The investigation needle hadn’t moved on Vance tonight. If anything, it had nudged farther in the direction I already believed—a solid cop who might be thinking about his next chapter. Fine. Good.
Martinez was a different equation. The careful, phone-dependent, says-nothing persona he wore at work was starting to look less like personality and more like discipline. And discipline cracked when the alcohol hit it hard enough.
What else was he hiding?
The night wound down in stages, the energy draining from the room one departure at a time. Vance waved the waitress over and handed her his card before anyone could argue.
“I’ve got your tab tonight.” He held up a hand when Donovan reached for his wallet. “Hell of a week. You’ve earned it.”
Briggson stood without a word. Jacket on, glass left where it sat, paid, then out the door. No goodbye. Dude really was an asshole, but his behavior wasn’t concerning me as much as Martinez’s.
Reeves pushed back his chair and stood, fishing keys from his pocket. He looked at Donovan, then at me.
“Thanks for tonight.” Quiet. Direct. A handshake that carried more than the words. “And for not telling anybody about the delivery driving thing. I’ve put in the proper paperwork.”
“Good. Anytime, kid.”
He gave a nod and headed for the door.
Vance signed the receipt and stood. “Hell of a night, fellas. Let’s not make searching for missing children a regular thing.”
“Agreed.”
He clapped my shoulder on his way past. The same easy gesture he used after training, after raids, after every shared moment that built the kind of trust people followed into dark rooms. It was authentic. It was why he was a good sergeant.
Donovan and I walked out into the parking lot. Gravel crunched under our boots. The broken neon threw amber light across the hoods of the remaining trucks.
We reached mine and stopped.
“Martinez?” The single word was enough for me to know what he meant.
“Definitely where we need to put our effort, in my opinion. If he’s willing to participate in illegal gambling…”
Donovan nodded. “He may be willing to do other stuff for money too. Like help out a drug syndicate.” He got in the truck.
I pulled out my phone. No messages. The screen was blank except for the time.
I’d left Kayla my number in case she needed anything. But she wouldn’t have texted. It was late, William was asleep, and we’d said what needed saying in her kitchen. The goodnight that meant something different than goodnight.
But I’d wanted to look anyway. Just to see her name on the screen. Even knowing it wouldn’t be there.
I put the phone away and got in the truck.
Donovan was quiet beside me. The engine turned over. The parking lot receded in the mirrors, and the road ahead was dark and empty and long, and neither of us spoke as we drove through the sleeping town toward home.
Chapter 18
Kayla
The elementary school parking lot at three o’clock was a study in organized chaos. Minivans angled into spots that weren’t really spots. A crossing guard in a reflective vest waved traffic through the loop with the weary authority of a woman who had done this eight hundred times and would do it eight hundred more.
The September afternoon had that thin, bright quality that Colorado kept surprising me with—too warm for a jacket, too cool without one, the sky so blue and wide overhead it made my eyes ache.
I leaned against my car and waited. The Barley deadline was four days out, and I’d spent the morning inking finals until my hand cramped, but here in the afternoon sun with the mountains sharp against the horizon and the controlled mayhem of dismissal unfolding around me, the deadline felt like something happening to a different person.
The rest of me was occupied with a different kind oftension. The kind that had lived in my chest for two days now, since the night in my kitchen when Ben Garrison had kissed me like I was the only solid thing in a tilting world.
And then stopped.
