She pressed on, words stumbling out. “I mean, I hate to say this, but what if the police are involved somehow? What if the run-in that resulted in Mullowney’s death was their way of taking him out? I mean, if someone wanted him gone…”
Nobody shot her down. We all understood the fear.
Madden’s eyes met mine, and her voice was measured. “We can’t know what’s in Carson’s head,” she said evenly. “Maybe he’s just willfully ignorant, because ignorance is safe. Might be it’s more. Either way, the result is the same. He’s failed everyone who didn’t have the power to demand more. What we do have clear proof of is a pattern of gross negligence and failure to follow reasonable procedure that extends back fifteen years, at minimum.”
Daniel shrugged. “From what I see, it’s easier to let things slide than to risk making enemies. Everything I’ve seen in working with him shows he likes a neat file and a closed case.”
Bree scowled. “So what? He’ll keep sweeping this kind of case under the rug until someone makes it impossible?”
My own frustration rose—this endless inertia, this island-wide willingness to pretend because people needed at least the illusion of safety. I felt it in my bones, the way I used to sense the approach of a storm at sea. “Someone has to force the issue. That’s the only way it ever changes.”
Madden drew a slow breath, and with it the tenor of the room changed. “That’s what I’ve been working on.” She glanced around, making sure everyone was listening. “I put together a packet—fifteen years of missing persons, all the cases that never got a proper search, all the requests for information that were stonewalled. Every file that was closed for the sake of convenience instead of truth. I cross-referenced patterns—who disappeared, how long the cases stayed open, which files never made it to the press. The files I was slipped helped fill in a lot of gaps, but there’s more from public record if you know where and what to look for.”
Willa sat forward, eyes huge and earnest. “What do we do with it?”
Madden’s eyes hardened. “He’s spent all this time hiding behind procedure. So, I’m turning procedure against him. I’m sending everything I’ve found to the State Bureau of Investigation with an audit request. No name, no traceable connection. Every digital fingerprint’s scrubbed. They’ll have to open an inquiry. It takes the decision out of Carson’s hands.”
Ford loosed a low whistle. “That’s ballsy.”
Daniel looked at her with respect. “That’s not something he’ll expect.”
Sawyer let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a groan. “He’s gonna lose it. I hope someone has a camera on him when he finds out.”
“He’ll be getting a copy of the complaint himself,” she added.
I frowned. “That’s a bit like poking the bear. He might take it as a threat.”
“It’s not meant as a threat.” Madden paused. “Well, not entirely. It’s part of procedure that he be notified.”
Bree leaned in, her tone sharpening. “Anonymous or not, he’s going to want a scapegoat, you know. That’s how men like him operate. He’ll sniff around, try to intimidate, start rumors.”
Madden’s smile was thin. “That’s why it’s anonymous. I’m not stupid. But it’s the only way to force him out from behind his desk. He’s hidden behind policy and paperwork for too long.”
Ford looked my way. “You’ll watch her back?”
I nodded, meaning it with every part of me. “Always.”
A low hum of agreement moved through the group. For the first time all night, something like hope flickered.
I caught Madden’s gaze. “It’s the right next step. And yeah, if he’s actually dirty, it’ll rattle his cage. So we stay sharp. We watch. We wait. And whatever comes, we face it.”
Thirty-Eight
MADDEN
Being out in public was weird, as I let routine fold over the part of me that kept waiting for the sky to fall. Two days had passed since I’d sent the packet. Two days marked by a hundred little anxieties pressed into every hour. I well knew that bureaucracy moved at a snail’s pace. Had known it before I’d started down this path. But the fact that nothing had happened left me on edge. I kept half-expecting to look up from my phone and see a uniform, a summons, the beginning of a reckoning.
Instead, there was just the bakery: the soft click of the door behind me, the smell of yeast and cinnamon and coffee, and the low hum of local voices blending into the music piped from hidden speakers.
Rios and I reached the door together. He lingered at my side, his hand at my waist like he could absorb the leftover worry radiating off me. I sensed him cataloguing the space even as he leaned down for a kiss meant to reassure us both. “Don’t let Astrid talk you into anything illegal while I’m gone,” he murmured, lips at my temple.
I snorted, but the humor was thin. “If I do, I know who I want to come rescue me.”
His smile flickered—faint, but real. “Be careful,” he said, thumb tracing my hip. “I’m gonna go save Hoyt from an impending hernia. I shouldn’t be long.”
“You realize those are famous last words whenever the prospect of moving furniture is involved, right?”
“Hope springs eternal. Don’t leave before I get back, okay?”
