Chapter 23 #2
Detective Miguel Alvarez meets us at the desk.
He’s exactly how I remember him, sharp-eyed, composed, the kind of man who sees more than he says.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, tie loosened just slightly, like he’s been here too long already.
His gaze moves over all of us, assessing, calculating, taking in every detail, the cuts, the posture, the tension we’re carrying without even realizing it.
Then it settles on Sloane. “You’ve got something we can use this time?
” he asks. There’s no mockery in it, just expectation tinged with caution, a man who doesn’t want to get his hopes up.
It makes me hopeful that he wants to nail the bastard as much as we do.
Sloane steps forward. “Yes.” There’s no hesitation or uncertainty.
He studies her for a moment, as if he’s weighing not just the words but her, then nods. “Alright. Let’s see it.”
The room they take us into is small, too small for all of us.
The walls are a dull, institutional gray, the kind that absorbs light rather than reflects it.
A single table sits in the center, with metal legs and a scratched surface, surrounded by mismatched chairs that scrape loudly against the floor when we move them.
Connor is already there, as he promised Sloane he would be.
He looks worse than before. His shirt clings to his back in damp patches, sweat darkening the fabric under his arms. His leg shakes restlessly, heel tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor.
His eyes dart around, flicking from door to window to us, looking for an exit that doesn’t exist. He’s scared. Good.
Sloane doesn’t acknowledge him, doesn’t even glance in his direction, and I feel a stab of satisfaction at the hurt on Connor’s face as he finally realizes what he gave up.
She moves like he’s just another piece of the furniture.
She lays everything out, spreading the files with a clean sweep.
Every piece clearly connects to the next, with no gaps, no room for Briggs to wriggle out of.
I watch Alvarez as she speaks, clearly and methodically laying out the case.
She builds it the way she built everything else—layer by layer, fact by fact, until there’s no space left for doubt.
The shift is subtle, but it’s there. Alvarez’s skepticism is clear.
Tight shoulders, narrowed eyes, arms crossed like he’s bracing for disappointment, but then it fades, and his interest sharpens as understanding settles in.
He leans forward slightly, uncrossing his arms, one hand coming to rest on the table as he follows the connections she lays out.
His posture changes completely, attention sharpening, eyes tracking every document, every explanation.
By the time she finishes, the room feels different, as if everything has clicked into place.
Alvarez leans back slowly, exhaling, one hand dragging down his face as he processes everything. “Now that is a case,” he says. Admiration tinges his tone, quiet and unmistakable.
I feel a swell of pride.
Connor nods quickly, his relief bleeding into desperation. “I told you I’d cooperate. I’m not going to get in any trouble, am I? I was—”
Alvarez cuts him off with a raised hand, the movement sharp enough to stop him mid-sentence. “Save it.”
Connor shuts up immediately, swallowing hard, shoulders dropping as the reality of his position settles back over him.
“You’ll get immunity for your compliance.”
Connor sags with relief, the tension draining out of him in visible waves, his hands shaking slightly where they rest on the table.
Alvarez’s gaze returns to Sloane. “With his testimony,” he says, flicking the papers. “This holds.”
Sloane nods once. “I know.”
He studies her for another moment before standing, chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Alright. Let’s go arrest the son of a bitch.”
Just like that. No hesitation. No delay.
***
The arrest happens fast. Faster than anything we’ve dealt with up to this point.
It’s efficient and clean. We’re not there when the cops take Briggs in, but we hear it over the radio.
Voices crackle through static—short, clipped confirmations, location updates, commands given and followed without hesitation.
“Suspect in custody.”
“Perimeter secure.”
“Transport en route.”
Briggs doesn’t resist, reserving his right to remain silent. He’s not stupid, he knows the game has changed. After everything, it’s almost… anticlimactic.
Sloane stands beside me when the final confirmation comes through. I feel it more than I see it—the shift in her posture, the way her shoulders drop just slightly, like she’s been holding something heavy for too long and finally gets to set it down.
I stand outside the station, the late afternoon air warm against my skin, the sun low enough to cast long shadows across the sidewalk.
The noise of the city feels distant, detached, like we’re standing just outside of it.
The world keeps on turning, indifferent to the monumental change that’s happened in our lives.
I look at Sloane, who is standing still, staring up at the blue sky, eyes unfocused like she’s somewhere else entirely, replaying everything that led to this moment. “It’s not over,” she says.
“No,” I agree, stepping closer and pulling her close. “But it’s a start.”
Cruz lets out a long breath, tension bleeding out of him in slow, controlled release. “You did it,” he says to Sloane.
She looks at Cruz, then at all of us, shaking her head. “No. We did it.”
We. I like the way that sounds. We’re a team. For the first time since this started, we’re finally ahead. We’re together, exactly where we need to be.