Chapter 8 #2
Detective Crowley meets us just outside the interview room, a space with bland, institutional green walls that seem to absorb any light.
He's dressed down but unmistakably in charge: a glint of his badge clipped to his belt, a worn tablet tucked under one arm, calm authority radiating in every move.
“Weston,” he says with a nod, his gaze sharp, then turns to me.
“Seventh. Appreciate the earlier debrief.”
I nod once. Neutral. It’s the tone he’ll respect, and the only one I trust right now.
“Appreciate you coming in,” Crowley says to Brooke. His tone is warm but measured. Professional, not impersonal. The kind of voice that earns trust without asking for it.
He doesn’t linger on pleasantries. Just gestures toward the door. “Let’s get your statement on record.”
We follow him into the interview room—a small, windowless box. The frosted glass of the single wall panel offers no view, only a blurred hint of movement outside. A mounted camera hums softly in the corner, its red eye blinking.
I stay near the door, leaning against the cool, painted cinder block. From here, I can watch her hands, which are clasped tightly on her lap. They’re steady now, but I caught the tremor when she reached for the door handle outside. She’s holding it together by sheer force of will.
Crowley settles into his chair opposite her, opens the tablet, and taps record. “Start from the beginning,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “From when you got in the car.”
Brooke nods, her gaze fixed on a point just past Crowley’s shoulder.
Her voice is clear as she recounts it. The click of the seatbelt, the sudden pass of the white van, the distinct crack of the shot.
She doesn’t embellish. Doesn’t stall. But I catch the way her breath hitches when she describes the sound of the round, how her fingers tighten against the table’s cold edge like muscle memory is kicking in, reliving the moment.
Crowley listens, expression unreadable, his face a mask. Then the questions start, his cadence steady, his tone low. Not pushing. Just pulling threads .
“Did you recognize the vehicle?” “Make? Model? Color?” “Any visible occupants?” “Did it slow down? Stop?” “Any markings? Plates? Tinted windows?”
Brooke answers without hesitation, her voice gaining a surprising strength. “No. White panel van. Older model. No plates that I could see. No windows on the sides. Just the silhouette of the driver. Didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.”
“You didn’t see the weapon?”
She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling across her face. “Just heard the crack. Caleb shouted before I even realized what it was.”
He logs that without a word, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tablet. “How many shots fired?”
“Just one.”
The follow-ups come in rhythm, each question landing with a soft thud in the quiet room.
“Seen that vehicle before?” “Any recent threats tied to your reporting?” “Anyone lingering outside your home? Unusual vehicles parked nearby?”
She answers them all, but I see the flicker of tension when Crowley leans back slightly. Not relaxed, just letting the pressure off, a subtle shift in his posture. He flips to another file, the screen illuminating his face in its pale glow.
“You had your tires slashed night before last,” he says, his voice flat again, a statement, not a question. “That why you’ve got protection now? ”
Brooke glances at me before answering, her eyes holding a brief, complicated mixture of reluctance and something else—maybe the weight of admitting she needs backup. “Caleb’s here as a favor to my overprotective brother,” she says, calm but firm, her chin lifting slightly. “But… I’m glad he is.”
I keep my expression neutral, but the words hit center mass.
Crowley nods, flipping past the recent incident report to the crime scene photos. A single 9mm casing, glinting dully, recovered near the curb.
One round. Clean placement.
Someone wanted to prove they could get close to Brooke and drive away.
When the interview wraps, he ends the recording with a firm tap and leans back in his chair, studying Brooke for a second longer than necessary, his expression still unreadable. “You did well,” he says. “We’ll follow up if anything new surfaces. BOLO’s going out today.”
She nods, jaw tight. The weight of it all is pressing down harder now—no adrenaline to keep it at bay. Her shoulders slump almost imperceptibly.
I step closer and rest my hand lightly on her back as she stands.
Crowley's eyes track the movement. His gaze lingers on my hand, then flicks up to meet mine.
His mouth quirks up at one corner. "I'll be seeing you, Seventh. "
"Yeah," I say. "Wouldn't want to make your week too easy."
He huffs what might pass for a laugh then waves us out.
Though she seems to know her way around, I guide her toward the exit. Our footsteps echo on the polished floor as a few officers at distant desks glance up, their faces bland. One offers Brooke a small, sympathetic smile. Another murmurs, “Stay out of trouble, Brooke.”
She exhales a tired breath, her smile faint but real, along with a flicker of truth disguised as humor. “As if that’s even possible,” she says.
Brooke
My legs are stuck to the seat, damp with sweat I hadn’t noticed in the cool of the police station. I can’t feel anything but the static in my limbs, like my body’s trying to shake off what my mind won’t accept.
Up front, Caleb drives with one hand resting loose on the wheel. His jaw’s tight. Eyes fixed ahead, but I can feel the tension rolling off him, coiled and waiting.
Mateo rides beside me in the back, silent, shoulders squared, gaze flicking to the side mirror every few seconds .
But I’m the only one in this vehicle whose nerves are showing.
My thoughts won't settle. Eliza's face surfaces in my mind. I blink hard, swallowing the sudden sting of guilt. I can't cry again. Crying won’t achieve anything. And I can’t fall to pieces again. Not in front of Mateo.
I shift in my seat, my eyes drifting to Caleb's reflection in the rearview mirror.
He's a man of faith. Of strength, valor, courage. Everything I've been taught to admire, to respect. That’s what’s most puzzling of all.
He works for a company he won’t talk about. A company that seems to have unlimited resources and zero interest in transparency.
No website. No listed office. No press releases. Just a name—Hightower—and a trail of locked doors and half-answers.
And yet, here he is. Assigned to me.
And now I’m considering withholding information. Circumventing the law and going with Hightower instead.
As Caleb eases the car into a parking space, my hand finds the door handle, but I don't move. I just sit there, suspended between roles—witness, investigator, liability, asset. Journalist, woman, potential victim.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, a woman who's starting to need more from the man behind the wheel than just protection.
"Brooke?" Caleb's voice is low. Careful.
I don't move. I'm staring at nothing, lost in the storm inside my own head.
He glances at Mateo, then jerks his chin toward the motel. "Do me a solid—go pack up our room." He hands over the key. Mateo nods and disappears without a word, granting us privacy I'm not sure I want.
Caleb turns back to me, steady and still. Waiting. Always waiting. "You okay?"
How can I answer that? How do I explain the weight pressing down on me? The war inside me? The way everything I thought I knew about myself is shifting like sand?
"Maybe we should let the cops handle this?"
Tension coils in the silence, thick and lingering. Caleb doesn't flinch. Doesn't rush to fill the space with empty reassurances.
"Pray about it," he says finally, his voice calm, unwavering. "If it doesn't sit right, we’ll drop it."
I blink at him. That wasn't the answer I expected. I was bracing for strategy. Logic. Arguments about necessity and pragmatism. Not conviction. Not faith.
Is this how Hightower operates? How Caleb operates? Not chasing headlines. Not chasing ego. But led by something higher. By God. Not personal gain, gut instinct, or emotion .
"Just like that?" My voice cracks. "You’d walk away?"
"I'm here to protect you, Brooke,” he says, his gaze steady. "If you want Hightower’s help with Eliza, you’re going to have to trust me."
The message is clear. I need to lay it all out—no walls, no deflection, no holding back.
My hands clench in my lap, knuckles white, as a tightness builds in my chest, sharp and suffocating. The question burns through me: do I trust him with this?
Do I?
I breathe out, a shaky, whispered prayer slipping past my lips. Lord, please let this be the right call. Please let me be doing this for the right reasons.
With a final look at Caleb, I begin.
Because if I'd told him everything I knew the day he showed up...
Maybe Eliza would still be alive.