No, it isn’t. That’s the problem. The deeper this goes, the more it stops being about one night, building, or name. It becomes infrastructure. And infrastructure doesn’t collapse easily. It protects itself.
On screen, the captain wraps it up. “We will continue to provide updates as more information becomes available,” he says. “In the meantime, we remain committed to the safety of this city and the pursuit of justice for the victims.”
Justice. The word hangs in the air after the broadcast cuts. For a second, the bullpen is quiet. Then someone mutters, “That was a whole lot of nothing.”
Another detective shakes his head. “They’re buying time.”
“Or covering our asses,” someone else adds.
Mason glances at me. “You gonna say it, or should I?”
I don’t look at him when I respond. “Say what?”
“That this is bullshit.”
I finally turn, meeting his gaze. “It’s not bullshit,” I assure.
He raises an eyebrow but stays quiet, waiting for me to elaborate.
“It’s strategy.”
“For who?” he asks.
“Not us.”
That’s the part that matters. Because while they’re out there managing perception, we’re here trying to catch a ghost with surgical precision and a growing body count. And every hour we lose to politics, is another hour they get to keep going.
My gaze drifts back to the now-dark screen.
Liv’s face flashes through my mind again. She’s already on the edge of this. Closer than she realizes, closer than I should have ever let her get.
Stay away from her.
The order echoes, just as sharp as it did days ago when the captain gave it. But now, with everything I’m seeing and everything I know about this case, distance doesn’t feel like protection.
It feels like a delay. And delays get people killed. Talking about the case, watching it play out, and listening to the higher ups and city officials spin it isn’t going to stop what’s already in motion. And if Captain Grant and those other assholes working for the city are more concerned with optics than outcomes, then it’s on us to fix it before the next press conference has another dead body behind it.
I push off the desk, grabbing my jacket.
“Where are you going?” Mason asks.
“Work,” I say.
Chapter 19
Alex
I never made it to Liv’s. Hell, I didn’t even make it out the damn door. The call came in before I reached the elevator. Not through dispatch, but through one of ours.
Mason yelled me back to the desk, phone in hand.
“Possible escapee,” the officer says over the phone, voice tight with the kind of urgency that doesn’t need to be explained. “Female. Mid-twenties. Found barefoot, half-dressed, and disoriented. Severe injuries. Patrol’s on scene. EMS en route.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Location?”
He gives it. I already know the area, same neighborhood and same rot.
“We’re on our way.”
