“Sounds like someone with a strong moral code,” I said.
“A moral code.” She laughed, bitter. “Is that what we’re calling it? They’re a killer, Tom. Maybe their victims were monsters, but that doesn’t make vigilante justice right.”
“Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”
She looked at me sharply. “You can’t really believe that.”
I shrugged, keeping my expression neutral. “I’m not saying I agree with them, but I can see where they’re coming from. The justice system fails people all the time. You know it does.” I met her eyes. “Don’t you ever wonder what the world would look like if someone actually held the worst people accountable?”
“Every day,” she admitted. “And then I remember that we have laws for a reason. That civilization only works if we agree not to kill each other, even when we really, really want to.”
“But you do want to sometimes.”
“Of course I do. I’m human.” She sighed, rubbing at her temples.“Last year, I worked a case—a young girl, nineteen-years-old. She was found dead in a ditch. Her boyfriend had been abusing her for months. We arrested him. He got eight years because his lawyer argued diminished capacity. Said he had PTSD from his tour overseas, that he couldn’t control hisimpulses.”
She looked at me, and I saw something dangerous flickering in her eyes. “Eight years. For destroying that girl’s life. For erasing her before she even had a chance to really grow up. Every day I think about finding him when he gets out. Every single day.”
I wanted to tell her I could make that problem disappear. That I’d done it before. That men like him were exactly why I did what I did—to remove the poison that the system kept recycling back into the world.
“But I also know that the moment I cross that line,” she continued, voice steadier now, “I become something else. Something I don’t want to be.”
“And if someone else crossed it for you?”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: “They’d be a murderer. And I’d have to catch them. That’s the job, Tom. No one gets to take the law into their own hands. No matter how righteous they think their cause is.”
I nodded slowly, understanding her even as I fundamentally disagreed with every word. Shay lived in a world of rules and procedures, of faith in systems I’d long since written off as broken and corrupt. It was admirable, in its way. Naive, but admirable.
I wondered what she’d think of me if she knew.
Would it shock her? Would she feel betrayed, personally wounded by the deception?
Would she pull her gun on me without a moment’s hesitation?
The thought sent something cold through my chest. Not fear exactly—I’d moved beyond fear ages ago. Something else. Something that almost felt like regret.
“So what’s your plan?” I asked. “With your vigilante cases.”
“Keep investigating. Build the case even if Donovan won’t back it. Eventually, the evidence will be too strong to ignore.”
I pulled her closer, and she came willingly, settling her legs over my lap, tucking herself against my body like she belonged there. I traced my hands down her sides, and we stayed like that for a while, until something on the windowsill caught my attention—a small green shape with tiny, mean-looking spines.
It really did kind of look like a bunny if you squinted, ears and all.
“Is that Roger?” I asked, nodding toward the potted plant.
Shay burrowed closer into my side. “Shut up, Hayes. Unless you want to walk to work tomorrow.”
* * *
It was early evening, the sky clinging to a thin wash of blue that bled pale at the horizon, reluctant to surrender to darkness. Streetlights flickered on in sequence, one after another, down the block like dominoes. I was passing by a row of darkened storefronts when something across the street snagged my attention.
The posture clicked into place first. Then the profile. A car passed between us, and I waited for a break in the traffic before stepping off the curb. By the time I reached her, she’d turned to face me fully, lips pressed into something that might havepassed for polite.
“Mrs. Winslow. Good evening.”
She was a small woman, barely reaching my shoulder, even in her sensible orthopedic shoes. Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and she wore a wool coat that had probably been expensive twenty years ago. She carried a cloth shopping bag in one hand, filled with what looked like groceries from the corner market.
“Out for a walk?” she asked.
