CHAPTER EIGHTEEN #4
Hirschfeld studied her a moment longer. Then her expression softened into something like empathy.
“Actually,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’m supposed to confiscate your gun and badge.”
Kate froze.
“And escort you,” Hirschfeld continued, “directly to the Chicago field office.”
Kate felt the ground tilt. “Orders from who?”
“Your boss in Portland.” A sympathetic shrug. “And mine downtown, SAC Harding. There’s concern you’ve gone rogue.”
Kate swallowed. “I… probably have.”
Hirschfeld smiled—not unkindly. “Well, the thing is… I’m not going to do that. By the time you arrived at this address, we’d already left. If you catch my meaning.”
Kate did. “Why?”
"Because…" Hirschfeld slipped her sunglasses back on top of her head.
"Whatever your reasons are for coming here, I imagine you gave them a great deal of thought before taking them.
And women in this job—women in any branch of law enforcement, frankly—face enough obstacles without us stepping on each other to get ahead.
On top of which, I resent the tacit assumption that your actions have to be the result of some kind of hysteria.
No one would be implying that if you were a man.
They'd probably call you a maverick and give you a commendation. "
Kate stared at her. Something clicked.
“You’re the agent trying to set up the women’s union section,” she said.
Hirschfeld’s mouth quirked. “Controversially, yes.”
“I… admire your efforts,” Kate admitted. “I know a lot of agents who feel the same way.”
Hirschfeld’s smile widened, warm and real this time. “Then consider this an informal solidarity measure. You have my discretion. For now. But you are going to tell me why you flew across the country without clearance.”
“I will,” Kate promised.
For a moment, something eased between them—an unspoken mutual recognition.
Beside them, the Kingsleys shifted uncertainly. The little girl—Claudette—peered up at Kate with a shy, grave interest.
“Agent Valentine,” Laurence Kingsley said, clutching his daughter’s hand. “They’re saying that the threat is neutralized. That we’re safe now. But I’m not sure if we should stay in the house tonight or decamp to somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else,” his wife said immediately.
Laurence frowned. “It’s an unnecessary disruption. Claudie won’t sleep in a different bed. You won’t sleep. And remember what Sorenson said about your blood pressure.”
“And if I lie upstairs all night waiting for another home invasion?”
“It was one man in the greenhouse,” Kingsley insisted. “And he’s been caught.”
“Hiding on our property,” she snapped back. “Watching us.”
Claudette piped up suddenly, eyes bright: “Can we stay in a hotel? With room service?”
Mrs. Kingsley touched her daughter's cheek. "Sweetheart—"
“I could get pancakes,” Claudette added, with the sudden buoyancy of a child whose fear has turned into excitement. “I want pancakes on a trolley with a… like a silver upside-down bowl on top of them.”
Kate felt the corners of her mouth lift involuntarily. “Pancakes are a valid priority.”
Claudette flashed a gappy grin at her, sudden and wide.
“You lived here?” she asked—directly, boldly.
Kate blinked. “I did.”
“This house?”
“Mm-hm.”
“For how long?”
“Until I was 18.”
This fascinated her. Claudette’s eyes widened. “Did you play in the yard? Did you climb the tree? Dad says I can’t climb the tree yet because I’d fall.”
“You probably would,” Kate said. “It’s a very tricky tree.” She pointed. “But I built a treehouse in it once.”
Claudette gasped as if she’d just been told the moon was edible.
Mrs. Kingsley's face softened. "Why don't we give Miss Valentine a tour?" she suggested. "She can tell us how it looked when she was your age."
Claudette clasped her hands together in delight. “Please say yes!”
Kate hesitated.
But something in her chest loosened—something tightly coiled, brittle, afraid.
These people—normal, ordinary, kind—had just been terrorized by a stranger on their property. And yet here they were. Open. Warm. Inviting her into their space simply because she had once lived here.
And for the first time since leaving the precinct that afternoon, since making the reckless decision to come here, since ignoring every call and every order—
Kate felt something shift.
A softening.
A release.
A sense of… safety.
As though, in the presence of these decent strangers—this little girl with solemn eyes and pancake dreams—nothing bad could possibly happen.
“Yeah,” Kate said, voice quieter than she expected. “Okay. I’d like that.”
Claudette cheered.
Mrs. Kingsley took Kate’s arm gently. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s start in the living room.”
And as the three of them—pregnant mother, serious child, weary agent—stepped together toward the front porch, Kate felt something she hadn’t felt in days.
Hope.
A door opening inside her, not to darkness
—but to the past stitched back onto the present.
For one fragile moment, she allowed herself to believe it:
Everything was going to work out for the best.
Nothing bad could happen here.
Not in this house.
Not among people like this.
Not today.