Chapter 18
Alex
There’s a press conference playing on three different screens in the bullpen. One is muted, one’s volume is too low, and the third is too loud. But no one’s bothered to fix it, even me. I don’t turn it off, I just watch.
The camera angle is tight, clean, and controlled. The department seal fills the background, polished and official, like something you can trust just by looking at it. The podium sits front and center, perfectly placed under the bright lights that wash everything in that sterile, artificial glow.
And in front of it is Captain Grant.
Mason leans back in the chair beside me, the heels of his shoes hooked on the rung, arms crossed. “Think he practiced that in the mirror?” he mutters.
“More than once,” I reply.
On screen, the captain adjusts the microphone with measured precision, his expression composed in that way that reads as confidence to the public and calculation to anyone who knows him.
“This department is fully committed to addressing the recent incidents affecting our community,” he begins, voice steady and practiced.
Behind him, a row of officials stand in support, from the city council to a public safety liaison to the mayor. All of them nod at the right moments, wearing the right expressions: concern, resolve, and control. It’s a performance for the masses.
“Over the past several weeks,” the captain continues, “we have seen a concerning increase in criminal activity tied to human trafficking operations within our jurisdiction.”
Concerning increase. That’s one way to put it.
I catch onto his use of the word “weeks.” Simply by semantics can we consider the increase happening in the last few months. If the missing persons cases are connected to this, then it’s been going on for months. We just don’t have proof yet that they’re connected.
My gaze drifts briefly to the board behind my desk, to the photos, connections, and empty spaces where we should have answers by now.
Girls pulled off the street, moved through abandoned buildings like inventory. Used then discarded. And now… an escalation.
The image of the latest known victim flashes in my mind before I can stop it, dead on the ME’s table downstairs, with chemical silence in her system where there should have been a fight.
Confirmed succinylcholine: surgical, controlled, and deliberate.
To euthanize the victim so she’ll never speak about what happened.
“We are actively working alongside specialized task forces,” Captain Grant goes on, “to identify those responsible and bring them to justice.”
Mason lets out a quiet huff beside me. “Translation: we’ve got nothing.”
I don’t respond because he isn’t wrong. But the truth is uglier than that. We don’t have nothing. We have pieces and fragments. Enough to know how bad it is, but not enough to stop it. And the Captain’s up there talking “active efforts” and “ongoing investigations” like it’s under control.
That’s not action; that’s containment. Not of the criminals, but of the narrative.
A reporter’s voice cuts in from off camera. “Captain, can you confirm whether the recent abandoned apartment building fire is connected to the trafficking ring?”
A silent, measured moment passes. “We are exploring all possible connections,” the captain says smoothly. “At this time, we cannot definitively link the two incidents.”
I grit my teeth. We both know that’s bullshit. The survivor’s statement alone ties it together. The fire wasn’t random. It was an escape. But apparently, to him, confirming that publicly means admitting how long it’s been happening, how deep it goes, and how long we’ve been behind.
Another reporter jumps in. “What about the victim found earlier this week? Sources are suggested a more sophisticated method of killing, something involved medical-grade substances. Can you comment on that?”
Captain Grant’s face shifts darkly, but I understand why. We’ll need to figure out who let that information out of the building.
The captain doesn’t miss a beat. “We do not comment on ongoing forensic analysis,” he heaves. “What I can assure the public of is that we are dedicating every available resource on this case.”
Mason snorts. “Every available resource except the ones we actually need.”
That’s the other problem: resources, task forces stretched thin, and jurisdictional overlap turning into territorial pissing contests.
Budget allocations tied up in politics instead of need.
We’ve got leads sitting untouched because there aren’t enough bodies to run them down.
Too many open ends, not enough hands, and our office is too tied up in holding a press conference focusing on optics more than results.
“Can you speak to community safety?” another reporter asks. “Residents are reporting increased fear, especially in the affected neighborhoods.”
The captain nods, like he expected that one. To be fair, he probably did. “We understand the concern,” he says calmly. “We are increasing patrol presence in key areas and encouraging the public to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity.”
Vigilant, that’s what you tell people when you can’t protect them.
My mind flashed to Liv, her apartment, and her street. The way she’d stood in the precinct yesterday, refusing to back down, even when I gave her every reason to.
She’s already in it, whether anyone wants to admit it or not. Especially me. And now the whole city is being told to keep their eyes open.
Like that’s enough.
“Do you believe these incidents are isolated,” a reporter presses,” or part of a larger network operating within the city?”
A longer silence this time. “We are investigating all possibilities,” the captain says. “At this stage, it would be premature to draw conclusions.”
I lean back slightly, folding my arms. Premature? Or inconvenient? Because calling it what it is, an organized operation, means it’s structured, funded, and protected by someone. That raises questions no one at the press conference wants to answer.
Mason shifts beside me. “You see the mayor?” he murmurs.
I follow his line of sight on the screen. He’s wearing a slick suit that’s too polished and standing just behind the captain’s right shoulder watching everything.
Yeah, I see him.
“This isn’t just us,” Mason adds under his breath.
No, it isn’t. That’s the problem. The deeper this goes, the more it stops being about one night, building, or name. It becomes infrastructure. And infrastructure doesn’t collapse easily. It protects itself.
On screen, the captain wraps it up. “We will continue to provide updates as more information becomes available,” he says. “In the meantime, we remain committed to the safety of this city and the pursuit of justice for the victims.”
Justice. The word hangs in the air after the broadcast cuts. For a second, the bullpen is quiet. Then someone mutters, “That was a whole lot of nothing.”
Another detective shakes his head. “They’re buying time.”
“Or covering our asses,” someone else adds.
Mason glances at me. “You gonna say it, or should I?”
I don’t look at him when I respond. “Say what?”
“That this is bullshit.”
I finally turn, meeting his gaze. “It’s not bullshit,” I assure.
He raises an eyebrow but stays quiet, waiting for me to elaborate.
“It’s strategy.”
“For who?” he asks.
“Not us.”
That’s the part that matters. Because while they’re out there managing perception, we’re here trying to catch a ghost with surgical precision and a growing body count. And every hour we lose to politics, is another hour they get to keep going.
My gaze drifts back to the now-dark screen.
Liv’s face flashes through my mind again. She’s already on the edge of this. Closer than she realizes, closer than I should have ever let her get.
Stay away from her.
The order echoes, just as sharp as it did days ago when the captain gave it. But now, with everything I’m seeing and everything I know about this case, distance doesn’t feel like protection.
It feels like a delay. And delays get people killed.
Talking about the case, watching it play out, and listening to the higher ups and city officials spin it isn’t going to stop what’s already in motion.
And if Captain Grant and those other assholes working for the city are more concerned with optics than outcomes, then it’s on us to fix it before the next press conference has another dead body behind it.
I push off the desk, grabbing my jacket.
“Where are you going?” Mason asks.
“Work,” I say.