Chapter 20 Brooks
TWENTY
brooks
The plane touched down in Austin at two in the afternoon.
Brooks had been gone five weeks. It felt like years.
He collected his rental car and drove through familiar streets that no longer felt like home. The humidity pressed down, the traffic moved too fast, and everything was too loud after Westerly Cove.
His first stop was the Austin Police Department headquarters. Captain Rodriguez had agreed to meet him, though Brooks suspected the captain would rather have avoided this conversation.
The building looked exactly as he’d left it. Same security checkpoint. Same fluorescent lights. Same smell of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner. But Brooks walked through it differently now—not as someone who belonged, but as a visitor.
Rodriguez waited in his office. More gray in his hair. Deeper lines around his eyes.
“Harrington.” The captain stood, offering his hand. “Good to see you.”
“You too, sir.” They shook, then sat. “Thanks for making time.”
“Your email said you wanted to discuss your resignation formally. I figured I owed you a face-to-face.” Rodriguez leaned back. “How’s Rhode Island treating you?”
“Better than expected. The temporary position turned permanent. Small department, quiet town. It’s a good fit.”
“And the case you mentioned? Missing person?”
“Solved. Turned into something bigger—artifact smuggling operation that had been running for over a century. FBI’s handling the prosecution now.”
Rodriguez’s eyebrows rose. “That’s what you’ve been doing in a town of five thousand people?”
“Turns out small towns have deep secrets.” Brooks pulled a folder from his bag. “I brought my official resignation letter. Effective immediately, if that works for the department.”
The captain accepted the folder but didn’t open it. “You know you don’t have to do this. I could extend your leave, give you more time to think.”
“I’ve thought about it for five weeks. This is the right call.”
“Because of Traci.”
Brooks met his gaze. “Partly. But also because I’ve found something in Westerly Cove that I didn’t expect to find. Purpose. A reason to get up in the morning.”
Rodriguez was quiet for a moment. “You’ve changed. I can hear it in your voice.”
“The case changed me. Working with someone who sees things differently changed me.” Brooks paused. “She’s a local historian. Cultural expert. She reads evidence the way I never learned to.”
“And she helped you solve a century-old smuggling operation.”
“Among other things.” Brooks thought about Vivienne’s abilities, about the connection they’d forged. Rodriguez wouldn’t understand—hell, Brooks barely understood it himself. “Working with her reminded me why I became a cop. Not just to follow procedure, but to find truth. Whatever form that takes.”
“Sounds like she made an impression.”
“She did.”
Rodriguez opened the folder, scanned the resignation letter. “I’ll process it through HR by end of week.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I need to ask—are you running from what happened with Traci, or running toward something better?”
Brooks had asked himself the same thing a hundred times.
“Both,” he admitted. “I went to Westerly Cove running from guilt and failure. But I’m staying because I found something worth staying for. That’s not running—that’s choosing.”
Rodriguez nodded. “Then I’m glad for you. You were a good detective, Harrington. One of my best. But after Traci died, you were just going through the motions. Better to leave while you still have something left than stay until there’s nothing.”
They talked for another twenty minutes about logistics, benefits, final paperwork. When Brooks left the building, he felt lighter.
His second stop was harder.
Traci’s house sat in a quiet suburb north of the city. Kids’ bikes in the driveway. Basketball hoop over the garage.
Marcus Washington answered the door. Traci’s husband had aged since the funeral—more gray, thinner face—but his handshake was firm.
“Brooks. Come in.”
The house smelled like Sunday dinner. Traci’s mother was in the kitchen with the kids. They waved at Brooks but didn’t come running like they used to. He’d been a fixture in their lives before the warehouse. After, he’d become the man who’d let their mother die.
“Coffee?” Marcus offered.
“Please.”
They sat at the kitchen table where Brooks had shared dozens of meals with Traci’s family. Planning fishing trips. Watching game replays. Arguing about the best barbecue in Austin.
Marcus poured two mugs and sat across from him. “Your message said you were leaving Texas for good.”
“Took a permanent position in Rhode Island. Small coastal town. It’s time.”
“Good.” Marcus’s voice was rough. “You’ve been punishing yourself for three years. Traci would have hated that.”
“I got her killed.”
“No. Santos got her killed. The dirty cops who fed us bad intel got her killed. The system that let corruption fester got her killed.” Marcus met his eyes. “You were her partner, Brooks. You followed procedure. You made the best call you could with the information you had.”
“She wanted to wait for backup.”
“And you thought the intel was solid. You’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes good decisions have bad outcomes.
” Marcus took a breath. “I was angry after she died. Angry at everyone—you, the department, God. But over time I realized that being angry at you was easier than accepting that sometimes shit just happens.”
Brooks’s throat tightened. “I should have listened to her instincts.”
“Maybe. But if you had, you might have missed the window entirely. Santos might have gotten away, set up somewhere else, hurt other people.” Marcus leaned forward.
“You can’t Monday morning quarterback a tactical situation, Brooks.
You made the call you thought was right.
Traci knew the risks when she put on the badge every day. ”
“She saved my life. Threw herself between me and those bullets.”
“Because she was your partner. Because that’s what partners do.” Marcus’s voice softened. “She would want you to forgive yourself. Move on. Find something worth living for instead of just existing.”
“I think I have.”
“Yeah?”
“Her name’s Vivienne. She’s . . .” Brooks searched for words. “Different from anyone I’ve ever met. She challenged how I see the world. Made me question assumptions I didn’t know I had. Working with her feels right in a way nothing has since Traci died.”
Marcus smiled for the first time. “Then Traci would approve. She always said you needed someone who wouldn’t let you get too stuck in your head.”
They talked longer. About the kids, about Marcus’s new job, about the memorial fund they’d started in Traci’s name.
When Brooks stood to leave, Marcus walked him to the door.
“Take care of yourself, Brooks. And this Vivienne—take care of her too.”
“I will.”
“Good.” Marcus offered his hand again. “Traci’s badge is in your car, right? In that box you never unpacked?”
“How did you—”
“Because I know you.” Marcus’s expression was kind. “Take it out. Display it somewhere. She would want you to remember her, not hide from the memory.”
Brooks drove away with tears he’d been holding for three years finally breaking free. By the time he reached his hotel, he felt hollowed out but clean.
He returned to his hotel and called Vivienne.
She answered on the second ring. “How’s Austin?”
“Hot. Loud. Familiar in all the wrong ways.” Brooks settled into a chair by the window. “I met with Rodriguez. Submitted my resignation officially. It’s done.”
“How do you feel?”
“Lighter.” He paused. “I also saw Traci’s husband. Her family.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was. But it needed to happen. He gave me permission to move on. To forgive myself.” Brooks’s voice roughened. “He said Traci would want me to find something worth living for.”
“And have you?”
Brooks thought about the past five weeks. The case, the town, the woman who’d challenged everything he thought he knew about truth and evidence and faith.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I have.”
Silence on the other end. Then Vivienne’s voice, soft: “When are you coming home?”
Home. Not back to Westerly Cove. Home.
“Tomorrow afternoon. Flight gets in at three.”
“I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Her tone was firm. “Partners, remember?”
“Partners,” Brooks agreed.
After they hung up, he sat watching the Austin skyline until the sun set. This city had been his life for fifteen years. He’d built a career here, made friends, lost people he loved. But it wasn’t his future anymore.
That night, Brooks took a box from his suitcase. Traci’s badge gleamed in the lamplight, the metal polished by her family before they’d given it to him.
He traced the badge number with his finger. 2847. Traci had been so proud of that number—her father’s old badge, passed down when he retired.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” Brooks whispered. “But I’m trying to honor what you taught me. Trust my instincts. Listen when people warn me. Don’t let the data blind me to the truth.”
He set the badge on the nightstand. Tomorrow he’d pack it carefully to take to Westerly Cove. Display it somewhere he’d see it every day. Not as a reminder of failure, but as a memorial to a good cop and a better friend.
His phone buzzed. Vivienne again.
Dawn says you’re not allowed to bring any Austin sadness back with you. Her words, not mine.
Brooks smiled.
Tell Dawn I’m leaving the sadness here. Just bringing the lessons.
Three dots appeared, then:
Good. Because we have enough ghosts in Westerly Cove already. We don’t need yours too.
He laughed. When had he last laughed about Traci? About Austin? About any of it?
He typed:
See you tomorrow
Vivienne Hawthorne
Looking forward to it
Brooks set his phone aside and opened his laptop. Sullivan had sent him the official offer letter for the permanent position. Detective, Westerly Cove Police Department. Salary, benefits, vacation time. Standard terms for a small-town cop.