Voss's satisfaction widened. Genuine pleasure lighting his features. "There he is. The real Ryan Carlson. All emotion, no control." He stepped back. Satisfied. "Some things never change."
Around us, officers busied themselves with paperwork and phone calls. A carefully choreographed display of disinterest. But their awareness pressed against me when I wasn't looking directly at them. Judgment and curiosity in every corner of this division. The story Voss had spread about me, unstable, untrustworthy, a liability, clung to me like smoke. Impossible to wash away.
"If we're done here, I should check on my partner."
"Of course." Voss's eyes gleamed with predatory intent.
"The Bear of 51, I just learned. Quite the reputation he has. Almost as colorful as yours."
The casual mention of Hawley sent a spike of anxiety through me. How long had I been in that interrogation room? What was happening in records?
Chapter 22: Backup
Ryan
"Don't worry about the evidence files, Carlson," Voss called after me as he walked away. His voice carried easily across the bullpen. Heads turned. They were no longer pretending not to listen. "I'll make sure they're handled properly this time."
The implied threat hung in the air between us. My steps faltered for a moment. A reaction I couldn't fully suppress. I forced myself to keep walking. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing how deep this cut.
My mind raced through contingencies. We needed those files. Needed the evidence of tampering. Without it, we had nothing but suspicions and Voss's careful fiction pointing back at me.
I ducked into the restroom. The door swung shut behind me with a soft thud that echoed in the empty space. I braced my hands against the cool porcelain of the sink. Stared at my reflection. The man staring back looked composed. Professional. The same Detective Carlson I'd spent years building. Only the tightness around my eyes gave anything away.
Clear thinking. That's what I needed. Voss's performance in the interrogation room. The doctored files. The convenient suspect. It all pointed to a coordinated effort to solidify the story of my guilt while hiding the real culprits.
My knuckles whitened on the edge of the sink. Each breath was a conscious effort. Water dripped from the faucet. Each drop hit loud in the silent bathroom. My shoulders wouldn't drop. My hands wouldn't still. I made the count. Four in. Four out. A trick I'd taught myself before press conferences, back when my pulse was running three beats above where it should have been.
Four in. Four out. The breath did what I told it to. The hands did not.
Just a ghost.
I watched them tremble against the porcelain. Watched the shoulders in the mirror refuse to drop. The last hour had taught me what I should have known already. The people who'd built my career had built my ruin into the same blueprint. And it had taken everything I had to walk out of that interrogation room without putting my fist through the one-way glass.
Get the shaking under control. Then get yourself out of this bathroom.
"Get it together." The whisper came harsh in the empty space.
I turned on the cold water. Cupped my hands beneath the stream and splashed it against my face. The shock of it helped. For a moment it washed away the suffocating feeling of being back in this building. Water dripped from my chin as I reached blindly for a paper towel.
The squeak of the bathroom door made me freeze. In the mirror, Hawley's broad frame filled the doorway. His gaze found mine in the reflection. I straightened. Wiped my face with more force than necessary.
"I'm fine. Just needed a minute."
The slight tremor in my words betrayed me. Hawley stayed in the doorway. Silent. Watchful. The weight of his attention twisted something in my chest.
"What? Did you find something in the records?"
He didn't answer right away. He just kept watching me with that focus that made me feel like he could see straight through me.
"Stop looking at me like that. I don't need your pity. I knew what I was walking into. Inspector Murphy warned me this wouldn't be a friendly visit."
Hawley stepped into the bathroom. Let the door swing shut behind him. He approached deliberately. Stopped a few feet away. Close enough to speak quietly. Far enough to give me space.
"It's not pity. It's backup."
The simple statement hung between us. Heavier than its three words. I blinked. Caught off guard by both his words and the quiet certainty with which he delivered them.
Backup.
