Chapter 23 #2
Mr. Moreno stands a step away, posture upright, but barely. His hands tremble at his sides, his eyes raw. Tracks of salt cut through the stubble on his jaw.
“The police won’t talk to us. They said it’s an ongoing investigation because of the police officer involved.”
I swallow, hard. “They’re protecting themselves.”
His gaze sharpens. “You know what really happened to our daughter, don’t you?”
“I do.” My voice steadies. “And with your permission, I’d like to tell her story.”
He stares at me for a long second—then gives a slight, grief-worn nod. “She was a good girl. Not perfect. She made mistakes… but…”
His words break. He bows his head.
I say what he can’t. “You loved her dearly,” I say, my voice thick.
He crumples, shoulders shaking as he fights to contain his grief. Caleb's fingers brush against mine, a gentle reminder to leave.
I turn, making sure he hears me before I walk out of the church. "People will know how brave she was. I promise you that."
It’s the least I can offer him.
And it’s the only thing I have left to give her.
Caleb
The discharge process drags on for three hours. Paperwork, insurance calls, a parade of nurses triple-checking vitals. By the time we finally escape, the Arizona sun has turned vicious, baking the parking lot into a shimmering mirage of heat waves.
Considering I'm also injured, me trying to "help" Mateo into the passenger seat is about as useful as a one-armed paper hanger.
He looks better—the color's back in his cheeks. But the bruising around his collarbone has deepened to an ugly purple-black that makes my chest ache in sympathy.
I crank the A/C to arctic and pull into a shaded spot at the far end of the lot, as far from the hospital's antiseptic grip as I can get.
"Sorry, man. Silas wants an update," I say, reaching for my phone.
Mateo nods, shifting carefully in his seat. "Good. Be nice to know what's going on. Hard to be a team player when you're unconscious," he grumbles.
I chuckle and hit speaker. Silas answers on the first ring, like he's been sitting by the phone.
"You out?" he asks without preamble.
"We're clear," I say. "Discharged an hour ago. He's vertical. Sort of. "
"I'm sitting right here," Mateo mutters, but there's no heat in it. Just tired amusement.
Silas doesn't laugh. Never does during debriefs. "Sam just checked in. Brooke's collected her things from the Tucson Times. They'll be home in ten minutes."
Good. The knot in my chest loosens slightly.
Silas's voice sharpens into business mode. "Zack dug up some information you might want to pass on to Brooke."
Mateo shifts in his seat, wincing slightly. "What kind of information?" I ask.
"A girl came forward. Her name is Juliette. Seventeen now. She confessed to calling Brooke and luring her into the Humanities building."
I exchange a glance with a puzzled Mateo. No time to fill him in now. "She was involved with Lawrence?"
Silas's voice goes tight with restrained anger. "Unwillingly. She was fourteen when he violated her at a 'Young Voices in Media' summer camp."
Mateo curses in Spanish, loud enough for Silas to hear through the speaker. "The mongrel forced her to have an abortion. She didn't want it. Didn't agree to it. They had to hold her down."
Mateo looks like he's about to lose what little breakfast he managed to eat. I want to punch something. Hard. "I knew I should've cut off his thumbs," I mutter .
But Silas isn't finished. "She wasn't lying to Brooke. She did know Eliza. Lawrence threatened her repeatedly, but when Eliza died, she called Brooke and told her about the clinic."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with implications. I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white, trying to process the full scope of what Lawrence did. Not just the illegal procedures. Not just the cover-up. But forcing a terrified child into something that would haunt her forever.
I glance at Mateo, who's sharp as a tack, even when he's running on fumes and prescription painkillers.
"Are we done? I gotta call my girl. She'll be worried," Mateo says.
"Are we?" I ask Silas.
"You're both off rotation for now. Mateo, your recovery's non-negotiable. Caleb, you're on forced downtime until ortho clears you and I see you take a breath without wincing."
"Yeah," I say, my voice low. "Got it."
"Anything else we need to discuss?" he asks.
"No," I say. "Not unless you're offering free vacation housing in Alaska."
Silas chuckles. "Just the place in Mount Lemmon. Make sure Mateo has everything he needs. Mateo?"
"Yeah, boss?"
"There's an extra ten grand in your pay this week. Appreciate your vigilance. "
The call ends.
Mateo leans his head against the window. "Ten grand? Maybe I should take up this bodyguard gig more often."
Shaking my head, I start the engine and pull out slow, the hospital shrinking in the rearview mirror.
The heat presses in on all sides, dry and sharp, but I'm not thinking about the weather. I'm thinking about how many other Juliettes are out there, finally free to speak.
How many Elizas won't have to die in silence. How sometimes justice comes through the worst kind of pain.
But mostly, I'm thinking about how long until God's patience runs out.
Brooke
Caleb’s been back for a while now, Mateo is holed up in a cabin, and I’ve been staring at the cursor blinking for ten solid minutes.
A knock at the door pulls me from the screen. I swivel in my chair, half-expecting Sam, but it’s my brother.
Figures.
Apparently, he didn’t take his fiancée’s word that I was okay. Or that I didn’t want to be disturbed.
"Action Man is in the kitchen. He seems to know where everything is. You sure you two aren't…" Mick asks, stepping in with a fresh mug of coffee.
"No!" I snatch the coffee from him, trying not to blush. "He's a perfect gentleman. He's been sleeping in my spare room."
Besides, he’s still recovering. Badly. Even if he keeps pretending he’s not in pain, I know he is.
Mick lifts a brow, unconvinced. "Better be."
"You sent him here," I remind him. "You must have trusted him."
He gives me a long look, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his overprotective brother brain.
"I trust him to protect you… not sure how to feel about him living with you."
My jaw drops. "Oh, so now you're having second thoughts about your brilliant plan? You sent him here to live with me.”
Mick grins, that infuriating smile he's been using to deflect my anger since we were kids. "Okay, okay. You don't need to mount a full defense. You like the guy, I get it."
"I love him, dummy. So be nice to him." The words come out fiercer than I intended, but I'm tired of Mick's protective hovering.
"And before you say anything else, yes, I know you were just trying to keep me safe.
But maybe next time consider that your little sister is capable of making her own decisions about who she wants in her life. "
He lifts both hands, backing up dramatically. "Guess I'll have to be. He doesn't strike me as a man who does things by halves."
I narrow my eyes, recognizing that tone. "Meaning?"
"Meaning…" he points at me, that teasing glint back in his eyes, "my wedding won't be the only wedding on the horizon."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Oh, for crying out loud, Mick. You're such a?—"
"What? I'm right, aren't I?" He crosses his arms, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The same look you had when you were fifteen and convinced you were going to marry that guy from youth group."
I throw a pen at him. "That was different, and you know it."
"Different how?" He dodges the pen with practiced ease. "Because this time you're not writing 'Mrs. Caleb Evans' in your diary?"
"I don't have a diary anymore, you overgrown child."
"But you would if you did."
I glare at him, but there's no real anger in it. "You know what's really annoying?" I say, sinking back into my chair. "You were right. About sending him. About me needing someone. "
Mick has the audacity to smirk.
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. I'm already writing my 'I told you so' speech for your wedding."
I roll my eyes. “Go pester someone else. I still have a story to finish."
His gaze drops to the screen. Still blank.
"Finish? You haven’t even started."
"I don't know where to start. "
"Then start at the end."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"Eliza's death. Start there. That’s the most important part, right?"
My mouth twists to one side as the weight of his words settles over me.
Start at the end. The place where everything unraveled. The place where the truth demanded to be heard. The end that wasn't really an ending at all, but the beginning of something larger than any of us imagined.
As he leaves me alone again, granting me a few minutes’ peace, I stare at the screen.
The cursor continues its relentless blinking, marking time like a heartbeat.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly from caffeine and nerves and the sheer magnitude of what I'm about to unleash into the world.
This isn't just journalism anymore. This is testimony. This is evidence. This is a woman's final act of courage preserved in digital amber.
The coffee grows cold beside me as I wrestle with where to begin—how to honor Eliza. My notes sprawl across the desk, a chaos of highlighter marks and urgent scribbles that somehow contain the most important story I'll ever tell.
I take a moment to pray. Resting in the knowledge that God’s hand was in this right from the very moment Caleb arrived, and went ahead as we fought for those who couldn't fight for themselves.
Father, I've messed up so badly. I've been reckless, prideful, putting people in danger.
I don't deserve Your help, but I tried to do this on my own, and I can't. I can't write a single word unless You guide me.
Please, for Eliza's sake and for those like her who can't speak for themselves—help me expose this horror. Help me get the words out. Amen.