Chapter 35
The smell of coffee pulled Izzy from restless dreams about snow and gunfire. For a moment, she couldn't place the unfamiliar ceiling above her—too industrial, too many exposed beams. Then reality crashed back. Knight Tactical. High-tech fortress. Her daughter hundreds of miles away.
She found Cory in the kitchen, silhouetted against the window where light snow drifted past like lazy thoughts. He'd already dressed in jeans and a gray henley that made his eyes look like winter sky. Without turning, he slid a mug across the counter toward her.
Two sugars, no cream. Exactly right.
"Morning," she managed, wrapping her hands around the warmth.
He slid around to face her, concern etched in those too-observant eyes. "Sleep okay?"
"Fine." The lie came automatically. She'd actually spent half the night staring at the ceiling, replaying yesterday's chaos. They'd saved Andrew. Andrew, who'd taken thousands to terrorize her. Andrew, who hadn't once asked about his daughter, even with a gun to his head.
And here was Cory Fraser, who'd broken every rule he held sacred to protect her and her girl. Who made sure she ate. Who prayed over their makeshift meals.
The contrast made her chest ache in ways she didn't want to examine.
She sipped her coffee and stared out at the falling snow.
In another life, this could be a perfect Sunday morning—lazy breakfast, maybe pancakes with unicorn sprinkles, Chantal chattering about her dreams. Instead, they stood in a military-grade facility while her baby ate breakfast somewhere else entirely.
"I hate this waiting," she said, not meaning to voice it aloud.
"I know." Simple acknowledgment, no platitudes about patience or everything working out. She appreciated that more than he could know.
Her phone buzzed.
Zara: Morning, Gorgeous. Team update in an hour.
At least that was something.
Cory cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncertain. "Would you... I mean, I was thinking… the church streams their service. If you wanted to watch."
Part of her wanted to say no. What was the point of watching their church family gather while she hid in this bunker? But something in his expression—hopeful, almost vulnerable—made her nod.
"Yeah. Sure."
They moved to the operations room, Cory working the controls with surprising ease. The main wall monitor flickered to life, and suddenly she was looking at Hope Landing Community Church in HD clarity. The camera work was pro-level—probably Danny Flores' son, who'd gotten into film school last year.
"Good turnout," Cory observed as the camera panned over familiar faces.
Izzy spotted the Hendersons in their usual third row spot. Mrs. Argyle with her knitting bag. The Murphy twins fidgeting while their mother gave them The Look. Her throat tightened. Their normal pew sat empty—no Luz with her walker, no Chantal swinging her legs during announcements.
"And now our children's choir will practice for next Wednesday’s pageant," Pastor Dan announced.
Izzy's heart stopped.
The kids filed onto the platform in their matching blue robes. Michaela, Chantal's best friend. Little Timothy who always forgot the words. The Nguyen sisters who harmonized everything.
And the gap. Third from the left, where her angel should be standing.
The tears came without warning, hot and sudden. Six years of being strong, of handling everything alone, of never letting anyone see her break—gone in an instant watching that empty space.
"Izzy." Cory's voice came soft, uncertain.
She couldn't answer, couldn't do anything but stare at that gap while tears streamed down her face. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Chantal had practiced for weeks, made up her own harmony parts, designed elaborate wing movements for the chorus of "Angels We Have Heard on High."
A warm hand covered hers. Not grabbing, not demanding, just... there. She should pull away. Should reconstruct her walls. Instead, she turned her palm up and laced their fingers together.
On screen, the children began "Silent Night," their young voices pure and sweet. In the corner of the monitor, she spotted Mrs. Patterson dabbing at her eyes—she always cried during children's choir.
"I miss them," Izzy whispered.
Cory squeezed her hand gently. No words, just presence.
Pastor Dan took the pulpit as the children filed off. "This morning, I want to talk about storms. Specifically, Mark chapter 4, when Jesus calmed the storm."
Of course. Because God had a sense of humor like that.
"The disciples were experienced fishermen," Pastor Dan continued. "They knew boats, knew water, knew weather. But this storm terrified them. Why? Because storms don't care about our expertise. They don't respect our plans."
Izzy thought about aircraft falling from the sky, explosions in parking lots, her daughter counting sleeps until the pageant.
"But notice what Jesus asks them: 'Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?' He wasn't scolding them for feeling fear. He was reminding them Who was in the boat with them."
Fresh tears threatened, but these were different. Warmer somehow.
"Faith isn't the absence of storms," Pastor Dan continued. "Faith is trusting Who's in the boat with you when the waves are crashing over the sides."
Beside her, Cory had closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. She studied his profile—the strong jaw, the worry lines that had deepened these past days, the absolute certainty in his expression even with eyes closed.
When had this by-the-book police chief become her anchor?
Pastor Dan led the congregation in closing prayer. "Lord, we lift up those who are weathering storms today. Those separated from loved ones. Those facing impossible circumstances. Remind them that You are in their boat..."
Cory's thumb traced a gentle pattern on her hand. Such a small gesture. So why did it feel like everything?
"Amen," the congregation chorused.
"Amen," Cory echoed quietly.
"Amen," Izzy whispered, surprising herself.
She should let go of his hand now. The service was ending, the moment passing. But neither of them moved as the livestream showed the congregation filing out, stopping to chat, living their normal Sunday lives.
Both their phones buzzed simultaneously, shatteringly loud in the quiet room.
Kenji's text filled her screen:
Got intel. Reed's settlement story checks out 100%. Clean paper trail once we knew where to look.
His daughter Sarah died in 2019. Drunk driver was Kenneth Walston III, heir to Walston Mining fortune.
Settlement was $22.4 million. All documented, all legal.
But Tom Morrison? Different story.
More texts flooded in rapid-fire:
Zara: Pulled traffic cams from the route to the shooting location
Zara: And may or may not have borrowed some satellite time
Zara: [Image attached]
Kenji: Check the timestamp. That's Morrison's truck leaving the area 4 minutes after the shooting stopped
Zara: License plate match. Vehicle ID match.
Zara: [Image attached - zoomed satellite photo showing the truck's license plate with crystal clarity]
Kenji: Timeline works. He could have driven from his house to the shooting location with 10 minutes to spare.
Zara: Also, footage of the guy hitting a Quickstop on the way home for gas and road snacks. Paid with cash. Like that’s gonna help. [Image attached of figure in dark pants and ski jacket in cowboy hat, face turned away from the camera]
"How do you get resolution like that?" Cory leaned over her shoulder, studying the impossibly clear satellite image on her phone.
Izzy felt her lips twitch. "You sure you wanna know? Because I think you might want to rethink that position. Plausible deniability’s a real thing."
Cory’s self-deprecating smile hit her straight in the heart. “No joke. You’re a smart woman, Ms. Reyes.” He straightened, all business now. "Looks like Morrison just became a serious person of interest."
"We need to talk to him." Izzy was already standing, energy crackling through her. Finally, something to DO. "Now."
"Izzy, it's Sunday morning. We can't just—"
"Can't we?" She faced him, chin raised. "Sure looks to me like Tom Morrison tried to kill us two days ago. Every hour we wait is another hour for him to run, destroy evidence, hurt someone else."
"We don't have legal authority—"
"When has that stopped us lately?" The words came out sharper than intended, but she didn't take them back.
Cory's jaw worked as he processed. She could see the war in him—procedure versus justice, rules versus righteousness.
"Fine," he said finally. "But we do this smart. No cowboys tactics."
She grabbed her jacket. "I'm Special Ops, Fraser. We don't do cowboy. We do precise."
Something had shifted during that service. Watching their church family without them. Hearing Pastor Dan's words about storms and faith. Feeling Cory's steady presence beside her.
She'd been in plenty of boats during plenty of storms. But this was the first time in years she hadn't felt alone in one.
"Ready?" Cory asked, checking his weapon with practiced movements.
"Ready." She secured her Glock, pulled on her tactical vest. "Let's go see what Tom Morrison has to say about attempted murder."
As they headed for the vehicle bay, Izzy sent up a prayer of her own—rusty but sincere. Lord, I don't know if You're still listening to me. But please... let us find answers. Let me bring my baby home.
The snow had picked up, coating the world in deceptive peace. But Izzy knew better. Storms didn't care about Sunday morning tranquility.
Good thing she had the Lord, and Cory, in her boat.