“Andy Tarmigan,” Enzo says from behind his Clark Kent glasses. “He was the facial recognition match GhostEye pulled up from the bodycam images.”
I glance back at the photo of the kind of guy I imaginebelongs to a fraternity and calls everyone “dude,” even when it’s inappropriate.
Ava picks up the explanation. “Tarmigan is twenty-three. His image matched with multiple social media posts from women on campus at San Jose Tech… There was a lot of heat on him in those posts. A couple of years ago, he was expelled from college due to allegations of multiple roofie cases brought against him.”
Rio leans forward, perching on his elbows. “He was acquitted.”
But innocence isn’t always true.
I point to Enzo’s laptop. “Is there anything you’ve seen on Tarmigan that suggests he could be involved with Zoe?”
Enzo types again, eyes on his screen, multitasking like his brain is wired to solve twelve things at once. “After the expulsion, he got his real estate license. Not long before Zoe’s death.”
Ava finishes his sentence. “He showed her some shop space in Mount Hamilton.”
“How do you know that?”
Her hazel eyes sparkle. “Don’t ask.”
Did she hack into Tarmigan’s schedule at work?
I take her sage advice and don’t ask. If I know, I’m complicit.
I recall my conversation with Ingram. “Zoe wanted to be a florist.”
A sad shroud falls over the room. Selling flowers is such a bright, cheerful thing Zoe wanted to do, and it will never happen.
“Anyway, that’s where we stopped.” Rio slides a manila folder my way. “Tarmigan’s contact details, employer, printout of socials… I’m sure you can handle it from here, but let us know if our tools can make it easier at any point.”
As much as I want to sit here with these guys all night, they’re right. I can handle this. I can research socials and see if Andy and Zoe were more than business acquaintances. I know how to write up a line of questioning for when I interview Tarmigan. I. Can. Handle. It. And they believe I can, too.
In every job I’ve had, I’ve tried to keep one step ahead of how people saw me. The outsider. The idealist. The intern. The girl with a clipboard asking too many questions.
But tonight, nobody’s patting me on the head. Nobody’s double-checking my work. They’re handing me the folder and stepping back. Like I belong here. Just as Anton assured me.
And for the first time since I got this badge, I believe I belong here, too.
I slide the folder open and skim the summary Enzo pulled. If this guy’s our link to Zoe, we need to tread carefully. But I glance back up at Rio, who’s already turned back to his computer screen, working.
If Tarmigan had something to do with Zoe’s death, Rio’s ten-year-old case is unlikely to be part of a pattern. This man would have been thirteen a decade ago.
I’m halfway through reading the contents in the manila folder when Anton leans in next to me.
His palm lands lightly on my thigh.
My breath stumbles. My brain blanks. All I can think about is how close his hand is to where I still feel him—where I still want him. And we’re sitting at a damn conference table.
“Should we get you home?” he asks softly.
Home.
I nod because I’m tired as hell.
We step out into the frosty night, breath fogging in theair as we make our way back to the house we’re both calling home—at least for now.
My fingers stay tight around the folder, like gripping it harder might keep my thoughts from scattering.
Work first, Freya.
