9. Michael
Chapter nine
Michael
T he text message arrived at 5:47 AM, clinical in its brevity: Admin: Report to Internal Affairs, 10:00 AM.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, and then I tossed the phone onto my rumpled sheets. The digital summons wasn't a surprise. I'd been waiting for it since I stepped off the plane from Tahiti.
My apartment provided little comfort. Stacks of mail covered the small table by the door—bills, flyers, and a humorous postcard from Miles sent before everything went to hell. The air was stale with the aromas of yesterday's coffee and nuked dinner.
A half-empty mug sat crusted with a black ring on the counter. I hadn't bothered opening the blinds since I got back.
I dragged myself into the shower and stood under scalding water until my skin turned fiery red. The pain was better than nothing. Better than the slow, choking knowledge that no matter what story they told, I'd already lost.
I knew I'd likely have to surrender my gun and badge. I wore jeans and a faded navy hoodie that Marcus left at my place months ago.
The precinct hallways were longer than I remembered. Every footstep echoed against the institutional tile. A rookie officer—Perez—spotted me and pivoted abruptly, ducking down a side corridor. My stomach twisted into a knot. Three days and I was already a cautionary tale.
The Internal Affairs office was a monument to institutional authority: windowless walls painted a precise shade of nothing and fluorescent lights that hummed at a frequency designed to unsettle. The chairs—rigid plastic with metal legs—were arranged at right angles to the desk, calculated for maximum psychological disadvantage.
Two agents waited for me—Mueller, whom I'd known for years, and a woman I didn't recognize.
Mueller didn't bother to stand. "Officer McCabe, take a seat."
I did. The chair wobbled slightly beneath me.
"This meeting is to formally notify you that effective immediately, we are placing you on administrative leave pending investigation into the Tahiti incident." There was no emotion in his voice. He might as well have been typing.
The woman—Agent Morrow, according to her nameplate—slid a document across the desk. "We require you to surrender all department-issued items. Firearm, badge, access cards."
My fingers curled into my palms. "Already left them with Rodriguez at the front desk."
Mueller nodded without looking up from his notepad. "You are to have no contact with any witnesses related to the Reeves case. You are prohibited from discussing the ongoing investigation with media outlets or on social platforms."
I left the building the same way I'd entered, except now I was lighter by one badge, one gun, and whatever remained of my professional dignity. With merciless clarity, the lobby's polished surfaces reflected my descent from officer to suspect.
I squinted against the morning sun. It was too bright to be Seattle.
The air held the briny tang of Puget Sound mixed with exhaust from the nearby highway. I needed somewhere to go that wasn't home, somewhere to set aside the humiliation crawling under my skin.
Before returning to the parking lot, I lingered near the staff entrance, watching officers come and go. They were people I'd trained with, backed up, and trusted. My fingers drummed restlessly against my thigh.
Two uniforms exited the building, laughing about something. Johnston and Meyer. They'd been rookies when I was already on SWAT. Their conversation died when they spotted me. Johnston whispered something. Meyer's eyes widened.
"That's him, right?" Johnston spoke in a stage whisper, intentionally loud enough for me to hear.
Meyer answered back. "Fucking mess. Heard the guy didn't even fight back."
They walked past me, pretending I was invisible. More officers trickled out for lunch. Hushed conversations resumed once they thought I was out of earshot.
"Bad optics."
"Island cowboy."
"Can't have him back in SWAT after this."
Each word sliced deeper than the last. These people had been family once. Now, I was contaminated and could poison their career by proximity.
My jaw tensed, and my hands curled into fists at my side. Violence hummed beneath my skin.
I forced myself to walk away from my antagonists. One foot in front of the other. Eyes forward. Shoulders rigid. It was how my father taught us to leave a room when we were angry.
You didn't swing first or lose control. You walked away until you could think straight.
In this case, thinking straight wasn't likely to happen at all.
Despite the chill, I drove aimlessly through the city with the radio off and windows down. Seattle sprawled around me, oblivious to my unraveling. Traffic lights. Coffee shops. People with someplace to be. I belonged nowhere.
My apartment welcomed me back with nothing that could provide comfort. I threw my keys against the wall and watched them slide to the floor.
Collapsing onto the couch, I pulled out my phone.
Marcus had called four times. His voicemail was sharp with protective anger: "Call me back. Now. We need to get ahead of this before they bury you. We'll fix this, Michael. But I need you to pick up the damn phone."
Matthew, always the peacemaker, had left a softer message: "Hey. I know you're probably... Look, just... call, bro. Whenever. I'm around."
Miles had taken a different approach. Three texts, each containing nothing but memes about punching lawyers. His attempt at humor raised a slight snicker.
I stared at Miles's last text for a long moment. My youngest brother always tried to lighten impossible situations. It was part of his personality and a vital skill for his work with trauma victims.
Before putting any more thought into it, I replied. Michael: Not all lawyers deserve punching. Just most of them.
A reply came instantly as if he'd been waiting with the phone in his hand. Miles: HE LIVES! Thought you might've fled to Canada by now.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Miles was Miles. He offered a tiny twinge of comfort. I wanted to tell him everything, but it was better to tell him nothing. Michael: Not Canada. Too cold. Miles: Seriously tho. You OK?
I wasn't. Not even close, but I knew that telling him would only worry him more, and I couldn't handle his concern. Michael: Fine. Just need space.
The typing dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again. Miles: We're here when you're ready. All of us.
I put the phone down, fingers lingering on its frame. Shame weighed heavy in my gut.
It wasn't fair to call for help when you were the problem. It would only drag others down into your mess. Still, something in me screamed against the isolation, even as I enforced it.
My father's voice echoed from a memory so old I couldn't place it: "Stand on your own two feet, Michael. Nobody respects a man who can't carry his own weight."
So, I carried it all alone as the apartment darkened around me.
Night fell unnoticed. I didn't bother with turning on lights or eating dinner. My stomach was too tight for food.
Instead, I nursed a bottle of whiskey that had been a gift from the team after our last successful hostage extraction. The amber liquid burned going down, but it didn't dull the edges of my thoughts like I'd hoped. It sharpened them and pulled them into painful focus.
I couldn't stop replaying Tahiti in my mind—at least one part of it.
It wasn't the explosion or the accusing crowds.
It was Alex.
I only had to think of his name to bring up vivid details. I thought about how his breath trembled when I touched him and his eyes dilated with desire. I couldn't forget the surprising strength in his hands as they roamed across my body.
I closed my eyes, and the memories only intensified. I tasted the saltiness of his skin on my tongue. The quiet, broken sound he made when I entered him filled my ears. He'd curled against me afterward, his breathing gradually slowing, trusting me enough to fall asleep in my arms.
"Goddammit," I whispered to the empty room.
My phone sat on the coffee table. I picked it up, opened my contacts, and scrolled to his name.
My thumb hovered over the call button.
Reach out to him. Tell him the truth.
I nearly did. Then, another thought came to mind.
No. You'll drag him down, too.
Alex deserved better than to be pulled into my mess. He'd already lost enough—his wife and the future they'd planned. He spoke of her reverently when he showed me her photograph. He was still healing and finding his way back.
I'd been selfish enough to complicate that journey with my own needs and desires.
I'm poison now. Tainted. Dangerous.
Anyone I brought closer was likely to suffer. The best thing I could do for Alex was to stay away. Let him return to his ordered, academic life without the chaos I'd brought crashing into it.
I wandered into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Stared at nothing. Closed it again.
I turned on the TV and flipped through the channels without seeing any of them. News, sitcom reruns, and a cooking show. Each image slid past without catching hold. I let it all blur together, the remote slipping from my fingers as I sank deeper into the couch.
Hours later, the whiskey bottle was empty, a defeated wreck tipped on its side near the couch.
My phone lay on the coffee table, daring me to touch it. My thumb trembled slightly as I opened my contacts and retrieved his record from the archive
Alex.
I opened a new message and stared at the blank field, waiting for the words to come.
I'm sorry.
I stared at it. Too small on its own.
I added:
You don't deserve this. You deserve better.
My finger hovered. I could hit send. I could shatter the distance between us in an instant.
Another line appeared beneath my thumbs before I thought about it:
I wish—
I stopped. What could I possibly wish that wouldn't make it worse?
That we met under different circumstances? That I'd been someone worth reaching for? That I wasn't already dragging ruin behind me wherever I went?
The blinking cursor waited.
Slowly, I backspaced over every word.
One letter at a time until the message field was blank again.
I dropped the phone face-down on the coffee table, severing the connection before I could betray us both.
You don't get to keep someone like Alex.
If you love him, you let him go.
And I cared enough to disappear.
"You're better off without me," I whispered to no one.
The silence swallowed my words. I lay back, fully clothed, eyes open, watching shadows shift across the ceiling as cars passed outside. Not sleeping. Just... existing. Waiting for morning to arrive with nothing to wake up for.