The silence that follows is the specific variety that occurs when a man with a valid point meets a man without an argument.
Roman’s mouth opens.
Closes.
Oakley points at the door.
“On duty. Now.”
The command comes from a deputy to a commander, which under any other circumstances would constitute an insubordination incident worthy of a formal write-up. ButOakley delivers it with the quiet authority of a man who understands that rank is irrelevant when the stakes are medical, and Roman—to his grudging, visible, audibly muttered credit—obeys.
He grumbles something beneath his breath that includes at least two profanities and what I suspect is a Norse invocation requesting patience from a god he doesn’t believe in. Then he stomps toward the door with the heavy-footed resignation of a man who knows he’s been outmaneuvered and lacks the tactical grounds to appeal.
The door closes behind him.
Hard.
But not slamming. A controlled close that communicates displeasure without damaging the infrastructure of a woman’s home.
Progress.
Oakley’s green eyes meet mine across the room.
I don’t wait for the question.
“I’ll cover for the chief at the station,” I say, already turning toward the door, already shifting into the operational mode that my brain defaults to when personal complications threaten to interfere with professional obligations. “I’ll tell them she’s on an investigation—potential burglary in the outer district. Off comms until further notice. That should buy at least twenty-four hours before anyone starts asking questions that require honest answers.”
I pause at the threshold.
“Change her. Tame the fever. If it gets worse—” I pull a card from my coat pocket, a habit left over from the years before the pager when analog information was the only kind I trusted. “I have connections. I can get an Omega specialist to make a house call. Someone discreet. Someone who won’t file a report that ends up on the wrong desk.”
Oakley nods.
“Deal.”
I turn.
Hand on the doorknob. One foot into the hallway. The October air already reaching for me through the gap, carrying the distant scent of wood smoke from whatever is left of the station and the closer, sharper scent of Roman’s frozen pine as he takes up position on the building’s perimeter.
“Alaric.”
Oakley’s voice stops me.
Quiet. Stripped of the charm, the humor, the protective layer of easy warmth that he deploys like camouflage over the sharp, serious man beneath.
“This is due to those dangerous suppressants, isn’t it.”
Not a question.
A confirmation request from someone who already knows the answer and needs to hear the silence that accompanies it.
I don’t say anything.
Because I know where that conversation leads. Through the case files I’ve processed. Through the bodies I’ve helped recover. Through the statistical probability that a thirty-two-year-old Omega on high-dose suppressants exhibiting nosebleeds, syncope, and fever spikes is operating on borrowed time that the pharmaceutical companies won’t acknowledge and the medical system won’t address.
I step into the hallway.
Close the door with the careful precision of a man who is holding too many things to risk dropping any of them.
