She trusts me. The realization sits heavy in my chest. Because I don’t think I deserve it, not since she’s in this circumstance because of me.
Not with what I have in mind.
Back at the precinct the next day, feels like I’ve been thrown into a kindergarten classroom. After the peace and quiet of the manor all day, and Liv by my side, this damn place is too loud. It’s harsh, both the noise and the people.
I made sure Liv got out the door and on her way to work with Manny, the driver, in a non-descript black sedan. No more eyes on her than necessary.
And once she was out the door, I went into the en suite and pulled out the evidence bag I’d gotten from Mason before leaving her neighborhood with her in a rush the night before last.
I pull a few hairs from her brush and stick them into the baggie, sealing it and slipping it back into my pocket.
Now I’m making my way through the precinct to the forensics lab, the bag burning a hole in my pocket.
This is a line, I know it is. And I absolutely shouldn’t be crossing it. Not without her trust, her autonomy in mind… and her consent. I’ve spent my entire career respecting those lines in every other case.
But I’m crossing it this time. Because I’m scared. I’ve seen what happens when I don’t act fast enough. And if there’s a connection like I’m worried there is, something tying her to this case beyond her physical description and my interference. Since she grew up in foster care, I need to make sure she isn’t connected to the other victims. I’m worried that she might have a long-lost half-sister or something and that’s adding to her being targeted. And I need to know what it is before it kills her.
“That better not be what I think it is.”
I look up. Derek stands a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised in that way he has that makes him look perpetually unimpressed. At barely thirty, he already has the salt-and-pepper hair of a man twice his age, cut short and practical. His wire-rimmed glasses are perched on a nose that was broken as kid but never healed right, giving his otherwise forgettable face a bit of character. He's wiry and deceptively strong, with the lean build of someone who spends more time hunched over microscopes than at a gym. One of our lab techs, one of the best. Also, someone who owes me a favor.
“You still mad about that pharmacy audit?” I ask.
He snorts. “You mean the one where you kept my name out of an internal investigation I definitely shouldn’t have been part of?”
I shrug. “Details.”
He steps closer, nodding toward the bag in my hand. “What do you need?”
I hesitate. This is my last chance to back out before I do something I might regret.
“Off the record,” I say, lamenting my fate.
His expression shifts immediately. “No.”
“Derek-”
“No,” he repeats. “You don’t come to me with that tone unless you’re asking for something that can get both of us fired.”
He’s not wrong.
I exhale slowly. “It’s a comparison,” I say. “Quick turnaround. No paperwork.”
“Absolutely not.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “This ties to the trafficking case.”
His jaw sets like stone. “You’re playing dirty.”
“Yeah,” I admit.
He visibly mulls it over in his head for the longest second of my life.
“Gimme a few hours,” he obliges in a defeated tone. “That’s all I can do. And if this blows back-”
“It won’t,” I cut in.
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe that for a second. But he takes the bag anyway. “God, I hate you,” he mutters.
