27. Echoes of the Past
Echoes of the Past
Evelyn
T he stack of case files looms over my desk like the Tower of Pisa, threatening to topple at any moment.
I’ve been chipping away at the paperwork for weeks now, documenting every detail of the Columbus Mafia takedown and subsequent arrests.
My hand cramps from filling out form after form, but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Just a few more reports to go.
The precinct bustles with its usual morning energy—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the burnt coffee smell wafting from the break room. But there’s a heaviness in the air today that has nothing to do with unsolved cases or bureaucratic red tape.
It’s Rissa’s last day.
My eyes drift to her empty desk across from mine. The surface is already cleared, personal items packed away in cardboard boxes by her chair. Only her nameplate remains— Detective Narissa Crane written in gold letters.
God, I’m going to miss her.
Rissa isn’t just my partner—she’s become one of my closest friends. The person who has my back not only on the streets but in life. Who knew exactly when to push me and when to let me be. Who never judged me for marrying Zeke or questioned my choices, even when I questioned them myself.
And now she’s leaving.
I get it, I do. After everything that’s happened—Leo’s kidnapping, the mafia takedown, the constant danger following us—I can’t blame her for wanting a quieter life.
A safer one, for her and Skylar. She’s all Skylar has.
Chillicothe is a good move. Less crime, better hours, a chance to actually see her daughter grow up instead of always being called away to another crime scene.
But knowing it’s the right decision doesn’t make it hurt any less.
The elevator dings and Rissa emerges, balancing two coffee cups and a paper bag that smells suspiciously like those cinnamon rolls I love from that bakery across town. My stomach growls in anticipation.
“Thought we could use some real coffee for my last day,” she says, setting one cup on my desk. “None of that break room sludge.”
I inhale deeply, savoring the rich aroma. “You’re a goddess.”
“Don’t I know it.” She perches on the edge of my desk, pulling out two massive cinnamon rolls dripping with icing. “Figured we deserved a proper treat before diving into the last of this paperwork.”
“You hate cinnamon rolls,” I point out, already reaching for one. “You always say they’re too sweet.”
She shrugs, a small smile playing at her lips. “Yeah, but you don’t. And it’s my last day, so why the hell not.”
The casual mention of it being her last day hurts. I focus on unwrapping my roll, trying to hide how much those words affect me.
“How’s the packing going?” I ask, desperate to keep things light.
“Almost done. The movers come tomorrow morning.” She takes a sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. “Skylar’s excited. She’s already planning how to decorate her new room.”
“That’s great.” I mean it. “She deserves this. You both do.”
“Eve.” Rissa’s voice softens. “I’m not dying, you know. Chillicothe is only an hour away.”
“I know.” I pick at my cinnamon roll, suddenly not very hungry. “It’s just … things won’t be the same without you here.”
“No, they won’t,” she agrees. “But maybe that’s not entirely bad. Change can be good sometimes.”
I think about how much has changed in my own life recently—marrying Zeke, moving into the mansion, becoming a family with Leo, straddling the line between the law and crime. None of it was planned, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything now.
“When did you get so wise?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
“Please, I’ve always been the brains of this operation.” She grins, but there’s a sadness in her eyes that matches my own. “You’re just the pretty face.”
“Rude.” I flick a piece of icing at her, and she laughs.
We fall into comfortable silence, eating our breakfast and watching the precinct come alive around us. Officers drift in and out, some stopping to wish Rissa well. She accepts their goodbyes with grace, but it’s obvious how each one affects her.
“Remember that first case we worked together?” she asks suddenly. “The Thompson domestic?”
I groan. “God, what a mess that was. Didn’t the husband try to escape through the bathroom window?”
“And got stuck halfway through.” Rissa chuckles. “We had to call the fire department to get him out.”
“While his wife just stood there taking pictures for Facebook.”
“Good times.” She shakes her head, smile fading slightly. “We’ve had a lot of those, haven’t we?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “We have.”
More memories flood in—late-night stakeouts fueled by bad coffee and worse jokes, victory beers after closing tough cases, holding each other through the ones we couldn’t solve.
Rissa was there through my divorce from Ryan, through those dark days when I thought I’d never be enough for anyone.
And I was there for her when she lost her husband in a military training exercise gone bad.
And now she’s leaving.
I blink hard, fighting back tears. This isn’t how I want to spend our last day together—crying over cinnamon rolls at 9:00 AM.
“Okay, enough moping,” Rissa declares. “We’ve got work to do. These reports aren’t going to file themselves.”
I’m grateful for the distraction. We spend the next few hours tackling the remaining paperwork from the mafia case, working in companionable silence broken only by occasional questions or comments. It’s familiar, comfortable—like a well-worn pair of shoes you’re about to outgrow.
Around noon, Captain Reynolds calls Rissa into his office for her final debrief. She squeezes my shoulder as she passes, a silent promise to return soon.
I use the time to organize the completed files, making sure everything is properly documented and filed away.
The Columbus Mafia case will go down as one of our biggest busts ever—multiple arrests, countless charges ranging from assault to attempted murder, and enough evidence to keep the DA’s office busy for months.
On paper, it looks like a perfect win. Clean, by-the-book police work leading to the takedown of a major criminal organization. Nothing about Zeke’s involvement, nothing about Leo’s kidnapping or the real reason Alessandro Costa and his top men ended up dead before we could arrest them.
Sometimes I wonder if I should feel guilty about that—about knowing the truth and choosing to hide it. But then I remember Leo’s terrified face when we found him, remember how close I came to losing him, and any guilt vanishes. Some truths are better left buried.
Rissa returns from her meeting looking slightly emotional but composed. “That’s it,” she says, dropping into her chair. “I’m officially done. Just need to hand in my badge at the end of the day.”
My stomach twists. “Already?”
She nods, running a finger along the edge of her nameplate. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? Like this isn’t really happening.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Listen, about tonight—”
“No.” She cuts me off firmly. “We already talked about this. No going-away party, no big farewell dinner. I just want a quiet evening with Skylar.”
“But—”
“Eve.” Her voice is tender. “You know I hate goodbyes. Let’s just finish out the day like normal, okay?”
I want to argue, want to insist on making some kind of gesture to mark this momentous change. But I know her well enough to respect her wishes.
“Fine,” I concede. “But I’m at least buying you lunch. One last meal. How about … Mario’s? We haven’t gone there in a while.”
She pretends to consider it, though her eyes light up at the mention of our favorite deli. “Well, when you put it that way.”
The walk to Mario’s is familiar—three blocks east, past the courthouse and that weird sculpture that looks like a giant paper clip.
We’ve made this trip hundreds of times over the years, usually discussing cases or griping about paperwork.
Today we talk about lighter things—Skylar’s latest art project, Leo’s upcoming school play, the house Rissa found in Chillicothe with the big backyard perfect for a swing set.
Mario himself is behind the counter when we arrive, his round face breaking into a wide smile at the sight of us. “My favorite detectives! The usual?”
“You know it,” Rissa says, then adds, “Make it extra pickles today. It’s a special occasion.”
Mario’s expression sobers slightly. “Ah yes, I heard you were leaving us. Chillicothe’s gain is our loss, Detective Crane.”
“Thanks, Mario.” She manages a small smile. “I’ll miss your sandwiches.”
“Bah, you’ll just have to visit more often.” He waves off her attempt to pay. “On the house today. My farewell gift.”
We take our usual table by the window, unwrapping our sandwiches in comfortable silence.
The pastrami is perfect as always, the bread still warm from the oven.
I try to memorize everything about this moment—the way the afternoon sun slants through the window, the familiar buzz of the ceiling fan, the sound of Rissa laughing at my failed attempt to catch a falling pickle.
“You’re doing it again,” she says.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you try to burn everything into your memory because you’re afraid of forgetting.” She sets down her sandwich, fixing me with a knowing look. “I meant what I said earlier—I’m not dying. We’ll still see each other.”
“I know.” I pick at my chips. “It’s just … what if something happens? What if I need backup or there’s a tough case and—”
“Then you’ll handle it,” she interrupts firmly. “Just like you always do. You’re a damn good detective, Eve. That won’t change just because I’m not here.”
“But—”
“No buts.” She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “You’ve got this. And if you ever need me, I’m only a phone call away. Always.”
I squeeze back, fighting the lump in my throat. “Promise?”
“Promise.” She releases my hand, sitting back with a smirk. “Besides, someone has to keep me updated on all the precinct gossip. And your soap opera of a love life.”