He drops into the chair across from my desk anyway, the scrape of metal against the tile sharp enough to pull my attention whether I want it or not. “Oh, I’m absolutely starting,” he says, leaning back like he’s got all the time in the world. “You’ve been staring at that report like it owes you money.”
“I’m working.”
“On what?” His tone shifts just enough to tell me he’s not buying it. “Because it doesn’t look like the case.”
The case. Right. I close the file, the paper snapping together harder than necessary. The sound cuts clean through the noise in my head at least.
“Anything come back on the tox?” I ask, forcing the pivot.
Mason watches me for a second too long, like he’s debating whether to push, then exhales and lets it go. For now.
“Preliminary report just came in,” he straightens. “ME flagged something weird.”
That’s all it takes. The noise in my head hones into something usable. My focus snaps back into place like a switch flipping. “Weird how?”
“Paralytic agent,” he says. “Not something you find on the street. Not something you accidentally ingest.”
A cold line traces down my spine. “What kind?”
“They’re running confirmation,” he replies, “but early indicators are pointing toward something like succinylcholine.”
Everything in me stills. That’s not just weird, that’s intentional. “That’s surgical,” I rasp, the words settling heavy on my tongue.
“Exactly.”
For a second, neither of us speaks. The implication hangs between us, thick and undeniable. Whoever we’re looking for isn’t just organized. They’re precise, trained, or connected to someone in the medical profession.
“Which means?” Mason presses.
My mind is already moving, mapping out possibilities, narrowing paths.
“It means access,” I say, “Medical training, a hospital connection, black market supply. Something. This isn’t random.”
Mason nods once, slowly, in agreement. “That narrows it.”
“Not enough.” But it’s a start. It’s something I can hold onto. Something that doesn’t look like her face every time I close my eyes.
“Thornton.” The voice comes from across the bullpen, cutting through everything else. I don’t need to look to know who it is.
My shoulders tighten anyway. “Yeah.”
“Office. Now.” Not a suggestion.
Mason gives me a look as I pass him, curiosity edges with something sharper, but I don’t stop.
I already know what this is about.
The office door closes behind me with a quiet click that somehow feels louder than the entire bullpen combined.
The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. My boss doesn’t sit, he stands behind his desk, hands braced against the surface like he’s holding himself in place.
“I told you to keep your distance.” No buildup, no easing into it. Just straight to the point. “I told you to keep your eye on the prize.”
I don’t respond. I remember the conversation, if you can call it that, when he told me he better not be hearing anymore mumblings around the station about me seeing someone. That he didn’t need his “best detective distracted by some broad.”
I’d ignored it at the time because he doesn’t get a say in it. And because it just doesn’t pertain to him. Plus, he’s married. Who’s he to talk?
But apparently, he meant it.
