Rhys's attention shifts to me. His gaze is direct but not unkind, the look of someone who's seen too much suffering to add to it unnecessarily. "Ms. Mitchell. I'm Sheriff Rhys Blackwater."
Blood rushes in my ears. I stand, because sitting feels wrong somehow—disrespectful.
"I'm sorry about your wife," I say, because what else do you say to a man when you've just found the evidence she died protecting?
His jaw tightens. Muscles shift under his beard. For a second I think he might not respond at all, might just shut down the way people do when grief gets poked at wrong angles.
Then he nods once, the motion controlled. "Tell me about the USB drive."
Wells hands him the evidence bag. "Found in Emma's old locker at Palmer Regional. Sela was assigned the locker earlier today. Called the FBI tip line to report it. Hours later, someone tried to execute her in the hospital parking garage."
Rhys stares at the drive through the plastic. His hands are steady, but tension locks his shoulders, fingers pressing againstthe bag like he's holding something that might shatter if he grips too hard.
Silence stretches long enough that I start counting my own heartbeats, long enough that Wells shifts his weight, uncomfortable with the weight of what we're all not saying.
"You called the FBI tip line," he says finally. His voice is flat, controlled.
"I didn't know what else to do. The files were encrypted, but I could see metadata—JPEG files with GPS coordinates, spreadsheets, text files with labels likeCONFIRMATIONandPAYMENT. It looked like surveillance documentation, transaction records. Evidence of something big."
"And they told you to keep it secure."
"For my own safety. They said an agent would contact me to arrange retrieval."
His expression shifts. Not anger, exactly. Colder than that. Recognition, maybe. Confirmation of suspicions he already had.
"They knew," he says quietly. "The moment you called that tip line, they knew someone found Emma's evidence. And they sent someone to eliminate the threat before you could share it with anyone who'd actually investigate."
The words land heavy in the small room. Confirmation of what I'd started to suspect but hadn't wanted to believe—that calling the FBI for help had painted a target on my back, that somewhere in the federal system, corruption runs deep enough to turn a tip line into a kill list.
Rhys pulls out his phone and makes a call. "It's me. I need you at the station. All three of you. Now." He pauses, listening. "Emma's evidence surfaced. A nurse was assigned her old locker and found a USB drive. She called the FBI tip line this afternoon. Hours later, someone tried to kill her." Another pause. "Yeah. Trained hit. She's alive because she went low before the shootercould adjust." He glances at me. "We're at the station. How soon can you get here?"
He hangs up and looks at Wells. "Harlow, Finn and Cara are on their way. Should be here soon."
I process this. Harlow, Finn and Cara. Names I don't recognize, but apparently people Rhys trusts with Emma's evidence and my life. The efficiency of it—one call bringing resources together—suggests this isn't the first time they've coordinated on something like this.
Suggests there's a network of people working outside official channels because the official channels can't be trusted.
"Sela." Rhys speaks, and I refocus. "I know you've been through hell today. But I need you to understand something. Whoever tried to kill you this morning isn't going to stop just because the first attempt failed. They know you have Emma's evidence. They know you're alive. And they know you're with law enforcement now."
"What does that mean?"
"It means they'll escalate. Send more contractors. Use more resources. Make it look like an accident or a random crime." His gaze is steady, unflinching. "It means your life changed the moment you found that USB drive, and there's no going back to how things were before."
The water bottle crinkles in my hand. I'd been holding it too tight without realizing, plastic deforming under pressure. I set it down, willing my hands to stay steady.
My apartment. My job. My routine. Everything I've built in Palmer.
Gone. Just like that.
"What happens now?"
"Now we wait for them. They'll help us decrypt the drive and figure out what Emma documented." Rhys leans against thedesk, arms crossed. "And then we decide how to keep you alive long enough to testify."
The words should terrify me. Maybe they do, somewhere under the shock and adrenaline and professional detachment I've wrapped around myself like armor. But mostly I feel determination.
I found Emma's evidence. I survived the attempt to silence me. And now I'm sitting in a sheriff's station with people who actually want to investigate instead of bury what Emma died trying to expose.
Maybe I stumbled into this. Maybe I made the wrong call contacting the FBI. But I'm here now, and running isn't an option. Not when Emma's killer is still out there. Not when other women might die if the network stays protected.
