She nods. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“You don’t think it’s York Malone, do you?”
“Careful. Accusations like that to a family with that much money will bankrupt you.”
Oh, fair point.
“That woman said there were others,” I add. “More girls, moving in and out. And something about the third floor, like something worse was happening up there.”
Nadine’s jaw clenches slightly. “It’s being looked into.”
Something about the way she says it doesn’t sit right. “Looking into it how?” I press.
Her eyes flick up to mine, measuring then deciding. Then she lowers her voice just a fraction. “Carefully.”
That’s not reassuring… or really that informative.
Voices rise from across the room, sharper than the background noise. My attention shifts instinctively, drawn toward the tension.
Two officers stand near one of the desks, their conversation just loud enough to carry.
“I’m telling you, this thing’s bigger than what they’re saying. That paralytic isn’t something low-level,” one of them mutters.
“And I’m telling you,” the other shoots back, “you don’t go poking at it without clearance. Not if you want to keep your job.”
“It’s trafficking, not politics.”
“Everything is politics.”
“Zip it, you two,” Nadine snaps at them, silencing their conversation, then sighs quietly beside me. “Ignore them.”
“I can’t,” I say. “Not when they sound like that.”
She hesitates, then straightens, lowering the report to her side. “You want the honest answer?”
“Always.”
“This case? It’s messy. Not just because of what’s happening out there, but because of what’s happening in here.”
A chill moves through me. “In here how?”
She glances toward the bullpen like she’s checking that we’re still not being watched, then turns back to me.
“There are people who don’t want this pushed too hard,” she says carefully. “Too many moving parts. Too many connections that aren’t fully understood yet.”
“Connections to what?”
Her mouth tightens. “That’s the problem,” she condemns. “We don’t know. But when things start getting buried instead of escalated…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence; she doesn’t have to.
“Carter.”
The voice hits me before I see him. I turn immediately. Alex stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable, but there’s something tight in the way he holds himself, even more controlled and careful than normal.
I realize all too suddenly that not only did I get what I wanted, to see Alex, but this is the first time I’ve seen him in his workplace. Alex at work and Alex at his workplace are apparently substantially different.
“Detective,” I say, matching his tone.
