Chapter 22
Sayla
I t had been a month since the attempted break-in at the daycare, and all Roque told me was that they’d caught the guy.
I didn’t ask for more. Not because I wasn’t curious—God knows I was—but because I saw how Roque’s jaw tightened whenever it came up. Whatever it was, it had shaken him, and if he wasn’t ready to talk, I figured it was better to let him deal with it in his own time. I was just glad whoever it was had been taken off the streets.
After that, I’d tried moving back into my house. The window had been fixed within days—Roque had been on top of it before I’d even finished my coffee the morning after it’d happened. But when I’d mentioned going home, he’d looked at me with this quiet, unwavering firmness and said, “ Not yet, I’d rather tie up some loose ends first.”
I didn’t push it. Something about how he said it made my skin prickle, so I stayed.
And, if I was being honest, I didn’t really want to leave anyway.
We’d found a rhythm with the kids and each other. Waking up to Kaida babbling from her room and Kairo sneaking into our room with his stuffed fox in tow had become my new normal. Making breakfast with Roque, tiptoeing around each other in the kitchen, stealing kisses behind the fridge door—none of that felt temporary anymore.
But I’d noticed things.
Judd and Keir seemed to always be around. Sometimes, they made it obvious they were there with a purpose, sometimes they just leaned against their cars like they were waiting for something. And there was always a patrol car nearby. Roque had said nothing about it, and I didn’t ask. It was probably just a coincidence, right?
Still, a part of me knew better.
Today, though, I was focused on Kairo’s birthday .
I’d been up since 4 a.m., too excited to sleep. I’d stored most of the decorations at my place—balloons, goody bags, little race cars for the kids to take home—and now I was back there with DB and Alex, loading everything up to set up in Roque’s backyard.
“This kid’s gonna lose his mind when he sees all this,” DB grinned, balancing a box full of red, white, and black balloons on one arm.
“That’s the plan,” I said, double-checking the checklist on my phone. “I want him to feel like the most special little guy on the planet today.”
Alex lifted a box of miniature trophies and looked around the living room. “Place looks good, Say. Clean, fresh windows, and no creepy vibes.”
I nodded. “Yeah, it looksokay.”
But it didn’t feel okay. Not anymore.
I glanced around, taking in the space that used to feel like home. My couch, my photos, my books, the way the sunlight came through the front window just right in the morning—all of it was still here. But the comfort was gone and had been replaced with a whisper of something else. Not quite fear, but definitely not peace.
I didn’t feel safe the way I used to, and I wasn’t sure I would ever feel safe again.
But I had today to focus on. DB and Alex were helping, I had a backyard to transform, and I had a little boy who deserved the biggest, happiest birthday of his life.
So, I locked the door behind me, took a deep breath, and followed them out, ready to build something for one hell of a party.
DB was now wrangling the bundles of inflated balloons, too, and I silently prayed a strong gust of wind wouldn’t come along and carry them off. But the real challenge was the balloon arch I’d impulsively ordered—the showstopper. A mix of sleek black and shiny red balloons, with latex and metallic finishes all twisted together. It was stunning. And if the wind tore it down or something ruined it… well, I was pretty sure I’d cry.
“Run, bitch, run,” DB called to his dad, laughing until a gust of wind yanked at the balloons clutched in his fist. Then he did exactly what Alex had done and sprinted to the door before disaster struck.
The party was in full swing, and honestly, it couldn’t have been more perfect.
Everywhere I looked, kids were laughing, running, painting, and decorating anything they could get their hands on. One little girl had glitter in her eyebrows and frosting on her nose. Another carefully painted tiny flames on a cardboard race car while her dad offered unsolicited but hilarious advice beside her.
The cupcake station was chaos in the best way—mountains of sprinkles, rainbow frosting, and little flags with cartoon cars on them. More sugar had been consumed in the past hour than I cared to admit, but no one was complaining.
Best of all, Kairo had the biggest smile I’deverseen on his face.
He’d already raced twice in one of the motorized toy cars Roque had bought him, and now he was sitting with a group of kids proudly showing off his face paint—a neon green dinosaur with glittery spikes in his hair.
His little voice carried over the music as he shouted, “T-Rex!” and pretended to chomp his friends.
Kaida, on the other hand, was fast asleep in Roque’s arms, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, little fists curled against his chest, and her face painted like the fairy princess she was. He stood in the shade, gently rocking side to side, with a soft expression that made my heart squeeze.
Everyone seemed to be having a good time. The ladies were laughing, with plates full of snacks and drinks in hand, complimenting on how well it turned out.
The men, especially the ones in law enforcement, looked relaxed at a glance, but there was somethingunderneath—a quiet tension, an alertness that lingered in the corners of their eyes. They were smiling, sure, but every single one of them knew exactly where the exits were and had their heads on a swivel.
Roque had that same look, even while holding Kaida. Like he was cataloging every person, every movement, every shadow. He didn’t have to say anything, I could feel it from across the yard.
Then Hurst Townsend strolled in, wearing a button-down so crisp it looked like it ironed itself. And beside him was someone I hadn’t expected: Ned Dahl, the Governor himself. He smiled wide and waved like this was just another neighborhood cookout, which it kinda was for him by this point. Within minutes, both men sat down at the face-painting station, insisting on getting matching dinosaur designs for the birthday boy. The poor artist looked equal parts amused and terrified.
The rest of us werehowlingwith laughter.
And then Ned’s grandson, Wick—a curly-haired bundle of energy—ran up with two lopsided cupcakes, frosting oozing off the sides. He proudly handed them over to Hurst and Ned with all the ceremony of a Michelin-starred chef, and I swear, my heart just melted watching them both accept the cupcakes like they were made of gold.
Tabby leaned in beside me, her voice low. “DB’s not relaxed.”
I glanced toward him. She was right—his stance, the way he kept checking over his shoulder, gave away how alert and tense he was.
I frowned. “Roque isn’t either.”
We shared a look, both of us wondering the same thing. What the hell was going on? And why did it feel like they were waiting for something?
Just as Tabby and I exchanged a look, Heidi came through the back door carrying what could only be described asthe centerpiece of the entire day.
The cake.
And just like that, every kid within a five-mile radius stopped what they were doing, like someone had flipped a sugar-sensing switch in their brains. Even the face-painting table cleared out in seconds.
Kaida, who had been completely limp and snuggled in Roque’s arms, snapped awake like someone had hit a button.
I laughed under my breath. “She’s got a cake radar. It’s uncanny.”
Roque chuckled as she lifted her head and blinked around, immediately perking up at the sight of the four-tiered masterpiece Heidi was balancing with the focus of a brain surgeon.
It was stunning—deep red and black layered in sleek tiers, with curled dark chocolate edges that looked like racing stripes. White chocolate was artfully drizzled down each side, glossy and smooth. It almost looked too good to eat.
Kairo’s eyes were wide as saucers, his mouth slightly open in awe.
He’d told me his favorite color was red and his favorite flavor was chocolate—obviously—so I’d gotten Heidi to make a cake that’d blow his mind. Inside, the cake was a red velvet sponge dyed just enough to get that rich color without staining teeth, layered with silky chocolate frosting. Heidi had outdone herself again.
Candles dotted the outer edges of the tiers—way too many for a three-year-old, but that wasn’t the point. The point was the giant red and white candle shaped like the number 3 that sat proudly on the top, surrounded by three fountain candles ready to turn the entire scene into a mini fireworks show.
The kids gathered in a loose semi-circle, chanting Kairo’s name like he was some tiny celebrity about to perform.
Heidi nodded at me, and I lit the candles one by one, then finally the fountains. They hissed to life, golden sparks shooting up with a soft crackle, and Kairo grinned so big I thought his face might split in two.
“Make a wish, birthday boy,” I said, kneeling beside him.
He nodded solemnly, took a deep breath, and just as he leaned in to blow?—
BANG!
It wasn’t huge, but it was loud enough to send every adult's instincts into high gear. Roque immediately twisted, shielding Kaida with his body while I shielded Kairo with mine, and DB stepped in front of two toddlers by the coloring table. Judd and Keir both went into a low crouch, hands subtly brushing their waists, where Iknewthey kept their weapons holstered even off-duty.
For a beat, no one moved.
Then we all turned toward the source of the noise—just in time to see a cluster of balloons drifting upward. Some had popped and shredded, but the rest were still tugging free.
Roque stood slowly, releasing a breath, and offered a sheepish half-grin to the crowd. “Balloon casualties.”
A ripple of laughter followed, nervous at first, then easing as the tension melted.
Kairo, unfazed, blew out the candles with one long breath, fists clenched in triumph.
The moment passed, but it left a buzz in my chest.
Everything was still good. Everything was okay . But I couldn’t help thinking—it only took one bang to turn a perfect day into something else entirely.
And the way Roque kept scanning the trees told me I wasn’t the only one who felt that.
Roque
By the time the last car pulled away and the final balloon was deflated, I felt like I’d run a marathon—but in the best way possible.
The party had been a success—arealone.
I’d been wired tight all day, waiting for something to go sideways. After everything we’d dealt with—the threats, the close calls, the broken glass, and the daycare scare—I couldn’t stop scanning the edges of the yard, watching shadows, and tracking movements. Every laugh from the kids, every bang or cheer, had me twitching just a little, my heart ticking faster than it should.
But in the end, the only real excitement had been that damned bunch of balloons catching in the trees and sounding like a mini firework show. A moment of chaos, sure—but harmless.
And thank God for that.
Kairo had the time of his life. His face was painted, his cheeks were sticky with frosting, and his knees had been scraped from all the racing and rolling in the grass. Kaida had toddled after the older kids like she could keep up, and when she couldn’t, she’d curled up in someone’s lap—usually mine or Sayla’s—and watched with those big, wide eyes like she was soaking in the world.
They were safe and happy, which was all that mattered.
And Sayla, God, the way she looked today. Laughing with her sister, dancing with Kaida for a minute in the shade, the way she bent down to help Kairo with his frosting-smeared cupcake and kissed the top of his head without even thinking twice that’s what life should be about. Them.
If I could, I wanted to give them everything—the kids, Sayla—all of it, the world.
But some part of me always pulled back. Because even now, in the quiet after the day's storm, I couldn’t forget what Iknew.
After Simon Cliffe was arrested, and the adrenaline wore off, I’d seen the truth of what he had planned. What was waiting on the other side of that snatch-and-grab if Brenda from the daycare hadn’t tackled him like a linebacker. There was stuff I’d never unsee—transport plans, holding locations, and “conditioning methods.”
They didn’t care that Kairo was three years old, that Kaida still clutched a stuffed animal to sleep. To them, they were products. Property.
I’d nearly thrown up reading some of it.
So, when Judd floated the idea of flipping Cliffe instead of locking him up, I hated it—and I still did. But he was right. It was a tough call that sat like a rock in my gut, but releasing Cliffe under tight, unblinking surveillance and letting him run back to his people was paying off.
The information he was providing was invaluable. We now had more names, drop points, and code words. And more than that, it connected dots we’d suspected but never been able to prove—crooked cops, real estate coercion, and Randolph fucking Topper.
They’d been targeting residents who were minorities—intimidating them and pushing them into moving drugs, transporting cash, or just plain leaving town. And once they were gone, their homes—worth hundreds of thousands—were scooped up for pennies on the dollar by shell companies and “developers” with ties to people who were supposed to protect them.
It made my blood boil.
Imogen was already working quietly in the background, taking statements from residents and making sure their stories were documented safely and discreetly. So, when we brought this to the DA, we wouldn’t just have criminal charges. We’d have people and faces.
And when that day came—and it was coming—I’d be able to look Sayla in the eye, look those kids in the eyes, and know I’d done something right.
As if the whole damn thing wasn’t heavy enough already, there was one more name—one more target—we needed to bring down.
Cliffe had never said it directly, he was too careful for that. When we’d asked who was pulling the strings, the one making the real calls, the person you'd go to if you needed someone taken out, he’d skirted around it. He didn’t offer a name, he just said, “There’s only one guy who handles that.”
He wouldn’t speak it out loud, like just saying the name would get him killed. But he agreed he'd go straight to the source when we’d cut him loose, wired up, and watched like a hawk.
And through that wire, we finally got a name. Titian.
Not Titan. No, that would’ve made sense. This guy had gone with the extra vowel like it meant something. Maybe it did, perhaps it didn’t. Maybe he thought it made him sound classy, dangerous, and untouchable. Or maybe he just couldn’t spell.
Whatever the reason, it was the only thing wehadon him.
We ran facial recognition through every system we could access—state, federal, everything. Nothing. It was like he didn’t exist. Even the driver’s license we had a photo of, thanks to Cliffe, was clean—no record, no prior addresses, no flags. Just a grainy image, an ID number, and a name that could’ve been printed on Monopoly money for all it was worth.
But according to Cliffe, this ghost of a man had ordered the hit on Kaden Roper, the kid we’d found in the same woods as Ailee. Nineteen years old, smart and grounded, with his whole life in front of him. And just like that, he was gone. Another target in a long line of people who’d gotten in their way or refused to play along.
Sometimes, havingmostof the answers just made it worse. You think it’d help, give you clarity, closure—but it doesn’t. Not when you can’t finish the story. Not when the killer was still walking around, untraceable, hiding behind a name that didn’t even mean anything.
It made every second feel like a ticking clock. And when you’re the one they’ve marked—the one they think will break the rest, it changes how you view an investigation.
Cliffe’s voice recordings confirmed it. They were still watching me and talking aboutusingme by pressuring Judd and intimidating the people around me so that the rest of our team would fold and they could go back to running their crooked operation in peace.
Topper had set that up, he and the other cops who’d sold out long before we ever caught wind of it. They’d painted targets on our backs and handed out the bullets, and turned us into bait so they could keep lining their pockets and taking homes from people who didn’t have the power to fight back.
But we weren’t folding. Not me, not Judd, not any of us. We were in too deep now.
When we finally pulled the last thread on this web, Titian included, I was going to make sure nothing was left standing—not for any of them.