Craig’s voice. Not loud. Just there, the way it always was, waiting in the quiet for its turn.
I knew it wasn’t true. The rational part of me, the part my therapist had rebuilt piece by piece over six months of hard, patient work, could see exactly what Ben had done andwhy. He’d been gentle. He’d been good. He’d stopped because he cared about getting it right.
But the other part. The part Craig had built. The small, dark room he’d constructed inside me where his voice still lived and whispered and kept its own hours.
That part said Ben pulled away because something about me wasn’t enough.
I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark and didn’t argue.
Chapter 17
Ben
I walked back from Kayla’s house in the dark. Let myself in, didn’t turn on a light.
Just stood in the kitchen with my hand on the counter, not ready to do anything yet because doing something meant the night was over, and once the night was over, I’d have to sort through everything that had just happened in her kitchen and figure out what the hell I was doing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from Vance.
Since we’ve already got our pants on—drinks at Brannigan’s? It’s where we all hang after work sometimes.
I stared at the screen. A room full of off-duty officers with loosened tongues was an opportunity I couldn’t justify passing up. Not with the investigation stalled where it was.
I texted Donovan.
Vance wants drinks at their local cop bar. You in?
…
Absolutely. Good opportunity to observe. Pick me up on your way.
I grabbed my keys off the counter, picked up Donovan, and twenty minutes later, we were pulling into a gravel lot on the south side of town.
Brannigan’s was exactly the sort of place you’d expect cops to drink.
A low-slung building tucked behind a strip mall, the kind of bar that didn’t advertise and didn’t need to. The parking lot was half full of pickup trucks and department-issue sedans, and the neon sign in the window had a dead letter that turned BRANNIGAN’S into BRANNI AN’S, which nobody had bothered to fix because nobody who drank here cared.
Inside, the lighting was dim enough to be forgiving yet bright enough to find your glass. Department patches from a dozen jurisdictions were framed along the wall behind the bar, arranged in no particular order, some of them yellowed behind the glass. A jukebox sat in the far corner, one with actual CDs in a visible carousel, and it was playing something by Tom Petty that had been recorded before most of the people in this room had been born.
Vance was at a table near the back, two empties already pushed to the side. He lifted a hand when he saw us.
“Over here.”
We threaded through the room. A few officers at the bar glanced up, registered who we were, and went back to their conversations. The quiet acknowledgment of people who’d worked alongside us long enough to stop treating us like outsiders but hadn’t fully decided we were insiders either.
Vance was leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, face open in a way it never quite was on duty. Relaxed, easy. The version of himself that made him good at his job and made people follow himwithout question.
His photo lived in the low-risk column now. Watching him here, loose and comfortable, it felt right. The guy was the real deal. Competent, likable, someone you’d want at your six.
My gut had been wrong before. But not tonight.
“What are you drinking?” He was already flagging down the waitress.
“Whatever’s on tap,” I said.
“Same,” Donovan said, pulling out a chair.
Vance ordered three drafts and settled back. “Glad the kid turned out okay.”
