hand. “Thank you all for coming. This briefing will outline current persons of interest in the metropolitan area, focusing on those with growing patterns of disruptive activity,” he said, his voice dull and tired.
I pulled my notebook closer and got ready to take notes, trying to look like a good, cooperative observer. After the agent went through the different tiers, Nia’s photo appeared on the screen. It wasn’t a candid shot from the Jaylen Harris protest.She was mid-sentence, finger pointed for emphasis, her face showing the passion that first drew me to her in that holding cell. Under her image, it read: Disruptor Tier Pending Escalation.
I froze, every muscle tense as I tried to keep my face neutral. Pending escalation. They were thinking about moving her up to agitator status, one step below direct threat. That would bring Nia closer to the type of surveillance and pressure that could ruin her career, reputation, and life.
Her words from the grocery store came back to me, stronger than before.“I think you’re part of a system that’s currently targeting me.”She already knew. No wonder she kept her distance. The agent clicked to a slide, showing her “risk factors.”
“Dr. Nia Price, a lecturer professor at Birmingham State University, hosts a podcast with approximately fifteen thousand listeners per episode. Possible motivation: brother killed in police raid, increasing radical rhetoric in recent public appearances.”
That last line about radical rhetoric? Nia was passionate and direct, never afraid to call out injustice, but she wasn’t radical. She believed in working within the system; she just wanted it to live up to its promises.
“On what specific evidence are you basing the escalation recommendation?”
The silence that followed was deafening as every head in the room turned toward me. Clearly thrown by my interruption, Agent H frowned.
“Excuse me?” he questioned, though I knew he’d heard me.
“I’m curious about the specific evidence that triggered the escalation review.”
Agent H glanced at another federal agent, a woman whose narrowed eyes made it clear I’d just confirmed something she suspected.
“That information is classified at this stage of assessment, but I assure you the evidence meets federal standards for review.”
“Are these the same federal standards that classified Dr. Martin Luther King as a national security threat?” My question came out before I could rein it in, my father’s historical perspective bypassing my professional filter.
Captain Jordan’s face had gone blank, but his eyes telegraphed a clear message: Shut the hell up, Ronan.
“Perhaps we should continue with the briefing. We have many people of interest to cover today,” Agent Harrison noted, clicking to the next slide.
The damage was done. The mood in the room had changed. By asking that question, I’d marked myself, put a target on my back among people trained to spot threats.
As the presentation continued, I maintained my professional facade, taking notes. It did not surprise me when Deputy Director Lawson appeared at my side.
“Chief Banks, a word in private,” he stated.
