"Poison. Someone got to him even in isolation." I set the phone down. "The Marshal's cleaning house. Eliminating anyone who can talk."
"But we have the evidence. The encrypted drives, the communications?—"
"All of it is coded. No names, no direct connections to The Marshal. Just proof that the network exists and someone at the top is pulling strings." I walk over to her, grip her shoulders. "Haywood was our best chance at identifying who's running this operation. Without him, we're back to chasing shadows."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then her jaw sets. "So what do we do?"
"We keep working the evidence. Find the pattern in the communications, trace the dead drops, follow the money." I pull her close. "And we watch our backs. The Marshal knows we're coming. Knows what we've found."
"You think they'll come for us?"
"Eventually." I hold her tighter. "But we're not alone. Cara's working the data, Calder's coordinating with DOJ, Finn knows the territory. We've got resources Haywood didn't have."
She looks up at me, reads the determination in my face. "You're not backing down."
"Are you?"
"No." Her voice is steady. "Emma died because of this network. All those women deserve justice. If The Marshal thinks killing Haywood will make us quit, that’s wrong."
That's my girl.
"Then we keep going," I say quietly. "Careful, smart, but we keep going."
She nods, slides her arms around me. We stand there together, holding each other in the morning light.
Haywood's dead. Our key witness is gone.
But The Marshal made one mistake. They showed us how far they'll go to protect the network. How much power they have. How scared they are of being exposed.
And scared people make mistakes.
EPILOGUE
SELA
Six Weeks Later
Snow falls thick outside Palmer Regional's ER windows, coating the parking lot in white. My shift ended a while ago, but I'm finishing paperwork on a snowmobile accident victim who came in with a shattered tibia. Winter in Alaska doesn't mess around.
My phone buzzes. Marc's name lights up the screen.
Done with paperwork. Heading out soon.
I glance at the window. The storm's picked up since I arrived this morning, visibility dropping fast.
Road conditions are bad. Drive careful. Always do. See you at home.
The word still feels new, solid in a way the apartment in Palmer never was. A cabin in Whitewater Junction means a long commute on good days, longer when weather turns, but it's worth every mile.
I sign off on the last chart, grab my coat from the staff locker. Sandra passes me in the hallway, offers a tired smile.
"Heading to Whitewater?" she asks.
"If the roads cooperate."
"Your deputy keeping you warm up there?"
Hospital gossip moves faster than IV antibiotics. "Something like that."
