Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Brooke
While I process what this new information means, Caleb calls Reese and tells him to check if one of Eliza’s neighbors might have a spare key.
It’s a long shot, the police will have sealed off her apartment, but still, we have try.
My head is buzzing, and it’s not the caffeine. Eliza was smart. Really smart. She must’ve been using the folder at school and at work, hiding it in plain sight. If anyone had looked inside, they would’ve seen exactly what she wanted them to see.
And I almost missed it. If Caleb hadn’t confined me to Mateo’s room, I wouldn’t have discovered the three other pages tucked in the back, each with graphs, data, and medical language that doesn’t fit with Sonora or her coursework .
"I want to talk to the medical examiner," I say. “See if they’ll give up details on her death.”
Caleb looks over, brow furrowed. "You really think they'll tell you anything?"
"If it's Dr. Ruiz, maybe." The name brings back memories of late-night phone calls and hushed conversations in hospital corridors.
I pull out my phone. "Let me call and see if she’s available," I say.
After an endless amount of time waiting for the phone to be answered, I get put on hold, passed to three different departments, endure a tinny loop of hold music until I finally get an answer: “She’s in court giving testimony until five.”
I relay the information to Caleb and he seems relieved.
“We visit her then. Sam and Reese should be back,” he says.
I twist my mouth to one side. “Or we go now . Her office will be empty,” I say. “We can sneak in through the rear entrance. I’ve done it before.”
He exhales, glances toward the door, then back at me. “We’re not sneaking around a government building.”
“We’re not stealing anything. Just looking in her office to see if she performed the autopsy.”
“That still gets us flagged if we’re seen. Cameras, sign-in logs, access restrictions?—”
“Then we don’t get seen,” I say .
Caleb's eyes sharpen, and I can see him already running through possibilities. "If we get caught, this isn't just trespassing. This is breaking into a government building. Tampering with evidence."
I lift my chin. “I need to know what they saw, what they might’ve left out. If there’s even a chance Eliza’s death wasn’t what it looked like, I can’t just sit on my hands and hope someone else digs up the truth.”
He searches my face, but I don’t look away.
“I’m not trying to blow this open. I’m not chasing headlines.” My voice dips, steadier now. “I just need answers. So do her family.”
Caleb studies my face for a long moment, conflict clear in his expression. Then his shoulders drop slightly in resignation. "This is why they call you Gonzo, isn’t it?"
I blink. For a second, I’m caught off guard. Then it clicks.
Of course he knows the nickname. He must’ve dug into my background before taking this assignment, just enough to figure out what kind of mess he was walking into.
Caleb studies me for a beat, then sighs wearily. “Five minutes. No detours. No touching anything we can’t explain.”
“Agreed.”
His jaw flexes, but thankfully, he doesn’t waste any more time arguing with me .
We head for the exit together, and with each step, I feel the weight of what we might discover settling deeper into my chest.
If there's even a chance Eliza's death wasn't what it seems, the person who examined her will know. And I need to read it for myself, no matter how much it might hurt.
The county morgue sits just west of downtown, tucked behind a row of government buildings that all look the same: square, beige, windowless monuments to bureaucracy. Caleb parks near the side entrance and kills the engine.
He watches the doorway for a beat, then glances over, jaw tight. “Last chance to back out.”
I meet his eyes. “We’re just looking at a file.”
He shakes his head once. “We’re hoping to access a report we don’t have clearance for.”
“And?” I prompt, impatient.
“ And if someone catches us, your press ID will be about as useful as a chocolate teapot, and I'll be the one explaining to Mick why I let his sister do this.”
My eyebrows raise. “If we get caught, I’ll tell him I gave you no choice.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, a sound that's less a sigh and more a quiet acknowledgment of a path already chosen .
Still grumbling under his breath, Caleb circles around to my side without a word, positioning himself half a step ahead as we approach the building. Casual on the surface, but every line of his body alert.
His eyes sweep the alley, the side door, the blind spots. One hand near his hip, the other loose, ready.
Inside, the air drops ten degrees and seems to press against my skin.
Cold, dry, scrubbed clean of anything human or warm.
The receptionist behind the glass partition is on the phone, barely glancing up as we walk past with purposeful strides.
Caleb’s weapon and radio, paired with my press credentials, are enough to make us look official.
Or at least official enough not to be stopped.
Dr. Ruiz's office is on the second floor, third door on the right. My heart hammers against my ribs as we climb the stairs, each step echoing in the empty stairwell.
The hallway is deserted, fluorescent lights humming overhead. I try the door handle. Locked, of course, but I doubt that will be a problem.
Caleb checks the hallway again, then moves to the door, kneels, and pulls a small tool kit from inside his jacket.
“Is this part of Hightower’s training?” I whisper.
He grunts his response. “Let’s just say I didn’t learn this from a YouTube tutorial.”
The lock disengages with barely a whisper, but in the silence, it might as well be a gunshot. My palms are slick against the doorframe as we slip inside.
Caleb moves toward the computer with practiced efficiency while I press myself against the wall beside the door, listening for footsteps in the corridor.
He powers it on, then pulls a black USB drive from his pocket and slots it into the tower.
When he said he had “a Delilah special,” I thought he was joking. But it’s not just special, it’s incredible. The screen flashes. No password prompt. Just a stripped-down interface.
Caleb types in the case number Zack sent: 2024-0309-MOR.
The screen loads fast. One hit. Eliza Moreno.
With a look at the door, Caleb opens the autopsy file and starts copying it to a second drive.
I don’t wait for the progress bar. My eyes go straight to the report.
Female. Nineteen. Acute opioid toxicity. Initial classification: accidental overdose.
I check the margin notes, scanned in. No opioid history. No prescriptions. No needle marks. No paraphernalia. No signs of recreational use.
“Go check the hallway,” Caleb says. “I’m almost done.”
Reluctantly, I walk to the door and duck my head out. I hold my breath. Listen harder. No voices. No footsteps. Just the mechanical, impersonal heartbeat of a building built for the dead .
“Brooke, there’s something else here,” Caleb says.
I shut the door and hurry across to the desk. He’s staring at the screen, jaw set tighter, shoulders rigid. “Did you know Eliza was seven weeks pregnant?” Caleb says.
The air sucks out of the room.
My vision blurs, throat tightening with grief. I stumble back half a step, catching the edge of the desk.
“She didn’t tell you,” Caleb says quietly, but his voice is closer now. Steadier. Like he’s holding the ground I just lost.
I shake my head and force myself to focus so I can read the final page. Dr. Ruiz’s conclusion stares back at me, final, unforgiving:
Toxicology levels consistent with forced ingestion. No defensive injuries. No sign of voluntary consumption. Manner of death inconsistent with overdose classification.
Eliza didn’t commit suicide. Someone drugged her—maybe forced her to take it, maybe slipped it into something she trusted. Either way, she didn’t choose this.
The realization crashes over me in waves, and I press a hand to my mouth, horrified.
Beside me, Caleb’s quiet for a beat, jaw tense before he removes the drive, types something I don’t follow, and wipes the access clean.
“We got what we came for,” he says, voice low. “Time to go. ”
I nod, but it takes a second before my legs agree to move.
We retrace our steps through the empty hallway, past the quiet hum of overhead lights, down the stairs, past the still-distracted receptionist, none of it really landing.
It’s not until the door swings shut behind us and the desert heat hits my face that the weight of it slams into me.
Eliza Moreno was pregnant. She tried to do the right thing. And someone silenced her.
Caleb
The sidewalk radiates heat, warping the air in front of us like a warning. It presses in, thick, heavy, matching the tension in my gut as we step outside.
Eliza’s death wasn’t suicide. But the staging was sloppy. Like someone panicked—threw it together without a plan and hoped it’d pass for clean.
Brooke’s a pace behind me when a cruiser rolls up to the curb. White and blue, dulled by desert dust and years of wear. The Crown Vic idles with the rough growl of a car long past retirement.
Could be just another cop, maybe picking up or dropping off evidence. But when a second vehicle slides in behind it—sleek, black, unmarked—Tucson PD, I jump to the same conclusion Brooke does.
She squints into the sun, her jaw tightening. “Do you think someone called the cops on us?”
“We’re about to find out,” I murmur, just loud enough for Brooke to hear.
We hit the sidewalk just as the unmarked’s door groans open and a crumpled Detective Crowley steps out.
He spots us immediately. Cop instincts firing on all cylinders. His expression is unreadable, stone-carved into skepticism. He doesn’t break stride as he approaches, dress shoes clicking against the concrete that’s soft from the heat.
“You’re showing up in the darndest places, Seventh,” he says.
I keep my hands easy at my sides, posture relaxed. “Just protecting my principal after the attempt on her life.”
Beside me, Brooke cuts in, sharp. “Caleb is just following orders I gave him. We’re here because I wanted to speak to the medical examiner about a story I’m working on.”
Crowley’s gaze flicks to her, unimpressed. Then back to me. He folds his arms across his chest, sleeves stretching tight across shoulders that say he still hits the gym five mornings a week and probably lectures the squat rack. He steps onto the curb, gaining the high ground. Classic move.
“What story and which examiner?” he asks .
Brooke crosses her arms. “I can’t tell you. I have to protect my source.”
Crowley just steps closer, until he’s well inside my space. Close enough that I can see the redness in his eyes and smell the stale coffee on his breath. I resist the urge to offer a Tic Tac.
“I hear you’re crossing lines you shouldn’t be, I’ll bring you both in for obstruction. Am I clear?”
The word crystal sits on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. I give him a curt nod instead.
“Understood.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares. I can feel the weight of Brooke’s silence beside me. She’s not afraid, but she’s coiled tight. Ready to launch or swing, depending on what lands first.
Finally, Crowley shifts his focus to her. “If you’re in danger, Ms. Weston, Tucson PD will protect you.”
Brooke doesn’t flinch. “Thanks. But I’ll take my chances with my hired muscle.”
My mouth quirks just a hair.
With a frown, he turns on his heel with precision and signals to the uniform still lingering near the cruiser. The younger cop straightens like he just passed a pop quiz, and the two of them disappear into the building without another word.
As my heart rate returns to normal, one thing is becoming clear.
Protecting Brooke Weston is starting to look a lot like aiding and abetting.