Chapter 22
Brian hated waiting on other people’s clocks—ballistics, labs, and informants who answered when they felt like it. Justice always seemed to move with a limp.
He parked under the warped maple behind the precinct and killed the engine. The morning already carried that sticky, heavy heat that promised a miserable afternoon. When he stepped out, the smell hit him—sunbaked asphalt, hot tar, and the bitter tang of spilled coffee drying by the curb.
Rafe’s timing was, as usual, impeccable. He rounded the corner from the side lot, a paper bag in one hand and a cardboard tray with two coffees in the other. “Good news,” he said, deadpan. “We still don’t have good news.”
Brian fell into step beside him as they headed for the building, snatching the coffee cup with a handwritten B on it. “Ballistics?”
“I already checked. The report is supposedly on your desk.” Rafe held the bag aloft. “And I got BOBO sandwiches.” In other words, bacon, eggs, cheese, and hash browns on kaiser rolls.
He huffed something halfway between a laugh and a growl. “The usual heart attack wrapped up in foil. Don’t you ever get anything else for breakfast takeout?”
“Just doing my part to keep morale high and arteries clogged,” Rafe said as they reached the side door.
“Of course.”
Inside, the squad room air was a cocktail of dust, fresh coffee, the faint stench of sweat, and air-conditioning that never quite won the fight.
Setting his coffee down, Brian grabbed the new folder on his desk and flipped it open to read the report.
The slug from Malik Torres’s chest—nine mil, jacketed—matched striations from a shooting two counties over.
Same caliber, same lands and grooves, and same chatter marks down the jacket.
“The Devil’s Crew is spreading out,” Rafe said, reading over his shoulder. “Or one of them is renting out services.”
Brian rubbed his thumb along the paper edge. The kid in the hospital—Jayden—still wouldn’t talk. If he did, they’d have a straight line to Diego. If he didn’t, they’d keep working in circles that tightened too slowly.
“Let’s run the overlap,” Brian said. “See who was in both places. Phones, cars, socials. Diego’s crew brags. Somewhere, they left a footprint.”
Rafe blew out a breath. “We already subpoenaed the tower dumps. IT’s parsing.” He tapped the bag. “Grease therapy until then?”
They sat across from each other at their joined desks, sandwiches unwrapped on napkins to the side while reports and photos covered the space between them.
The quiet was filled with the rustle of paper and the low hum of the overhead light.
Between bites, they compared notes, trading theories, revisiting witness statements, and cross-checking lab results that still refused to fit together.
An hour later, the coffee had gone cold, and the silence was heavier.
Then Brian’s phone buzzed.
Not a lead.
Tess:
You alive? Or buried under paperwork?
He smiled plenty at work—usually for the gallows humor that kept them all sane—but this one was different. Real.
Barely alive. You?
Tess:
I’m good. Busy. Just wanted to say hello. I’ll call you later.
Great
He stared at the screen a second longer than he should’ve before tossing the phone on his desk. It wasn’t much—a few words—but it hit harder than he’d like to admit. Most people checked in out of habit. Tess did it as she meant it.
He leaned back, his gaze skimming the clutter of case files but not really seeing them.
Something bigger was happening between them—something he hadn’t seen coming.
He’d dated, sure, but never stuck around long enough for it to mean anything.
Work always came first, and most women didn’t have the patience for his hours or his headspace. But Tess... she didn’t feel temporary.
Something about her had gotten under his skin, quiet but constant. The way she steadied him without even trying. The way she peeked over the walls that he didn’t always realize he kept in front of himself.
His brothers would laugh if they knew his thoughts right then—the confirmed bachelor was getting attached to a woman—something he’d sworn he’d never do. But never sounded lonely now. Hollow.
He’d spent years convincing himself that he didn’t need anyone waiting for him at home—that the job was enough.
It had been, until recently. But somewhere between Tess’s quiet smiles and the way she looked at him like she actually saw the man behind the badge, that old certainty had started to crack.
And damn if that didn’t scare the hell out of him.
He blew out a breath, scrubbed a hand over his face, and leaned forward again. Feelings could wait. The case couldn’t.
He grabbed the next report from the pile and forced himself to read.
Tess felt the hum of the M.E.’s building in her bones—the drone of ventilation, the opening and closing of doors, and people walking up and down the hallway, going about their business.
The scheduled post-mortems were all done for the day, which meant it was time to restock supplies, sterilize instruments, and disinfect the tables.
While it was mundane work, she didn’t mind it.
Being busy kept the mind from pawing at the edges of trouble.
After jotting down what she needed from the storage closet, Tess stepped out of the suite and into the hallway, passing Patty’s empty desk.
The older woman was nowhere in sight—probably in the restroom or running paperwork to another department.
If anyone came by in the meantime, one of the other clerks would cover the desk.
As she moved through the lobby, she checked the weather out the glass doors and windows to her right. It was bright outside, despite the call for passing showers during the day.
That was when she spotted it—a black Escalade across the street, angled just off the curb.
Nothing illegal. Nothing obvious. But she could still make out two shapes—the driver and a passenger.
Both sitting too still. Watching. She wouldn’t have noticed the vehicle except that she had seen one like it several times over the last few days.
Sunday, by the bakery in Whisper. Later that same day, easing past the beach house while she cleaned out her car.
And again yesterday—waiting in the grocery store lot when she came out with her bags.
Maybe it was the same one. Maybe not. Her brain didn’t care about the difference.
Don’t be dramatic. Lots of people drive black Escalades.
She told herself that and still found it hard to believe.
Her focus on the vehicle was interrupted when she walked right into a man who worked in one of the other municipal offices in the building, knocking a file out of his hand. Its contents scattered across the floor. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry.”
They both squatted and gathered all the papers, then she handed him her small stack. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
As they stood, he smiled and stepped around her. “No worries. It happens.”
He continued out the lobby doors, and her gaze shifted toward the Escalade again, but it was gone. She glanced around the parking lot and still didn’t see it. Maybe it was her imagination, but she didn’t think so. Something was off—but what?
She should mention it to Brian—maybe. He was already shoulder-deep in at least two homicide cases. Even so, he would take her concern seriously. He’d also worry, and the ridiculous part was how much she didn’t want to add to the worry she already saw pulling at the edges of his eyes.
Brushing off the eerie feeling that she was being targeted for some reason, she walked to the supply closet and got what she needed. By the time four p.m. finally rolled around, she’d almost managed to convince herself it was nothing—just one too many crime dramas warping her imagination.
At six fifteen, Brian stepped onto the back porch of the beach house and knocked. Technically, he’d had a key since he was a teenager, but didn’t want to overstep by using it while Tess and Andy lived here.
While waiting for someone to answer the door, he shifted the six-pack of root beer and the two white plastic bags in his hands.
Chinese takeout—too much of it, on purpose.
Tess had called at lunch, just like she said she would, and they’d made dinner plans.
Since then, he’d been counting down the hours between reports, interviews, and the kind of bureaucratic hell that made a man rethink his career.
Seeing her at the end of the day? Yeah. He could get used to that.
Too easily.
The door opened, and there she was. Her hair was down, and she wore a soft T-shirt and sweatpants—no scrubs, lab coat, latex gloves, and mask.
Just Tess. Warm and real, and standing close enough that he caught the faint scent of her shampoo—barely there, but enough to tilt something in him off balance.
Her smile pulled at him, subtle but sure, like a thread tugging at his heart.
“Dinner delivery,” he said, stepping inside when she moved back.
He set the bags on the dining table. “I remembered you and Andy both like Chinese food. Although I exercised excellent judgment and bought way too much since I didn’t know exactly what you liked.
” His brow furrowed. “I guess I should’ve asked, huh? ”
She arched a brow, amused. “There’s very little my brother won’t eat, and I already told you, I’m not picky either.
As for the leftovers, I’ll never complain about that.
You can take some for lunch tomorrow, and whatever I don’t eat, Andy will.
” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, I should’ve texted you earlier.
He decided to go to the movies with some friends, so it’s just us for dinner. ”