19. Saxon
19
SAXON
T he fire is beautiful.
A perfect orange bloom against the fading afternoon light, licking up the walls, devouring wood and memories in equal measure. The embers snap and pop, sending ash into the air like a final exhale. From where I stand, watching from the shadows beyond the police barricade, the blaze is mesmerizing.
Cleansing.
I adjust the cuff of my suit jacket and exhale slowly, feeling the heat on my face as I observe the controlled chaos. Firemen shout, working to tame the inferno, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.
Shelby’s home is gone.
And with it, every last shred of evidence that David Eddy met his end within those walls.
Because that’s what happened—I have no doubt about it. Somewhere in that small house, on this quiet street where the neighbors see everything but claim to know nothing, David died. I don’t know exactly who ended his life, or how it played out, but I know the bastard didn’t walk out of there alive.
The proof? His phone.
The last ping off the nearest cell tower was from this very location. After that?
Radio silence.
No more calls. No more movement. No signs of life.
So unlike the bastard.
If I know one thing for damn sure—David wasn’t the type to lay low. He wasn’t done with Shelby. Not even close.
Despite the numerous warnings I sent him about leaving her alone. We were able to keep his behavior toward her under wraps for so long, but eventually, there would come a time when someone would sit up and listen. I felt it in my bones.
If anything, he was more obsessed with her now than ever. More determined to get her back.
To ‘reclaim her’ , as he would so often say.
Like she was something he had ownership over—something he could claim with sheer force of will.
It was a power trip for David, the last desperate grasp of a man who had never once in his life been told no and had it actually stick.
David Eddy was a man who always got what he wanted.
Handed promotions. Given authority. Granted every advantage on a silver fucking platter. He walked through life like he was untouchable, like the rules bent to his will.
But then he met Shelby Monroe.
And the woman wrecked him.
She told him no—and meant it. She fought back. She didn’t let him wear her down, didn’t let his persistence erode her defenses the way it worked on others. She got out, and she stayed out.
And that? That shattered him.
Because in David Eddy’s world, no one leaves him.
He leaves them.
But no one dares to walk away from him first.
And that curvy redhead?
She didn’t just leave—she demolished him.
Shelby and Clay’s house was always going to be collateral, the perfect smokescreen to shift the attention where I need it to go. To make sure all the evidence leads away from her. Because even though I had orders to leave her alone for all those years, I never really did.
Some part of me had still wanted to protect her.
And yet, here I am, setting fire to her life.
Because she doesn’t deserve what’s coming.
Not the weight of it. Not the judgment. Not the cold steel of a system that never once protected her when it actually mattered.
If the hierarchy finds out the truth—that it was Shelby who brought down David Eddy—they’ll bury her without hesitation. They'll make an example of her. A girl like Shelby, caught in the gears of their machine? She wouldn’t survive it.
And maybe the law would call it justice. Maybe the files would call it homicide. But I call it something else entirely.
A reckoning.
He had it coming.
I’ve seen the evidence.
The mental bruises, the fear in her eyes, the way she still looks over her back anytime she gets into her car.
I know the kind of man David Eddy was when no one was watching.
I know the kind of woman Shelby became because of it—quiet, resilient, carrying years of pain in her spine like it was stitched there on purpose.
So no, I won’t hand her over.
I won’t let them put cuffs on her like she’s the villain in this story.
Because if this world has any balance left in it, Shelby Monroe has already paid her debt in full.
And if covering for her means crossing the line?
Then I’ll cross it.
Gladly.
I don’t flinch when one of the firemen moves too close. I blend into the background like I always do—silent, unremarkable, just another face in the crowd of onlookers. None of them realize the arsonist is standing right here, watching his handiwork unfold.
The entire operation is precise. Controlled. I left just enough breadcrumbs to suggest someone else was responsible. And not just anyone—David Eddy.
He’s been missing for a few hours now, but as far as the world knows? David’s still alive.
And that’s exactly what I want them to believe.
The trick to keeping a dead man alive is planting doubt .
Nothing obvious. No flashy gestures. Just small, subtle inconsistencies that force people to question what they think they know.
A credit card charge in an unexpected place. A security camera picking up a blurry figure that might— just might —match his build. A single phone call traced back to an unregistered number. A whisper that he was spotted somewhere, an unverified sighting that will worm its way into the right ears.
But the nail in the coffin—the real pivot point of the case—isn't out in the wild. It's buried in concrete.
A locker. Tucked away in a quiet evidence room, signed out by none other than David Eddy himself. A folder full of names. Notes. Footage. Things he should’ve never had access to. Things that were never meant to see the light of day.
Now they never will.
Because David Eddy’s dead, and so is that evidence. It’s just enough to shift the direction of the investigation. Just enough to plant a seed of doubt in the right minds. Just enough to buy me time.
And sometimes, that’s all you need.
Not truth.
Not innocence.
Just time.
Shelby won’t be a suspect. Not when it looks like David Eddy is still out there, cleaning up his own mess.
The law loves a good ghost story.
And I’m more than happy to give them one.
“Twice in one day, Agent North. I’m flattered,” Shelby says as she opens the door.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That look in her eyes—like she’s already got a thousand things she wants to say, and none of them involve forgiveness.
I step under the archway, the sun behind me, casting a long shadow across Mason Ironside’s front porch. It feels like stepping into enemy territory. Probably because it is.
She doesn’t invite me in.
I don’t expect her to.
“I came to follow up on the fire,” I say. “Make sure you weren’t hurt.”
Her laugh is dry. Cruel. “What was it, Saxon? Faulty wiring? Gas leak? Or did the file just spontaneously combust the moment I stopped being convenient to the Bureau?”
Behind her, Mason Ironside stands just inside the foyer. Silent. Motionless. Arms folded across his chest, all cold steel and unblinking eyes. A wolf at rest, but never unarmed.
I ignore him—for now.
“Is this your current residential address?” I ask her, keeping my voice level.
She ignores my question and delivers one of her own. “You knew David was dangerous.” Her words come fast, sharp. “You knew. I told you. I begged you to intervene. And what did you say, Saxon? ‘He’s your husband, Shelby. Make it work.’ Remember that?”
Her voice cracks—barely—but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away.
“I was following protocol,” I say, even though it sounds pathetic the moment it leaves my mouth.
She steps closer, enough that I catch the full weight of her grief. Her rage. Her contempt.
“No,” she says. “You were protecting your partner.”
Silence stretches between us, taut and heavy. I wish I could tell her the truth—the full, brutal weight of it. That David Eddy has been under investigation since day one. He, and a dozen others tangled in a web of federal corruption that runs far deeper than she knows. But after the chaos with Altin Kadri, there’s no room for leaks. No margin for error. This operation is entering its second phase, and I’m not about to compromise it—especially now that she’s clearly aligned with Mason Ironside and the Gatti outfit. That kind of proximity? It’s a risk I can’t afford to take.
Ironside shifts slightly behind her, and I feel his stare crawl up my spine. I can’t help it—my hand twitches near my belt, where my badge used to mean something. Now it just feels heavy.
“You think we lit that house up?” I ask, softer this time.
“I think the Bureau has a way of tying up inconvenient ends,” she says. “And I think you came here to see if I was still breathing.”
“David’s missing,” I tell her. “We found blood in his apartment. Drag marks. I was wondering if you know anything about his whereabouts.”
She goes still. Her mouth parts—but she says nothing. It’s not relief. It’s not grief. It’s that hollow space in between.
“I didn’t come here to scare you,” I say.
Shelby’s chin lifts. Her spine straightens. “Are you the bearer of glad tidings, then? You don’t get brownie points for delivering the news just because the body count finally tipped in my favor.”
I swallow that one.
Behind her, Ironside still hasn’t said a word.
But when I glance at him again, there’s something in his face. Pride.
The quiet kind. The kind that says she doesn’t need me to step in. She’s already got him bleeding.
Shelby steps back. Not an invitation. Just enough room to shut the door.
“You can leave now, Agent North.”
And just like that, the door clicks shut in my face.
Not with fear, but with finality.