Owens’s accounts are first. Her old captain, Kirwan, gets mentioned. He tried to take her allegations higher up. His attempt was rejected. Fucking hell, no wonder Schmiddy hated him. Old Kirby tried to out the fucker.
And got shot down.
That’s why he recommended Heids transfer to 53, I’d bet.
He was protecting her.
I read the other two accounts from Renee and Rebecca and find a similar pattern, albeit from two other stations. Schmidt is a serial asshole. And the boys’ club that the department is allowed him to keep doing it.
“Fuck.”
Heart in my throat, I finish up my read throughs and have a few notes in the margins of the allegations’ pages. When I turnover the next file, I am relieved to find budgets. Columns of figures, lines of items and inventory.
When my back aches from the position I’ve been in for at least three hours, I rise from the ball and return it to the corner of the room.
The house lights are on, but it’s quiet.
I pad down the hallway and the doors are closed. Crew’s sleeping. Dropping the paperwork on my bunk, I use the bathroom before collecting my night’s reading and heading to the common room.
But the silence is deafening.
I’m not used to being apart from the team. Being the odd man out. It’s... unsettling.
I gather up the files and wander for the hallway. Maybe Heids is still awake. Making it as far as London’s door, I hear muffled sounds. I stand, motionless, as I listen.
She’s . . . talking in her sleep?
I should keep walking. I should go in there and wrap her in my warmth, my?—
Something crashes to the floor inside her quarters.
My hand gravitates to the doorknob. I open my mouth to say her name before my mind catches up with my instinct. Instead, I rest my forehead on her door. It slips from the jamb and opens a little.
Shit.
“Miles?” she utters.
“Yeah,” I rasp.
Her breathing is loud. Like she’s been crying. Like she’s...
Every promise I made Cap is pushed aside as every fiber of me that needs to keep her safe flares into existence with a fierce burn.
I release the knob and sink to the floor, my back to the wall by her door.
Head falling back to the wall, I close my eyes.
So close, yet a million miles away.
But it’s the first time she’s spoken to me since the night she came to tell me we shouldn’t do this. Dous.
I miss her voice. One word is nowhere near enough.
As the burn settles, I dip my chin and get back to work on the budget and inventory until my own eyes turn heavy.
Legs stretched across the hallway, I sigh and let them drift closed. Just for a minute.
“Milo,” a soft voice says.
