"You need to stay?" she asks, nodding toward the basement.
"Malachi's got him. Candace is here. Nash and East are on rotation. You're done down there. If he flatlines again, that's on him, not you."
She nods once. "Then I want to go home."
I don't hesitate. "Let's go. We'll eat there."
I take the truck instead of the bike. Her hands are already shaking; I'm not putting her on the back of a Harley at seventy after the night she's had. Ten minutes of silence are brokenonly by the engine hum and the occasional flash of emergency lights still reflecting over the city. She stares out the passenger window, fingers clenched around the seatbelt.
"You felt the blast at the clubhouse?" I ask quietly.
Shrug without looking at me. "Windows rattled. Floor shook. Got a headache from it, but it'll pass."
"You got pale downstairs."
"Fluorescents aren't flattering on anyone." The joke falls flat. We both hear it.
The truck rolls into the driveway. I kill the engine, and for a second neither of us moves. Sloane reaches for the door first and heads for the house. She unlocks the front door, steps inside, and goes straight for the kitchen. I follow, toeing off my boots and hanging my cut on the same hook as always.
She eats standing up. Toast, peanut butter, a glass of water she drains in three swallows. Mechanical. Fueling, not enjoying. Then she heads for the bedroom.
In the bathroom, she brushes her teeth and reties her braid higher, avoiding eye contact like it burns.
"Sloane. Talk to me."
She pauses, toothpaste mid-squeeze, shoulders tight. "I'm tired, Knox."
"I know. That's why I'm asking now instead of when you're more exhausted tomorrow. Talk to me."
She sets the tube down a little too hard. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit." Her gaze snaps up in the mirror. "You had to work on the man who's been running half the shit we've been chasing. Had to bring him back when he should have stayed on that floor. You heard Malachi ask about Alice. You—"
"Stop." Her sharp voice cracks. She turns, back bracing against the counter, arms folding. "Don't say that name."
"Why? Because it's tied to Donovan? Because of what we heard tonight? Or because it's tied to something else you haven't told me?"
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me. That's what I'm asking for. Let me in."
Her laugh is harsh, humorless. "Right. I'll just… hand you the worst pieces of my life. We can dissect them between brushing our teeth and setting the alarm."
"Sloane."
"No." She shakes her head, eyes bright. "I handled it. Got him stabilized. I did what needed to be done. It's over."
"That's not the question." Reaching out, I hook a finger under her chin so she has to look at me. "I watched you down there. Saw your hands shaking. I know this did something to you."
"Of course it did. There was a bomb. People died."
"And that's the only reason? It's not because this looks a hell of a lot like the kind of shit your father could've pulled? Private rooms, no questions asked, patching up men who shouldn't ever walk free and pretending you don't see what they are?"
Her face goes white. I know I've hit too close when her breath stutters. For a second, I think she might break. Might finally spill everything that's been clawing at her since that girl called her Nurse Mercer. Since before that. Since Chicago. Instead, she shutters.
"You don't get it, Knox."
"Then make me get it. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to carry this alone."
