I pulled out my phone, showed her the photographs I'd taken. “Is this the access code that was used to delete the security footage?”
She studied it, then nodded. “That's a prosecutor's office code. Tier three access. Only senior attorneys have it.”
“Harrow.”
“Almost certainly.” She stood, wrapped her jacket tighter despite the afternoon not being particularly cold. “I'm sorry Icouldn't help you three years ago. Sorry I let them bully me into silence. Your sister deserved better. You deserved better.”
Dom didn't respond. Just stood there processing information that was rewriting three years of accepted truth.
Dr. Quinn left. I stayed seated, giving Dom space to process, waiting to see which direction his grief would take him.
“She was murdered,” he said finally. Voice hollow. “Not by her husband. By someone else. Someone with enough power to make Harrow cover it up.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don't know yet. But we have thread now. Security footage that was deleted. Forensic report that was altered. Chain of custody that doesn't work.” I stood, faced him properly. “We can build this case, Dom. Can expose what happened. But it requires patience. Strategy. Not rage.”
“I want to kill him.” The words were quiet. Factual. “Want to walk into Harrow's office and make him tell me everything before I break every bone in his body.”
“I know. But that doesn't get you justice. It gets you arrested and Harrow gets to play victim.” I moved closer, risky given his current state but necessary. “We do this properly. Legally. We build evidence until it's undeniable. Then we destroy him in ways that last.”
Dom's hands were shaking. The only visible crack in his control. “How do you do this? How do you stay cold when everything in you wants to burn?”
“Practice. Necessity.” I reached out and touched his arm. “You can fall apart later. Right now we need to move. Our tail is getting impatient and I don't want to be here when they decide warnings aren't sufficient.”
He nodded. Started walking. I fell into step beside him, tracking our observers, calculating routes that would give us tactical advantage if this escalated.
We made it two blocks before they moved.
The attack came from a side street, three men emerging from shadow with the coordinated precision of professionals who'd done this before. I caught the movement in a shop window's reflection half a second before they closed distance, enough warning to shift my weight and prepare.
“Dom—”
He was already moving. Had seen them too, his body coiling and then exploding forward.
The first attacker went for Dom with a baton, swing aimed at his head with enough force to crack skull. Dom caught the man's wrist mid-swing, twisted, drove his elbow into the attacker's throat with surgical precision. The man's windpipe collapsed with a wet crunch. He went down choking, baton clattering on pavement.
I engaged the second before he could flank Dom. He was faster than the first, younger, moved like he'd been trained in the same dojos I had. We traded blows—my jab to his ribs blocked, his counter to my head deflected. He swept my legs. I rolled, came up with my knee driving into his jaw as he followed me down. Teeth cracked. Blood sprayed. He staggered back.
The third had a gun. Raised it toward Dom's back while Dom was finishing the first attacker with a vicious knee to the temple. Everything slowed. I saw the finger tightening on the trigger. Saw Dom completely exposed. Saw exactly how this would end if I didn't move.
I moved without thinking. Closed the distance in three strides, grabbed the weapon hand and twisted with leverage and desperation. The gun discharged, bullet sparking off brick wall six inches from my head. I drove my forehead into the man'snose, felt cartilage shatter, used his disorientation to complete the disarm.
The gun clattered on pavement. Dom finished his opponent, turned toward the third attacker, and the look on his face made the man step back with hands raised despite bleeding from his broken nose.
“Message received,” Dom said. Voice deadly quiet. “Tell Harrow we're not scared. Tell him we're coming. Tell him to enjoy what time he has left.”
The second attacker was trying to crawl away, jaw hanging wrong. Dom stepped on his hand, ground boot into knuckles until the man screamed. “And tell him next time he sends people after us, they should be better.”
We left them there. Walked quickly but not running, turned two corners and disappeared into afternoon crowds before police could respond to witnesses reporting violence.
My hands were shaking by the time we reached a safe distance. Adrenaline dump. Fear. The reality of how close that bullet had been to my skull catching up now that immediate threat was past.
Dom noticed. His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and grounding, thumb pressing against the base of my neck with pressure that felt possessive. “You all right?”
“Fine. Just processing.” I forced my breathing to steady through sheer will. “You?”
