Something cold settles in my stomach. I don’t like that guy, and I don’t even know why. One of my professors in college told me, “an EMT’s best attribute is their gut, and that can’t be taught.” And this guy has my gut feeling something atrocious.
Alex straightens immediately, the shift in him instant and unmistakable. “I’ve got to go,” he says.
Of course he does.
“That’s convenient,” I mutter.
His gaze flickers back to mine, warring emotions sitting just beneath the surface. “Liv-”
“Go,” I say, stepping back. “Detective.”
That word again, deliberate and distant.
And on purpose.
He hesitates for half a second, then turns and walks away.
I stand there for a moment, the noise of the precinct rushing back in around me, louder than before and different now that I know what’s underneath it.
Politics, tension, and secrets.
Nadine reappears at my side a moment later, her expression careful. “You okay?”
I let out a breath that feels heavier than it should. “Yeah,” I reiterate. “Just… didn’t realize how complicated this all was.”
She huffs quietly. “That’s one word for it.”
“People are fighting this… from the inside,” I say. It’s not a question.
She doesn’t respond right away. When she does, she sounds like she’s trying. “Not everyone.”
It’s not helping. And it makes my stomach tighten even more.
I walk out of the precinct a minute later, feeling the air that’s grown colder since I went in. I don’t think it actually got colder, pretty sure it’s all in my head. A resolution to all of this already felt distant but now it feels so far off that I’m worried that it’ll never be fixed. Women will continue to suffer and there’s nothing I can do to help. Because the people who are supposed to be fixing this are too tangled in politics to actually solve the problem.
And save us all.
Chapter 18
Alex
There’s a press conference playing on three different screens in the bullpen. One is muted, one’s volume is too low, and the third is too loud. But no one’s bothered to fix it, even me. I don’t turn it off, I just watch.
The camera angle is tight, clean, and controlled. The department seal fills the background, polished and official, like something you can trust just by looking at it. The podium sits front and center, perfectly placed under the bright lights that wash everything in that sterile, artificial glow.
And in front of it is Captain Grant.
Mason leans back in the chair beside me, the heels of his shoes hooked on the rung, arms crossed. “Think he practiced that in the mirror?” he mutters.
“More than once,” I reply.
On screen, the captain adjusts the microphone with measured precision, his expression composed in that way that reads as confidence to the public and calculation to anyone who knows him.
“This department is fully committed to addressing the recent incidents affecting our community,” he begins, voice steady and practiced.
Behind him, a row of officials stand in support, from the city council to a public safety liaison to the mayor. All of them nod at the right moments, wearing the right expressions: concern, resolve, and control. It’s a performance for the masses.
“Over the past several weeks,” the captain continues, “we have seen a concerning increase in criminal activity tied to human trafficking operations within our jurisdiction.”
