“And if he pushes?”
I meet her eyes. “Then he can take the call himself next time.”
That earns me a quiet chuckle.
She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, I think you made the right call.”
“I know.”
She smirks. “You reallyarerunning this place now.”
I don’t correct her.
I mutethe sound and keep my eyes fixed on the banner crawling along the bottom of the screen. I have no idea what Channel FY1 was thinking when they hired an ex-model with a whiny voice to deliver the news, but I’m certain it didn’t involve competence.
Police investigating Harrold Jacobson’s political ties to Haitian mercenaries which may have played a role in the judge’s disappearance.
I scoff at how spectacularly wrong the news reports are. It’s almost comforting, in a way. Let them chase ghosts. Let them stitch together theories that don’t come close to the truth. The last thing I need is a federal task force sniffing around because someone figured out I dissolved a sitting judge in an acid bath.
There’s no version of that story that ends well for me.
But he earned it. Every last second.
Titan was the one who flagged him first—his name buried in a little black book lifted off a known pedophile. Just another entry at a glance. Just ink. But ink tells stories if you know how to read it. And once we started pulling the thread, it unraveled fast.
Six high profile cases over the span of fourteen years. All dismissed. All involving crimes against children, quietly swept aside by the same man wearing the same robe, preaching justice while selling mercy to monsters.
That wasn’t negligence, it was participation. Judges like that don’t make mistakes—they make choices. And every choice he made told us exactly who he was.
Goliath exists for many reasons, but this is the spine of it: we do not look away. Not when money is on the table. Not when power protects its own. Not when the system decides some lives are easier to erase than others.
So no, I don’t lose sleep over him.
The law failed those kids, but we didn’t.We won’t.
The phone buzzes on my desk, short and precise. It’s the work phone which signals that this isn’t a social call. I check the ID and answer without greeting.
“Talk to me.”
“Evening, boss.” It’s Evan, my Digital Intelligence Officer. His voice is calm, clipped—the sound of a man who likes to get to the point then get on with things. “I’ve got something you’ll want to see.”
I lean back in my chair, eyes on the darkened window. “How urgent?”
“This one’s different. It surfaced this morning in a local campus paper. It’s a student-run print with low circulation, but it matters. And it has an anonymous byline.”
“I haven’t seen one of those in a while.”
“It’s gaining traction,” he continues. “Shares are spiking off-campus. Comment sections are… lively. And the language? This is not just some student off on a rant.”
My jaw tightens.
“What’s it about?”
“Vigilantism.”
The silence stretches. My heartbeat spikes.
“I emailed you the article,” he adds. “Read it. Get back to me if you want me to take appropriate action.”
