Chapter 21
Twenty-One
W ith his second warrant of the day, Brad returned to Tyrone Morris's apartment. The building was a decaying relic that had seen better days, with chipped paint on the walls, broken windows patched with cardboard, and a persistent odor of mildew that clung to the air.
As Brad raised his flashlight and approached the door, the two patrol officers who accompanied him exchanged uneasy glances. Detective Larson arrived shortly after, his expression tight. Together, they pushed open the door to Tyrone’s apartment, and the stench of stale sweat and unwashed clothes hit them like a physical force.
The inside of the apartment was even more depressing than the exterior had suggested. The single-room unit was cluttered with piles of dirty laundry, discarded food containers, and medication bottles, some empty and some full.
“God, this place is a dump,” one of the patrol officers muttered, stepping gingerly around the debris on the floor.
Brad didn’t respond. His focus was entirely on the job. “Larson, let’s start here.” He moved toward the table where a few crumpled pieces of paper lay.
They began their search, combing through every inch of the squalid apartment. Brad sifted through the papers on the table, but they were mostly torn-out pages from old magazines, with nothing of substance written on them.
Hours passed, and the mood in the room grew increasingly tense as their search turned up nothing. Brad’s frustration mounted with each passing minute. The apartment was a dead end, a grim reflection of Tyrone’s shattered mind, with no clear connection to whoever had orchestrated the attack on Isobel.
“Killian,” Larson said quietly, standing by the window and looking out at the bleak view of the alley below. “We’re not going to find anything here. This guy… he’s just a pawn. He doesn’t know who’s pulling the strings.”
Defeated, they finally called off the search and left the dismal unit behind, the unanswered questions eating at them.
Back at the psychiatric hospital, Tyrone Morris was in worse shape than when Brad last saw him. His eyes were wild, darting around the room as if he were being hunted by invisible predators. He was slumped in a chair, his hands twitching nervously as he muttered to himself, his words barely coherent.
Brad and Larson approached him, hoping against hope they could extract some kind of useful information. “Tyrone,” Brad began, keeping his voice calm and steady. “We need to know who told you to hurt Isobel Everhart. Who hired you?”
Tyrone’s head snapped up, and for a moment, his gaze locked onto Brad’s. But then his eyes glazed over, and he began to babble nonsensically, his words a jumbled mix of paranoia and delusion. “They said… they said I had to do it,” Tyrone mumbled, his voice shaking. “Said she was dangerous… that she had to be stopped… but they didn’t say why… didn’t tell me why…” His voice trailed off, and he began to rock back and forth, his eyes unfocused.
Brad’s heart sank. It was clear now that Tyrone had no real understanding of the larger plot. He was just a broken man, used by others for their own evil purposes. “Tyrone, who are ‘they’?” he pressed, though he knew it was likely a futile effort.
“They… they’re everywhere,” Tyrone whispered, his voice filled with terror. “Watching… always watching… but I don’t know who… I don’t know…”
Larson placed a hand on Brad’s shoulder, gently pulling him back. “He’s not going to give us anything,” he said softly. “He’s too far gone.”
Brad nodded, feeling defeat settle over him. Tyrone was a dead end, a tragic figure caught in the crossfire of a scheme he didn’t understand. And with Tyrone’s mind unraveling further by the minute, there was little chance they would ever get the answers they needed from him.
Brad exited the patient area, the head nurse stopping him just before he could head out. "Commander Killian, we need you to sign the property log for Tyrone’s belongings," she said, offering him a clipboard.
Brad glanced at the list: Three quarters, four dimes, three singles, seven brand-new twenty-dollar bills, two brand-new hundred-dollar bills, a blue ballpoint pen, and a matchbox from Hot Shots.
He frowned as he scribbled his signature. The matchbox caught his eye immediately.
Minutes later, he met Larson in the hallway outside. “Larson, you saw Tyrone’s place—it was filthy. No way he had access to that kind of money legitimately. It’s the end of the month. He wouldn't have this from Social Security either, and look at this." Brad held up the matchbox, pinching it by its edges.
Larson’s expression darkened as he studied the matchbox. "Hot Shots," he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s an expensive place for someone like Tyrone. No way he had the clothes to hang out there either.”
“Exactly,” Brad said. “This kind of cash—seven twenties, two hundreds, all brand-new—doesn’t fit his profile. Tyrone wasn’t clean enough to have money like this lying around.”
Larson reached for the matchbox, careful not to smudge any potential evidence. “We’ll need to dust this, check for prints.” He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, and, shaking it open, he dropped the matchbox inside.
Brad exhaled as he turned to the nurse. “Have the doctors performed a physical on Mr. Morris yet?”
The nurse looked at her clipboard. “No, we’re waiting for his medication to take effect.”
“I’ll get a warrant. I need to know as soon as it’s complete.” Brad gave her his brightest smile.
“I’ll call you, Commander.”
Larson glanced up. “What are you thinking?”
“I bet they’ll find evidence of restraint and sexual activity on Mr. Morris.” Brad shook his head.
“In the meantime, we’ll run the matchbox and money for prints and see where they lead. But don’t get too far ahead. For now, we stick with the facts.”
Brad and Larson walked out of the locked ward at the psychiatric hospital. Tyrone was incoherent, his words rambling in circles, offering nothing actionable. The man’s fractured mind seemed impenetrable, but Brad’s gut told him there was something there—something they weren’t seeing.
“Damn it,” Larson muttered, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He exhaled sharply, the smoke curling around his face.
Brad walked beside him. “He’s obviously not capable of this on his own. He’s schizophrenic. He doesn’t have the capacity to plan something this intricate without meds.”
“So someone’s pulling his strings,” Larson said, his tone sharp. “That’s not exactly new territory. We knew he wasn’t the mastermind.”
Brad ran a hand over his jaw, pacing slightly as his thoughts raced. “But Tyrone’s behavior wasn’t just random. Someone planted these ideas in his head—used him, manipulated him. We need to find out if he’s ever had a lucid period, a time when he could’ve connected with someone and been coerced into this.”
Brad’s gaze hardened. “The matches from Hot Shots. Did Jace Rodriguez give them to him?”
Larson straightened, his cigarette paused mid-air. “Hot Shots—D/s. The Viper Lords.”
Brad let out a low whistle. “Tyrone doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d wander in there on his own. For Tyrone to have matches from Hot Shots, someone gave them to him. And the cash he had on him? There’s no way he came by that on his own. Someone paid him. Someone used him.”
Larson tossed the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it out with his boot. “That brings us back to Jace Rodriguez. He knows more than he’s letting on.”
Brad nodded as he arrived at their car. “He mentioned knowing Tyrone from the psych hospital, but that doesn’t explain the matches or the cash. We know Jace is a Viper Lord. He needs to confirm his connection to Hot Shots.”
Larson stepped to the passenger side, his expression grim. “So you’re heading back to Pierre to go at Rodriguez again?”
Brad slid into the driver’s seat, his grip firm on the wheel. “Yeah. And this time, he’s not walking out of the interrogation room without giving me something.”
Larson smirked faintly as he climbed in. “Good. Because this whole thing stinks, and I want answers.”
Isobel sat at her desk, her fingers trembling as she sifted through the papers. Her anxiety rose with every misplaced folder. She was certain she filed the supporting documentation on the Emma Coltrane case just days before, but now it was gone.
"Kathy!" Isobel’s voice was sharp, frustration cracking through her usual calm. The case was too important for mistakes.
Kathy rushed in, concern etched on her face. "What’s wrong, Dr. Everhart?"
"My documentation on the Coltrane case. The files are missing," Isobel replied, her breath catching. She could feel the tension coiling tighter in her chest.
Together, they combed through the office. After twenty minutes, Kathy finally found the folder misfiled under the letter H. Isobel stared at it, a chill creeping up her spine. She never made mistakes like this. Something was very wrong.
After a deep breath, Isobel tried to regain control. "Kathy, I need a clean copy of the report." But when she saw the printout, her stomach dropped. The report was riddled with errors, glaring mistakes she knew she hadn’t made.
"Kathy, what happened?" Isobel asked, disbelief thick in her voice. “This isn’t my report.”
"I don’t know," Kathy replied, equally shocked. "That’s not what you dictated. I’ll call the transcription service.”
Isobel’s head throbbed, her focus narrowing as she realized she couldn’t trust anyone else to fix this. She spent the next hour retyping the entire report herself, checking and rechecking every detail. When she was finally finished, she looked at the time. It had to be on the judge’s desk by four. It was now three-thirty. She had to deliver it in person. No more mistakes.
She ignored Brad’s earlier command to stay at the office until he arrived, assuming she’d be back long before he arrived to pick her up. Isobel called the officers stationed outside. "I need to get to Family Court. Now."
The officers exchanged wary glances but complied, escorting her to the courthouse. She made it clear she was going one way or the other. The officers notified Communications and transported her. Once there, Isobel rushed to the judge’s chambers, her pulse pounding in her ears.
The judge’s clerk frowned. "We already have your report, Dr. Everhart."
Confusion seized her. "What do you mean? I just finished it."
The clerk’s expression deepened into concern. "It was delivered earlier this morning."
“By whom?” A wave of dread swept over Isobel. "I need to see the judge," she insisted. The clerk hesitated but allowed her in.
The judge compared the two reports, his brows knitting together. "This is the correct one, Dr. Everhart.” He held up the version she had just submitted. "Where did this other one come from?"
"Your Honor, I don’t know," Isobel replied, her voice tight. "I’ve never seen it before."
The judge’s expression turned stern. "I trust this is an isolated mistake, Dr. Everhart. I won’t tolerate another one."
Isobel left the judge’s office, her stomach in knots. The officers guided her through the building, the pain in her chest easing slightly until the fire alarm blared, sending the courthouse into bedlam.
As people began evacuating, one of the officers received a call. His face turned pale as he listened. "There’s been a situation, Dr. Everhart. We need to move."
Instead of moving, Isobel stood frozen in the courthouse hallway. The officers beside her moved with sudden urgency, their radios crackling with a call that made her stomach drop. She barely caught the other words, but three echoed in her mind, “ body ” and “ men’s room. ” A cold shiver ran through her, and the reality of the situation hit her with brutal force.
She had broken Brad’s direct order. She wasn’t supposed to leave her office, and now someone was dead. Her mind struggled to process the consequences as the officers closed space around her, quickly ushering her out of the courthouse, their movements sharp and tense.
Everything happened too fast. Isobel barely had time to react before they were guiding her outside, pushing her into a patrol car, and heading straight for the police station. Her heart pounded in her chest, panic and guilt warring inside her. She didn’t mean to disobey Brad, but she did, and now she blamed herself for someone else paying the price.
At the station, they escorted her into Detective Larson’s office. She sat stiffly in the chair, her hands shaking, her thoughts spiraling in a haze of fear, guilt, and confusion. She could barely focus as Officer Dillon entered, his expression soft and concerned as he handed her a cup of tea.
“Here, Dr. Everhart. This might help,” he said quietly.
Isobel took the cup with trembling hands, barely able to wrap her fingers around it. She wanted to call Brad, to hear his voice, but the guilt gnawed at her insides. She had defied him, ignored his warning. What would he say now? What would he think of her, after all this?
The door to the office clicked open, and Larson strode in with a force that made the air in the room dissipate. His frustration was palpable as he stood over her, his jaw tight, his hands clenched.
“Why were you at the courthouse?” he demanded, his voice controlled but barely hiding the anger simmering beneath the surface.
Isobel’s heart sank further, her throat tightening. Larson, he was so sharp, so cold. “I… I had to deliver an urgent court-ordered report. The…” she stammered, trying to explain, but he cut her off before she could finish.
“You were told to stay at your office,” he snapped, his voice edged with the hard authority of someone who wasn’t just angry but deeply concerned. “Do you realize that everywhere you go, you open yourself up to danger? Other people can potentially die because you’re putting yourself in danger.”
The words hit her like a slap, and the truth of them stung. Isobel’s hands trembled harder, and the tea in her cup spilled into her lap as her body shook with anxiety. Her thoughts were muddled, Larson’s accusation mixing with the guilt already eating away at her. What had she done?
Larson’s anger softened slightly, but the tension in his voice remained. “We’re trying to protect you, Isobel, but you make it hard when you disregard instructions.” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly fighting to keep his temper in check. “You need to trust us. Trust me. And trust Brad.”
Isobel wanted to speak, to apologize, but her words stuck in her throat. The enormity of what she’d done, and what it potentially cost, slammed into her.
Larson moved to his desk and dropped an evidence bag in front of her, the contents catching her attention immediately. Inside was a flattened, crumpled note, the handwriting jagged and unsettling. Isobel’s heart pounded as she reached for it, her hands still shaking as she read the message:
Dear Isobel,
It’s all falling apart, isn’t it? No one will believe you anymore. Soon, there won’t be anyone left to help you. Maybe you should just stop trying. Before it’s too late.
Her breath hitched, but her eyes remained dry. This wasn’t just a warning. It was a taunt—a sick promise that things were about to spiral even further out of control. The guilt and terror crashed over her in waves, making it hard to breathe.
She looked up at Larson, her voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t realize…”
Larson’s frustration was still evident. “What didn’t you realize? We’re looking at two things here, Isobel. We discussed what can happen when you disregard our safety plan. That note, it’s designed to make you feel isolated from the people who are trying to help you. Is it working?”
She squirmed in her seat. “A self-fulling prophecy. I anger you—I lose your support.”
Larson continued, “This monster is smart. This murder was preplanned. You breaking the rules had nothing to do with the murder itself. But think, Isobel, you also could have been in the path of the murderer.”
Isobel nodded, her guilt suffocating her. She had defied Brad’s orders. She risked her life and the two cops with her. There was possibly collateral damage at the scene. She could only imagine what Brad would say, how livid he would be.
Larson took a seat at his desk and booted up his computer. For the next three hours, she sat in silence, stuck in her own self-recrimination.
When she was unable to bear the quiet one more moment, as if on cue, the door clicked open again, and Brad stepped into the room, his face a mask of calm fury. His eyes immediately locked onto Isobel, his expression a mixture of anger, worry, and disappointment. She could see the edge of his Dom side flickering in his gaze, the dominant authority he hadn’t yet showed her in full force—but it was there now, and it terrified her.
Brad crossed the room in two swift strides, his gaze not leaving hers. “Isobel,” he said quietly, his voice sharp but controlled. “You disobeyed me.”
Her heart clenched at the words, and her entire body tensed under his scrutiny. “I… I didn’t mean to. But…I had to get a report to the judge. It’s my job,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He stood over her, his presence imposing, his frustration palpable. “You put yourself in danger. You put the officers responsible for your safety at risk.”
She flinched under his words, guilt and fear tightening her chest. Brad crouched in front of her, his tone softening slightly, but his eyes still intense. “I can’t protect you if you don’t follow my orders, Belle. Do you understand that?”
Isobel nodded as she lowered her gaze, her hands still trembling in her lap. Brad’s fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“This isn’t just about you anymore,” he murmured. “You need to trust me—fully. No more disobeying. We will deal with the consequences at home.”
His words settled over her, and she knew he wasn’t just speaking out of anger. He was speaking out of a need to protect her, to keep her safe in a world where her life was at risk.
Isobel’s throat tightened as she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Brad’s expression softened, but his voice remained firm. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I’m making sure you’re safe.” He glanced over at Larson, who gave a slight nod of agreement.
Brad stood, his presence commanding the room. "Let’s get this under control. We’re not letting him get any closer.” He looked at Larson. “I’ll call you tonight about Mr. Viper Lord.”
And just like that, Isobel knew Brad’s dominance wasn’t about control—it was about keeping her alive. She could only hope she hadn’t pushed him too far.