I hung up.
Stood there in the kitchen, phone in my hand, and let the truth settle over me like a weight.
The investigation wasn't slow. It was dead. Diaz had been removed because she was getting too close, and the new guy was either incompetent or bought. Maybe both.
The system had been purchased. And Ava was paying the price.
I found Shane and Garrett in the common room after dinner.
Shane was going over incident reports. Garrett was in his usual corner, laptop open, face illuminated by the screen. He looked up when I walked in, dark eyes sharp.
"I have to tell you something."
Shane set down his papers. Garrett closed his laptop. They both waited.
"Diaz is gone. Reassigned, supposedly, but no one will tell me where. The new detective on the case is a kid who can barely tie his shoes, and he's already spouting the company line about 'these things taking time.'" I dropped into a chair. "The investigation is dead. The Langs killed it."
Shane's jaw tightened. Garrett's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. The kind of look that said he was already running scenarios, calculating odds.
"So we go around them," Shane said finally. "Make enough noise that the DA can't ignore it."
"How? We're firefighters, not detectives."
Shane hesitated. His eyes flicked to Garrett first—a quick glance, there and gone—then back to me.
"The Tommy Vickers story," Shane said slowly. "The foster system exposé that ran in the Times last year."
I nodded. The three-part series had sparked legislation, a citywide conversation about kids aging out of the system. It had been everywhere for weeks.
"I worked with the journalist who wrote it. Sloane Harper."
Garrett went still at the mention of her name. I caught it. The way his whole body locked up, the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Shane continued. His voice was careful and measured. "She's the real deal. Relentless, meticulous. Doesn't back down from powerful people. If anyone can take on the Langs and make it stick, it's her."
"What would we even ask her to do?" I asked.
"She's an investigative journalist. This is what she does." Shane leaned forward. "We pitch her the story. Kevin's confession, the cover-up, the way the investigation gottorpedoed. She has resources we don't. Contacts at City Hall, sources who owe her favors. She can dig into the Langs' finances, find witnesses the cops missed or ignored."
I turned it over in my head. Going to the press meant losing control of the story. It meant exposure, attention. But staying quiet meant watching the investigation die while Ava kept looking over her shoulder.
"It's the right move."
Garrett's voice cut through my thoughts. I looked at him. He was staring at the table, not at either of us, but his voice was steady.
"The system's been bought," he said. "Police, DA, whoever else the Langs have in their pocket. We're not going to outspend them or outmaneuver them through official channels. But public pressure?" He finally looked up. "That's harder to buy. A story in the Times puts eyes on this. Makes it politically dangerous to bury. The DA will have to act, even if he doesn't want to." He paused, something flickering across his face. "And Sloane Harper is dedicated to the truth. You can trust that."
The way he said it—like he knew it firsthand, like it cost him something to admit—hung in the air between us.
I didn't ask. Not my place.
"Okay," I said. "We do it."
Shane nodded. "That settles it. I still have Sloane's contact info. I'll reach out, set up a meeting." He looked between us. "I'll let you know when I hear back."
Shane stood, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'll text her now."
I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Garrett's shoulders had gone rigid, his hands flat on the table like he was bracing himself.
