Chapter 5 Raelynn
FIVE
RAELYNN
We were only two hours into the ride-along and had already been on six calls, one of which was a regular traffic stop. The rest of the calls were two domestic violence cases back-to-back and one drunk and disorderly.
Who the fuck is out drinking this early in the morning?
We also had one call about a homeless man dumpster-diving at Circle K and a welfare check on a little old lady who hadn’t answered her phone or door for a few days.
She was okay, thankfully, just almost entirely deaf and didn’t hear the door or her landline.
Paramedics, however, did take her in to be checked out.
At each call, a second cruiser pulled up to assist. Kline had explained earlier that they couldn’t detain or transport anyone with me in the backseat. Safety and liability concerns. I knew this already, but still politely nodded in understanding.
By the third hour, things began to slow down, and by the fourth hour, Kline and Perez decide to head back toward the station, since my shift is almost over and they know Rodriguez wants to chat with me.
“So,” Kline says, breaking the silence as he drives. His tone is casual, curious. “What made you want to go into law enforcement?”
I glance up, fiddling absently with a section of frayed pieces on the observer vest. Through the metal grating that separated arrestees from officers, I can see Kline staring at me through his rear-view mirror, his expression curious.
“Oh… um,” I pause, debating on how honest I want to be. “Several reasons, I guess.”
Kline hums thoughtfully and returns his gaze to the road. “Care to share?” he asks as Perez turns partially in his seat to look at me. His expression is unreadable.
I shift slightly under his gaze, unease building in my stomach as I sink deeper into the molded plastic seat; the blanket does little to ease the discomfort I’m really starting to feel now. “I’m not sure I want to share,” I admit. “It’s kind of… personal.”
Perez doesn’t let up. His eyes narrow slightly. “C’mon. You said you had multiple reasons. Give us one.”
I sigh internally. I’m not ready to open up about that reason, not to them. Not yet. Especially not to him.
So I give them the safe version.
“I’ve always been fascinated by true crime,” I say carefully. “I eventually decided I wanted to study it, and in my freshman year, I decided I wanted to be a cop and then work my way up to being a homicide detective one day.”
“Homicide, huh?” Perez snorts, like it’s some kind of joke. Like he believes I don’t have what it takes.
“Yes,” I say flatly, the edge in my voice cutting sharper than I intend. “And for the record, I have my reasons. But I’m not exactly eager to share them with someone who’s spent this entire ride treating me like an inconvenience.”
I cross my arms—not just out of defiance, but to steady the flicker of emotion clawing its way up my chest. Anger, mostly. Frustration. And buried underneath it all, the dull ache of old grief stumbling back after years of trying to keep it contained.
I was only six when my mom was murdered.
And by nine, I had lost both of my parents.
My dad unraveled after her death, piece by agonizing piece.
The guilt consumed him—he blamed himself for not being there, for not protecting her.
It clung to him like a second skin he could never peel away.
The monster responsible—a serial killer, the media nicknamed The Butcher for the way he left his victims. Brutalized and in pieces.
He vanished after my mother’s murder. No trace.
No justice. Just a gaping silence that settled over our lives like a shroud.
I was old enough to feel it. Old enough that the trauma of her death etched itself deep inside me, a scar I would carry into everything that came after.
That silence hollowed my father out. It made it impossible for him to look at me without seeing everything he’d lost. He tried to drown it—grief, guilt, memory—in the bottom of a bottle.
It didn’t work.
After three years of numbing himself into a ghost, he finally gave up for good. He wrapped his car around a telephone pole on some deserted back road in the middle of the night. The official report called it an accident.
I knew better.
After that, I was passed into the care of my grandparents.
They did their best—God, they tried—but by the time I was thirteen, life had taken another swing at me.
My grandmother died quietly in her sleep.
Peaceful, they said, but it didn’t feel peaceful to me.
It felt like the world was ripping another piece out of me, leaving less and less behind.
My grandfather tried, but he wasn’t equipped to raise a grieving teenager—not mentally, or physically. And before long, the system started circling, ready to scoop me up and spit me out somewhere I didn’t belong.
If it hadn’t been for Tessa’s family, I would’ve become just another file buried in a stack of forgotten kids until my eighteenth birthday.
But they didn’t hesitate. They opened their home and hearts to me without asking for anything in return.
No conditions. No pity. Just love. Real, stable, unconditional love—the kind I didn’t even know still existed.
And because of them, I’m still standing.
A heavy silence inside the cruiser is suffocating.
Perez stares at me for a beat, something I could almost mistake as regret flickering across his face.
His jaw tightens, then loosens. His lips part like he’s about to say something, but whatever it is, he swallows it down and turns back to face forward without a word.
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of it all settle in my chest again, and lean back against the seat, staring out the window as the cruiser hums quietly beneath me.
An uncomfortable twenty minutes pass by, filled with nothing but the occasional squawk of the radio and the low, steady hum of the air conditioner. No conversation. No acknowledgment. Just silence, heavy and awkward, weighing down the already stifling air inside the vehicle.
Finally, Kline eases the cruiser into the station’s parking lot, pulling into one of the reserved spaces near the back entrance. He shifts the car into park and reaches for the radio. “2-Adam-34 is 10-7,” Kline announces on his radio.
“Copy that 2-Adam-34,” a voice crackles back through the speaker.
Without another word, both Kline and Perez climb out of the vehicle. A second later, Perez opens the back door for me. I glance up at him, my lips pursed. His expression is neutral as he steps off to the side, giving me space to climb out.
“Thank you,” I murmur, sliding from the backseat and into the hellish afternoon heat.
Going from an air-conditioned vehicle and straight into what can only be described as walking into an oven, nearly has me cursing, but I hold my tongue and immediately start stripping off the stiff and beyond fucking itchy vest, wishing I could rip off the rest of this godforsaken outfit while I’m at it.
It’s too damn hot for any amount of clothing, much less this.
I will never get used to the heat, despite living here my whole life.
Anyone who says they’re used to it is fucking lying.
The vest does nothing to help the sensation of overheating. I fold it over my left arm anyway and quickly fall into step behind Perez and Kline, eager to chase the promise of air conditioning as we cross the lot and head back toward the station entrance.
Inside, we wind through the familiar halls—past uniformed officers, department staff, and the low buzz of conversation and ringing phones.
Kline leads the way to Sergeant Rodriguez’s office, knocking twice before pushing the door open.
He steps aside, holding the door with a small nod, gesturing for me to enter.
“Welcome back, Miss Carson,” Rodriguez says, glancing up from behind her computer screen. A warm smile spread across her lips.
I smile politely and take a quick scan of the office as I step inside.
It’s small but clean, with just enough personal touches to feel lived-in.
A neat stack of case files sits to one side of the desk.
A framed photo of what I can only assume to be her family sits next to a departmental award, and a dry-erase board covered in neat, color-coded writing hangs on the opposite wall.
Everything about the space is structured and efficient—exactly what I’d expect from her.
“Thank you,” I reply as I lower myself into one of the two sleek, black, cushioned chairs across from her desk, the worn leather creaking softly under my weight.
“I’ll take it from here,” Rodriguez says, turning her attention briefly to Kline and Perez.
I half-turn in my seat, glancing back just in time to catch Perez staring at me. His gaze lingers for a moment longer than necessary before he shifts his attention to Rodriguez, gives a slight nod, and disappears down the hallway with Kline following close behind.
I exhale quietly and refocus on Rodriguez as she leans back in her chair, studying me with an appraising look.
“So,” she says, her voice a little lighter now. “How was your first day out in the field?”
I hesitate for half a second, considering whether I should mention Perez’s attitude. But what good would that do? I’m not here to make enemies, and I don’t need to give him even more of a reason to dislike me by running straight to his boss.
“It was great,” I say instead, and honestly—it’s not a total lie.
Sure, Perez’s attitude was grating, and there was that one gut-punch moment where grief came barreling out of nowhere and nearly knocked the air from my lungs. But beyond that? The ride-along was the most real experience I’ve had in the field so far.
Not just simulated scenarios or hypothetical lecture discussions—real people, real consequences, real unpredictability.