Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Caleb
The fluorescent lights have been dimmed for the night shift, casting everything in that sterile blue-white glow that makes hospital rooms feel like holding cells.
It’s past midnight—has to be. We've been here for hours. Giving statements. Getting patched up. Waiting on doctors to clear us both.
The antiseptic stings my nostrils. My chest screams with every breath. The sling's so tight it might as well be a straitjacket. But I can’t stop looking at her.
We’ve spent too much time in hospitals the last few days, but I’d take this pain ten times over if it meant she stayed safe.
There’s a bruise blooming across her cheekbone, dark, ugly, personal. Every time I see it, something twists inside me. My chest pounds. I’m sweating. And my vision’s starting to blur. I’ve survived three tours and a dozen black ops, and now I’m getting taken out by feelings in a hospital room.
Man up, Evans. Just drop it and hope for the best.
“I need to tell you something.”
She looks up from her phone. Her eyes widen, just a flicker, then soften. Like maybe she’s been waiting for this. “What?”
The words sit like a live grenade in my throat. My hands are shaking. When did that start? I’ve defused IEDs with steadier hands than this.
“I’m crazy in love with you, Gonzo.”
Her lips part. Her breath catches. Something shifts in her face, surprise giving way to something deeper as she flushes. “I love you too,” she whispers.
Am I hearin’ things?
“Say that again.”
She reaches for my hand—the one without the IV. Her fingers are warm, steady. “I love you too, Action Man .”
Despite the fire roaring through my chest, I laugh. “Since when?”
Her teeth catch her lip. “When you prayed instead of kissing me. It was the first time I saw your spiritual muscle.”
A wry smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I shift against the stiff hospital pillow. “Hardest call I ever had to make. Glad you think it was the right one.”
She leans in, elbow brushing mine, voice low and teasing. “I didn’t at the time. I was too absorbed with your actual muscle. But hindsight is twenty-twenty.”
I chuckle under my breath and thread my fingers through hers, slow, deliberate. Her grip tightens just enough to let me know she’s not letting go.
There’s still fallout ahead. Still calls to make. Reports to file. We’ll have to give testimony. A criminal trial’s coming—high-profile, messy, loud. There’ll be subpoenas. Headlines. Protests. Victims stepping out of the shadows. Politicians scrambling.
A world outside this room that won’t stop spinning just because we’re catching our breaths.
But for now, I’ve got her heart, and her hand in mine. And that’s more than enough.
Brooke
Three days later…
The pew is hard beneath me, unforgiving wood that makes my back ache. I shift, and the slight creak sounds too loud in the hushed sanctuary. Desert light slices through stained glass, painting everything in jeweled fragments—red across my hands, blue on the sling on Caleb's shoulder.
Mick keeps tugging at his collar—the same nervous habit from childhood—and it's almost comforting to see something familiar in this sacred, terrible place.
Samantha sits perfectly still beside him, her face composed, but I catch the slight tightness around her eyes. Even she isn't immune to the injustice.
We shouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t be here if the media hadn’t twisted Eliza’s death into a rallying cry for “reproductive rights.”
A teenage girl dies under suspicious circumstances, and somehow it becomes a story about access, not accountability.
I was so agitated that Caleb and Mick, who arrived last night, insisted I come to put the record straight.
How they think I can do that is yet to be seen. This isn’t the time or place.
Eliza’s parents, along with the rest of her family and friends are grieving.
Mrs. Moreno is sitting in the front row, posture rigid as carved marble. She hasn't turned around once during the service and is just staring at the white casket. Mr. Moreno's weathered hand rests on her shoulder, trembling like autumn leaves. His other hand grips a tissue twisted into damp pulp.
One by one, people from Eliza's life come forward after the pastor asks if anyone would like to share memories.
Dr. Callahan, her engineering professor, tries to speak about analytical minds and precision, but his words fracture on brilliant, shatter completely on dedicated.
Past tense, all of it. Every memory now locked behind the terrible wall of was.
He stumbles down from the podium, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, and nearly collides with Mia Park as she climbs the steps.
Her hands shake as she unfolds a piece of paper, reads it once, then crumples it into her palm.
"Eliza was just..." she begins, her whisper barely threading through the silence.
"She was really good at explaining things.
Like, when I didn't understand calculus, she'd sit with me for hours and she never got mad or anything.
" Her words splinter. "She was just... she was nice.
Really, really nice." The phrases tumble out inadequate and true, the way grief always sounds when we try to capture a whole person in sentences.
The silence stretches after Mia sits down, heavy as desert heat.
Then a woman in navy blue rises from the middle section.
Someone from Sonora Investments, her movements measured and professional until she reaches the podium.
Her knuckles go bone-white against the wood.
"Eliza would stay until everyone else had gone home," she begins, then stops.
A baby whimpers somewhere in the back. Someone shifts restlessly.
She tries again. "She said numbers didn't lie, and she wouldn't either.
" Her composure disintegrates on the final words, all that professional control cracking like dried earth.
She returns to her seat, and the pastor looks out over the congregation. "Would anyone else like to share?"
The silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable. People shift in their pews, glancing around to see if someone will stand. A few seconds stretch into eternity. Mrs. Moreno's shoulders remain rigid. Mr. Moreno stares at his hands.
Caleb nudges my foot with his boot. My heart pounds against my ribs. I could speak. I could tell them about Eliza's courage, about what she died trying to reveal.
I glance sidelong at Sam and she gives me a subtle nod. My stomach backflips, but I rise to my feet. Swallowing hard, I shuffle to the front and climb the steps, legs shaking with every movement.
At the podium, I clear my throat, frantically praying for the Lord to give me the words her family so desperately need to hear.
Seconds tick by before the words come out. "My name is Brooke. I'm a journalist. I know a lot has been said about Eliza in the media, but most of it isn't anywhere near the truth."
I swallow past my dry throat, taking courage from the thumbs-up Mick gives me. "I didn't know Eliza long, but she was so incredibly brave. She spent the final days of her life fighting for the truth."
My eyes fill, and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms. Not now. I can grieve later. This is about honoring Eliza and helping her parents understand .
I shift my gaze to them and force my voice to stay steady. "Your daughter didn't die because she was weak or broken or lost. She died because she was strong enough to stand up when everyone else stayed silent. She died because she refused to let evil hide in darkness."
My voice breaks, but I push through. "Eliza could have walked away. She could have kept quiet and stayed safe. But she chose truth over safety. She chose to protect others even when it cost her everything."
I look directly at Mrs. Moreno, whose tears are flowing freely now. "Your daughter was a hero. Not the kind they make movies about, but the real kind. The kind who does what's right even when no one is watching."
Mr. Moreno reaches for his wife.
I pause long enough to pray quickly, "And because of her courage, other young women will be protected. The truth she died to preserve is going to save lives. Your daughter's sacrifice will not be forgotten, and it will not be wasted."
I grip the podium and whisper the words, "I’m so sorry."
Sniffing and blinking back tears, I walk down from the podium on unsteady legs, and the pastor quietly moves the service toward its close.
My throat constricts as I lower myself into the pew, heat burning behind my eyes. I fold my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking, but it doesn’t help. I can feel the weight of every stare, curious, cautious, calculating.
The pastor clears his throat, voice low and even. “Let’s stand and worship together.”
The first few notes of “How Deep the Father’s Love for Us” swell from the piano, familiar and devastating.
The congregation rises around me like a tide. I force myself up, knees unsteady, vision swimming. My lips move, but no sound comes out, not really. Not when I’m choking on guilt and grief and the terrible knowledge that no song, no sermon, no Sunday best will ever make this right.
The final verse fades too fast.
Before I’m ready, the service dissolves into movement. People drift into line like sleepwalkers, pausing at the casket, murmuring words that mean nothing because Eliza can’t hear them.
A whisper grazes my ear. “We’ll wait outside.”
Sam. I nod, barely. She touches my shoulder, firm and brief, then turns. Mick follows. They slip through the side aisle, quiet as shadows.
Caleb doesn’t say a word, just stands beside me like a sentinel, wounded, unmoving.
The black suit fits him like armor: sharp lines, pressed collar, sleeves that stretch too tight across the shoulders. I still don’t know where he got it, but somehow it doesn’t matter .
Maybe I just needed him to look untouchable today. Like someone who wouldn’t crumble if I did.
A voice cuts into my thoughts, making me turn. “Thank you for what you said.”