Chapter 12 Garrett
Garrett
The past few weeks had been the closest thing to peace I'd felt in a decade.
I stood at the window of my apartment, coffee going cold in my hand, watching the sun come up over Queens. Same view I'd seen a thousand mornings. But lately, everything looked different.
Because of her.
Sloane had slipped back into my life so naturally it scared me.
Late nights reviewing case files, her voice filling the silence of my apartment while she connected dots I'd missed.
The way she'd kick off her shoes and curl up on my couch, press credentials still hanging around her neck, completely absorbed in whatever thread she was chasing.
The fierce focus in her green eyes when she found something.
The way that focus softened when she looked at me.
I thought about the bar last week. The whole crew packed into a booth at O'Malley's, Captain Rodriguez and Maria debating whether Lucia was old enough for a phone while Brian refereed, Ava stealing fries off Brian's plate, and Sloane right in the middle of it. Laughing. Belonging.
My hand had found her shoulder without thinking when someone mentioned pregnancy and something flickered across her face.
Just a touch. Just a reminder.
She'd leaned into it. Just slightly. Just enough.
I'd driven her home. Walked her to her door. Stood in the hallway like a teenager trying to figure out if the moment was right.
"Thank you," she'd said. "For tonight."
She'd looked at me then. Really looked. And for a moment, I thought…
But she'd smiled. Said goodnight. Closed the door.
I'd stood in that hallway for a full minute before I could make myself leave.
Maybe we could try again.
The thought had been circling for weeks. Getting louder every time she laughed at something I said. Every time our hands brushed over shared documents, neither of us pulled away.
I was going to ask her. Soon. When the case was wrapped up, we could focus on us.
When the timing was right.
My phone buzzed. A text from Sloane.
Prison interview finally approved. Heading to Sing Sing this morning. I'll call you tonight with what I find.
Be careful. Call me if you need anything.
I will. Thank you, Garrett.
I stared at those three words longer than I should have. Formal. Professional.
But underneath it, something else. Something I'd been too scared to hope for.
Day one passed without a word.
On shift. She was at the prison. Normal. Expected.
Day two: How did the interview go?
Four hours later: Research taking longer than expected. Talk soon.
She was busy. Sloane in journalist mode was a force of nature—obsessive, relentless, capable of going days without surfacing. I understood that.
Day three. I called. Voicemail.
She didn't call back.
Day four: Everything okay?
Six hours later. Two words: Fine. Busy.
Something cold settled in my chest.
Day five. I called again. Voicemail again. No message this time.
Day six: Sloane, what's going on?
Later.
Day seven: Nothing.
The common room at Engine 295. My phone screen. Dark.
"You're going to burn a hole through that thing."
Shane leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. The expression of someone who'd already figured out what was wrong.
"I'm fine."
"You've been checking your phone every thirty seconds for three days." He dropped into the chair across from me. "Trouble with Harper?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
"I don't know." The words scraped coming out. "She's gone quiet. One-word texts. Won't take my calls."
"Maybe she needs space to process something."
"Not like this." I shook my head. "This is different. She's pulling away."
Shane's expression shifted. He knew what that meant. He'd lived his own version of it.
"How long have you two known each other?" he asked. "And don't say 'since the arson case.'"
I rubbed my jaw. Stubble rasping against my palm.
"A long time."
"How long?"
"Long enough."
Shane waited. I gave him the minimum.
"We were together. Before. It ended badly. She left, I waited, she didn't come back." Like giving a report on someone else's life. "That was eight years ago."
He didn't flinch. Didn't push for details. Just absorbed it.
"And now she's doing it again."
"I don't know what she's doing. That's the problem."
"Yeah, you do." Quiet. Certain. "You just don't want to say it out loud because last time, it didn't end well."
Somewhere down the hall, a radio crackled. I stared at my hands. Calloused. Scarred.
Hands that had held her a thousand times and couldn't reach her now.
"Something happened," Shane said. "Maybe she found something. Whatever it is, she's carrying it alone."
He wasn't wrong. That was exactly what Sloane did. Carried things alone until the weight crushed her, then disappeared rather than let anyone see her buckle.
Shane leaned forward. Elbows on his knees.
"Last time, you gave her space. Respected the distance. Let her go."
"Yeah."
"How'd that work out?"
The question landed like a fist. Not cruel, just honest. The kind of honesty that only comes from someone who's earned the right.
"So don't do that again." He leaned forward. "Whatever she's running from, show up. Not to fix it. Just to be there."
Sloane was at the bar last week. Head tipped back, laughing at one of the probie's terrible jokes. The way she'd caught me watching and held my gaze for one unguarded second before looking away.
And now the silence again.
Eight years ago, I'd let the silence win.
"You're right," I said.
Shane nodded. Once. Like that was the only answer he'd have accepted.
"Good." He clapped my shoulder on his way out.
Fourteen hours left on the clock. Fourteen hours of checking equipment, running drills, and pretending I could focus on anything other than the silence from her end of my phone.
Then I was showing up at her door.
I finished my shift on autopilot.
Eight years ago, I'd given Sloane space because she asked for it. Because I loved her and I thought that's what love meant, stepping back, trusting she'd come back when she was ready.
She hadn't come back.
The space became a chasm. Three years of silence. Three years of unanswered letters. Three years of slowly accepting that the woman I loved had disappeared, and I'd let it happen.
Not this time.
Clocked out at seven. Truck by seven-ten.
Traffic crawled across the bridge. Brake lights stretching into the distance. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.
Are you okay? What happened? Talk to me.
Simple. Direct. Just be there.
But underneath the calm words, fear churned. What if she didn't want to talk? What if she'd already decided this was a mistake? All of it?
I'd survived losing her once. I wasn't sure I could do it again.
The hallway held that muffled stillness of old buildings. I raised my hand. Knocked.
The sound echoed.
Silence.
Again. Harder.
"Sloane."
Nothing.
"I know you're in there."
Nothing. But I could feel her on the other side of the door. That awareness I'd never been able to explain, the way I always knew when she was in a room, even before I saw her.
"I'm not leaving until you talk to me."
A long pause. So long, I started to wonder if I'd imagined her presence.
Then, footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. The scrape of a deadbolt.
The door opened.
She looked shattered. Eyes swollen from days of crying. Cheeks streaked. Hair tangled.
This wasn't pulling away. This was falling apart.
"Garrett—" Her voice cracked. Barely there. "I can't—I'm not—"
Two steps forward, and she was in my arms.
She collapsed against me like her bones had given up. A sound tore from her throat that broke something in my chest.
I kicked the door shut behind us.
Didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Just held her while she shook and sobbed and fell apart in ways she'd never let me see before.
Her tears soaked through my shirt. Her hands fisted in the fabric like I was the only thing keeping her upright.
I tightened my arms and let her break.
The apartment was dark. Curtains drawn. Lights off. Like she'd been in the darkness for days.
Eventually, the sobs quieted. Her breathing steadied. She sagged against me, exhausted.
I guided her to the couch. She curled into my side, head on my chest, one hand still fisted in my shirt.
We sat in the dark.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I went silent. I just—I couldn't—"
"It's okay."
"It's not okay." She pulled back just enough to look at me. Eyes wrecked, but something burned underneath. "I found something. The arsonist."
I waited.
"It's Rebecca Marsh."
The name hit like a physical blow.
"Emma's mother."
Emma.
The child I couldn't reach. The weight I'd carried for seven years. Her name in the crackle of every fire. In the silence after every call.
"She was Crane's partner," Sloane said. "Not just his accomplice.
They were together. He went to prison to protect her.
" Her voice was thin. The journalist holding steady by a thread.
"After Emma died, she tried to get justice.
Lawsuit. Letters. All of it. Nobody listened.
She assaulted the inspector who signed off on Emma's building. Went to prison herself."
I stared at the dark ceiling. Emma Marsh's mother. The woman who buried her daughter alone while the system that killed her shrugged and moved on. The woman who'd been setting fires for almost a year while the city scrambled to catch a ghost.
"She got out eleven months ago," Sloane said. "Right when the fires started."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I couldn't." The journalist disappeared. What was left was just Sloane. Raw. Shaking. "Because when I read about her, about losing her daughter, I couldn't stop thinking about..."
She couldn't finish.
"About what?"
The silence stretched.
"About our baby."
The air left my lungs.
"About the grief I never processed. About what I did to you when I left."
And then it all came out.