"I'll do whatever you need," I say. "Whatever it takes to make sure Emma's evidence gets used."
Rhys nods once. "Thank you." Headlights sweep across the windows. He glances out, then back at me. "They're here."
The door opens moments later.
A man walks in first—tall, lean, moving with precise economy like someone managing chronic pain. One hand braces slightly against the doorframe as he enters, subtle enough most people wouldn't catch it. But I spent years watching patients compensate for injuries, reading body language that broadcasts discomfort they're trying to hide. An old injury, maybe chronic nerve damage—something that changed how he moves through the world.
Military bearing still shows through, though, in his squared shoulders and alert eyes that track everything without seeming to stare. Someone who used to move fast and now moves smart instead.
Two women follow him. The first carries herself with law enforcement confidence—dark hair pulled back, assessing theroom with tactical precision. The second is all sharp edges and controlled motion, even in jeans and a jacket. Her eyes sweep the room—exits first, then threats, then us—the whole assessment taking maybe two seconds.
Both former or current law enforcement, if I had to guess. Maybe FBI. Or maybe working outside the system.
"Finn Ashworth," the man says, nodding to Rhys. "Got here as fast we could."
The dark-haired woman steps forward. "Harlow Kane." Her attention shifts to Rhys with the easy familiarity of someone who knows him well. "You said Emma's evidence surfaced?"
"Cara Brennan." The second woman's gaze locks on the evidence bag on the desk. "That it?"
"USB drive hidden in Emma's locker at Palmer Regional," Rhys says. "Sela was assigned the locker earlier today and found it. Called the FBI tip line to report it. Hours later, someone tried to kill her."
Cara picks up the evidence bag, studying the drive through the plastic. Her expression stays neutral, but tension shows in her jaw, the way her fingers tighten slightly around the bag. The same controlled mask I use when a patient's family asks questions I can't answer yet, when I need to project calm while everything inside me is screaming.
"This is what got Emma killed," she says quietly. "And now they know you have it."
The words hang in the air between us. Confirmation and warning and truth all wrapped together.
I'd found evidence of federal corruption.
I'd survived an assassination attempt.
Now I'm standing in a room with people who've been hunting the same network that killed Emma Blackwater years ago.
Cara's eyes meet mine. FBI maybe. Or was. Her gaze holds betrayal, understanding of exactly how deep corruption can runwhen the people supposed to protect you are the ones trying to kill you.
"We'll keep you safe," she says. Quiet promise or statement of fact, I can't tell. "But you need to understand what you're stepping into."
My pulse kicks—not fear this time, but recognition. I'm not alone in this anymore.
4
MARC
Rhys clears the desk, spreads out maps and files. Paper rustles as Harlow pulls up digital records on her tablet, screen glow casting blue light across her face. Cara's got her laptop open, already running preliminary scans on the USB drive while we talk. Keys click in rapid rhythm, a sound that reminds me of rifle fire on a range.
Sela Mitchell sits in the chair beside my desk, hands folded in her lap. She's not crying, not panicking. Not doing any of the things civilians usually do when they realize they're caught in something that might get them killed.
She's just listening.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, throwing harsh shadows across the room. The coffee's gone cold in mugs scattered across surfaces. Everyone's operating on adrenaline and stubbornness at this point. Everyone should have gone home by now, but nobody's leaving until we have a plan that doesn't get this woman killed.
Rhys stands near the evidence bag, arms crossed, and starts laying out everything we know about the trafficking network. He covers Julian Montrose. He covers the fact that someone withfederal authority kept the operation running even after we took Montrose down.
Her eyes stay focused. Her breathing stays even. It's trauma nurse training, probably. It's the kind of control you develop when people's lives depend on you not losing your shit.
I respect that.
Harlow's taken a position by the map of Alaska mounted on the wall, already marking locations with a dry-erase marker. Finn leans against the doorframe, watching the street outside through the window.
