Page 67 of Reckless

“I actually…” My voice almost catches before I clear it. “Can I steal one of yours?”

“Of course.” She gestures to the chair opposite her desk.

I sit, my hands fold together in my lap.

“Everything okay?”

The lie is there before I have taken a breath. “I’ve been thinking about the group home inquiry.” She nods once, waiting. “I think we should slow it down.” The words barely make it past my lips. “Just… temporarily.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Slow it down?”

“We’ve been moving pretty hard for months.” I hear myself talking, hear how calm I sound, and hate every single word that comes out of my mouth. “I think we need to shore up a few things before we keep pushing.”

She studies me for a long second, and it is enough that I wonder if she’s about to tell me she knows I’m lying. Instead, the tension leaves her shoulders in one slow breath. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Something twists hard in my stomach. “You were?”

She smiles, tired more than anything else. “I’ve been worried about you.”

Not the investigation… me!

“You’ve barely taken a day off in months.” I nod because that’s easier than speaking. “We’re not abandoning it,” she continues. “We’re just giving ourselves room to breathe.”

I force myself to smile. “Exactly.”

She reaches across the desk and gives my hand a quick squeeze. “I’m proud of you for recognizing your limits.”

The guilt almost knocks the air out of me because those aren’t my limits—they are Piper’s.

She lets go. “Take the rest of the day if you need it.”

I stand before she has a chance to see whatever is happening on my face. “I-I think I will.”

Somehow, I make it through the rest of the conversation.

Somehow, I walk back through the office.

Somehow, I smile at people who smile at me.

And somehow, I make it all the way to my car before everything inside me starts coming apart. The engine stays off. The parking garage is quiet except for the occasional car passing somewhere overhead, tires humming across concrete before fading away again.

My hands are wrapped around the steering wheel.

I don’t even remember putting them there.

Three years. The number rolls through my head with crushing finality.

Three fucking years of tireless work!

Twelve families who trusted me with the worst thing that’s ever happened to them.

Twenty-three accounts gathered one careful conversation at a time.

I close my eyes.

And in a single morning, I folded.

Not because I stopped believing in what we are doing.