Chapter 17
Liv
I don’t know how it got lost in the rig but it did. I also don’t know where the hell it came from. But it’s a receipt from a pharmacy that neither Scott nor I use. I’m worried it was dropped during the commotion while transporting one of the victims of the apartment fire.
And if that’s the case, then I need to make sure it gets to Alex. I could just text him… or I could drop by the precinct and hand deliver it myself in a paper evidence bag.
And since only one of those involves me getting to see him for the first time since the gala nearly a week ago.
The precinct smells different than I expected. More shitty coffee, less paper. A tinge of something metallic floats through the air that I can’t quite nail down but that I expect has something to do with guns and bullets.
The automatic doors slide shut behind me with a heavy clinching sound, and for a second, I just stand there like I’ve forgotten why I came here.
Officers move through the space with purpose, some in uniform and some in plain clothes, all carrying that same tight energy I’ve learned to recognize from every time my job has intersected with theirs.
Conversations cut off when I pass, not completely, but enough that I feel the shift. I’m out of place, again. It’s becoming a theme.
“Can I help you?” The voice pulls me back. A uniformed officer stands behind the front desk, watching me with polite curiosity and just a hint of suspicion.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m here to drop off something from a case the other day. I found some possible evidence in my rig after transporting a patient.”
His expression shifts slightly at that, recognition flitting over it. Or maybe just the weight of the case settling in. “Name?”
“Olivia Carter. EMS.”
He types something into his computer, glances at the screen, then nods. “Detective Thornton’s unit?”
My stomach tightens at the name, but I keep my expression neutral. “That’s what I was told.”
“Sit tight. I’ll let someone know you’re here.”
I nod, stepping away from the desk and moving toward a row of chairs against the wall. They’re hard plastic and unforgiving, the kind designed for function over comfort. I sit anyway, folding my hands in my lap, trying to ignore the way my eyes instinctively scan the room looking for him.
“Olivia?”
I look up. It’s not Alex, a fact that makes me sadder than I expected. A woman stands in front of me, in her late twenties, maybe, sharp eyes and a meekness that seems slightly wrong.
“I’m Nadine, the secretary,” she says, offering a hand.
I take it. “Liv.”
“He’s tied up right now,” she adds, like she already knows who I was expecting. “But I can take the possible evidence.”
Something deep within me tightens slightly. I nod anyway and stand, pulling the envelope from my pocket. “Sure.”
She gestures for me to follow her leading me deeper into the precinct, up a couple flights of stairs and down a hallway.
I don’t know why she’d need me to go anywhere aside from the entryway but follow her anyway.
The noise shifts as we move, becoming less public and more focused.
Desks cluttered with files, evidence bags stacked in corners, and whiteboards covered in names, arrows, and strings making connections like in the movies.
“Everything okay?” she asks, eyeing me up like I look sick or something.
“Oh, yeah,” I chuckle lightly. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting the boards to actually look like that. I thought that was just a Hollywood kind of thing.”
Instead of accepting the joke, her head tips just slightly as her eyes fill with recognition. “You were at the fire.”
“Y-yeah.” I take a deep breath.
“And the highway.”
My chest tightens at the memory. I nod.
Her expression shifts again; respect maybe or understanding. “That’s a hell of a month.”
“Yeah.” Understatement.
She takes the envelope from my hand, flipping it with practiced efficiency. “And you’re the only one in your station that touched it?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And do you know which of the women transported may have dropped it?”
“The one who would talk,” I confirm. “She mentioned a name. Partial, but-”
“York,” Nadine finishes.
My head snaps up. “You already have it?”
She nods. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“You don’t think it’s York Malone, do you?”
“Careful. Accusations like that to a family with that much money will bankrupt you.”
Oh, fair point.
“That woman said there were others,” I add. “More girls, moving in and out. And something about the third floor, like something worse was happening up there.”
Nadine’s jaw clenches slightly. “It’s being looked into.”
Something about the way she says it doesn’t sit right. “Looking into it how?” I press.
Her eyes flick up to mine, measuring then deciding. Then she lowers her voice just a fraction. “Carefully.”
That’s not reassuring… or really that informative.
Voices rise from across the room, sharper than the background noise. My attention shifts instinctively, drawn toward the tension.
Two officers stand near one of the desks, their conversation just loud enough to carry.
“I’m telling you, this thing’s bigger than what they’re saying. That paralytic isn’t something low-level,” one of them mutters.
“And I’m telling you,” the other shoots back, “you don’t go poking at it without clearance. Not if you want to keep your job.”
“It’s trafficking, not politics.”
“Everything is politics.”
“Zip it, you two,” Nadine snaps at them, silencing their conversation, then sighs quietly beside me. “Ignore them.”
“I can’t,” I say. “Not when they sound like that.”
She hesitates, then straightens, lowering the report to her side. “You want the honest answer?”
“Always.”
“This case? It’s messy. Not just because of what’s happening out there, but because of what’s happening in here.”
A chill moves through me. “In here how?”
She glances toward the bullpen like she’s checking that we’re still not being watched, then turns back to me.
“There are people who don’t want this pushed too hard,” she says carefully. “Too many moving parts. Too many connections that aren’t fully understood yet.”
“Connections to what?”
Her mouth tightens. “That’s the problem,” she condemns. “We don’t know. But when things start getting buried instead of escalated…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence; she doesn’t have to.
“Carter.”
The voice hits me before I see him. I turn immediately. Alex stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable, but there’s something tight in the way he holds himself, even more controlled and careful than normal.
I realize all too suddenly that not only did I get what I wanted, to see Alex, but this is the first time I’ve seen him in his workplace. Alex at work and Alex at his workplace are apparently substantially different.
“Detective,” I say, matching his tone.
Something flickers in his eyes at that, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
Nadine glances between us, clearly clocking the shift, then straightens. “I’ve got the evidence envelope,” she says. “I’ll log it and add it to your file.”
“Thanks,” Alex replies, not looking at her. His attention stays on me. “I need a minute.”
Nadine nods once, then moves off, leaving us standing there in the middle of the bullpen with too many eyes and too much unspoken between us.
“You came down here yourself,” he chides.
“Felt like the fastest way to get the information where it needed to go,” I reply.
He nods, but his jaw hardens slightly, like that’s not the answer he wanted. “You shouldn’t be here.”
There it is. I blink. “Excuse me?”
“This isn’t your scene,” he grates, glancing over to a singular office labeled “Grant.” “You’ve done your part. Let us handle it.”
Something in my chest grinds. “I am handling it,” I counter. “In case you forgot, these are my patients.”
His gaze hardens just slightly. “Not like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re part of the investigation. If the Captain sees you-”
“I am part of it,” I snap. “Whether you like it or not.”
A few heads turn. I lower my voice, but the heat doesn’t fade.
“You don’t understand what you’re stepping into,” he says quietly.
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t.”
“Or you won’t?”
His expression cracks, like something inside him is breaking. “Liv-”
“No,” I break in. “Don’t do that.”
His brow furrows. “Do what?”
“Act like you care one minute and then shut me out the next.”
That works; I see it. But he doesn’t back down. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it about.”
His jaw sets like stone, and for a second, I think he’s actually going to tell me. But then, he just huffs, “it’s about you staying out of something that will get you hurt.”
The words hit harder than I expect because they’re not dismissive; they’re afraid. That’s worse.
“I don’t get to stay out of it,” I dispute quietly. “Not when it’s outside my home.”
He looks at me like he wants to argue, to say more. But he doesn’t because he can’t. Whatever line he’s decided to draw, he’s sticking to it this time.
“Thornton!” Another voice cuts through the moment. The office to the side now has a large, grumpy looking man with ruffled salt and pepper hair and two undone buttons at the top of his shirt standing it the doorway. And he’s watching us, watching me.
Something cold settles in my stomach. I don’t like that guy, and I don’t even know why. One of my professors in college told me, “an EMT’s best attribute is their gut, and that can’t be taught.” And this guy has my gut feeling something atrocious.
Alex straightens immediately, the shift in him instant and unmistakable. “I’ve got to go,” he says.
Of course he does.
“That’s convenient,” I mutter.
His gaze flickers back to mine, warring emotions sitting just beneath the surface. “Liv-”
“Go,” I say, stepping back. “Detective.”
That word again, deliberate and distant.
And on purpose.
He hesitates for half a second, then turns and walks away.
I stand there for a moment, the noise of the precinct rushing back in around me, louder than before and different now that I know what’s underneath it.
Politics, tension, and secrets.
Nadine reappears at my side a moment later, her expression careful. “You okay?”
I let out a breath that feels heavier than it should. “Yeah,” I reiterate. “Just… didn’t realize how complicated this all was.”
She huffs quietly. “That’s one word for it.”
“People are fighting this… from the inside,” I say. It’s not a question.
She doesn’t respond right away. When she does, she sounds like she’s trying. “Not everyone.”
It’s not helping. And it makes my stomach tighten even more.
I walk out of the precinct a minute later, feeling the air that’s grown colder since I went in.
I don’t think it actually got colder, pretty sure it’s all in my head.
A resolution to all of this already felt distant but now it feels so far off that I’m worried that it’ll never be fixed.
Women will continue to suffer and there’s nothing I can do to help.
Because the people who are supposed to be fixing this are too tangled in politics to actually solve the problem.
And save us all.