Chapter One
Six months later
Isabela Cruz stood propped against the wall outside the boardroom doors, pretending to study her notes. The bullet points she’d reviewed a dozen times had blurred into meaningless ink swirls. Her real focus was on the muffled voices inside.
Half a dozen police union representatives and high-powered attorneys chatted cordially inside as if they weren’t here to discuss the most controversial shooting Seattle had seen in years.
The elevator dinged, diverting her attention. She looked up sharply, her spine straightening as one of the firm’s managing partners, Marcus Walker, strode down the hall. As usual, he exuded the kind of confidence and swagger that made junior associates both envious and wary.
“Morning,” she greeted him, her voice steady despite her nerves.
“You ready, Izzy?” Marcus rasped, his voice gravelly from the cigars he pretended not to smoke and lack of sleep.
Rolling her eyes, she muttered, “As I’ll ever be.”
Marcus didn’t bother replying. He pushed ahead, nodding curtly to his paralegal, Nicole, who offered Isabela a supportive pat on the arm.
Isabela took a moment to tug on the hem of her suit skirt and glance down at her blouse to confirm all buttons were still secured. Satisfied, she followed Nicole into the room.
Though Isabela prided herself on her courtroom composure, she wasn’t so naive that she’d walk into a room like this without backup.
As a Hispanic woman she couldn’t help feeling a bit like a sheep entering the lion’s den given the nature of this case.
It did help having a Black man as her managing partner.
This wasn’t just legal strategy, it was politics, reputation, and power plays.
Across the long mahogany table, sat the head of the Seattle Police Officer’s Guild, Don Skulski, and two of their lawyers. However, it was the man seated beside them who sent a chill up her spine. Christopher Macklin. The subject of internal affairs reviews, public outcry, and endless news cycles.
Isabela offered a warm smile and a polite nod to the room, opting out of handshakes. In a post-COVID world, that was an accepted norm, and in her case, a welcomed shield.
As she pulled out her seat across from the Guild crew, Isabela couldn’t silence the voice in her head still questioning why she was here.
Lending her expertise in human rights and workplace disputes to a man like Macklin felt like a betrayal of everything she stood for.
She hadn’t yet made peace with it and the longer she delayed forming a judgment, the harder it was to sleep at night.
Macklin stood as they entered, offering only a nod to Marcus. Then he turned to her. Their gazes met and her breath caught. His eyes were icy blue. Arctic, almost. A bolt of heat zipped down her spine before dropping straight to her stomach.
She broke eye contact immediately, pretending to adjust her notes as she sat beside her boss.
To her other side, one of the union’s lawyers leaned in to strike up a conversation.
She’d worked with him before. If memory served, the dialogue would eventually shift into a poorly veiled proposition, but for now, it was a welcome distraction.
Anything to avoid looking at Macklin again.
She didn’t need to anyway. One look had confirmed what she suspected, Christopher Macklin was a privileged, arrogant bully.
Freshly shaven, hair cropped short in a military cut, he looked every inch the hard-edged cop. His rigid posture and no-nonsense expression made it clear he wasn’t here for small talk. All that was missing were the wraparound shades. They were probably in his car.
Still, she couldn’t deny he was attractive.
He had the whole dark, menacing look down pat.
Tall, with broad shoulders, he wore his tailored suit like he’d been born in it.
He was older than her, late thirties, maybe early forties.
Everything about him screamed confidence and control.
Which made it even harder to believe he had accidently killed anyone. This man did things with purpose.
A throat cleared, snapping the room to attention and silencing conversations, including the half-hearted one she was having with the lawyer beside her. Don stood and opened the meeting.
“As you all know,” Don began, “we expect a decision from the district attorney’s office in the coming weeks on whether to pursue a grand jury.
It’s disappointing that it’s come to this.
The formal review cleared Mr. Macklin of wrongdoing.
We assumed he would’ve returned to duty by now, but as you’re aware, the DA requested an extension, and it was granted.
“Now the rumor mill’s talking civil action. Even criminal charges. It’s an unprecedented situation. That’s why we’ve brought in Walker and Doyle. We’re grateful to have you on board.”
Marcus gave a warm, proud smile. “Thank you, Don. We’re glad to lend our expertise.”
He turned it over to the union’s attorney, who didn’t waste time.
“The morning of the alleged homicide...”
Isabela’s mouth fell open. Did he just say alleged? She glanced around but no one reacted. Heads remained bowed over notes or lit by the blue glow of cellphone screens.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, injecting as much civility as possible. “But...alleged homicide? Someone did in fact die.”
Marcus shot her a look over his glasses.
“I’m just making sure the facts from the brief are still consistent,” she added with a tight, forced smile.
The attorney gave a thin smirk. “We don’t like the term homicide. It was self-defense. But I’ll rephrase, if it helps. The morning our client was forced to take a life...”
Isabela’s jaw clenched. She cleared her throat to keep from scoffing. A small sound escaped that still earned her a sharp kick under the table from Marcus.
Fidgeting with her pen to keep from rolling her eyes, she dared a glance across the table. Christopher Macklin was watching her. Staring daggers would be a better description. His gaze was unflinching, hard and cold.
She held it this time, even as her spine tingled. What was his goal? Intimidation? Unfortunately for him, she didn’t scare easily. Isabela gave him her most practiced, dismissive look, then turned away.
Avoiding him after that was easy. She had no interest in reading the disdain written across his face. Everything about him unsettled her. As the meeting ticked past the hour mark, Marcus finally wrapped things up.
“We’re confident we can manage both the legal and public opinion aspects of this case,” he said. “Mr. Macklin is the victim. If need be, we’ll prove that beyond a reasonable doubt.”
That was when Macklin finally spoke.
“I don’t need to prove myself to them,” he muttered.
Marcus took it in stride. “But we do. People need to relate to you. They need to believe you. Right now, the city only has one version of events. Thanks to the judge’s gag order, the full story is still under wraps, including the evidence that would’ve put Hector Torres away for life.
If we are going to help you, you need to trust us.
Word is, the DA will decide whether to convene a grand jury before the long weekend. That gives us just under two weeks.”
He stood, smoothing his jacket. “Thanks, everyone. Nicole will coordinate Mr. Macklin’s interview schedule. We’ll be in touch.”
****
Chris had reached a whole new level of exhaustion. Emotional fatigue was a bitch. Unlocking the front door of the townhouse, he kicked off his shoes with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his chest. Technically, the place wasn’t his, it was his sister’s.
He was subletting from her because he couldn’t stomach returning to his own house, not with the press camped out front like vultures. It was humiliating having big sis bailing him out, again.
Trudging into the kitchen, Chris yanked open the refrigerator and grabbed a can of sparkling water.
He cracked it open and took a long pull, grimacing as the sharp fizz burned its way down his throat.
His eyes watered. It wasn’t beer. He hadn’t touched alcohol in years, but nothing else had ever really replaced the satisfaction of a cold one after a brutal day.
As if summoned by the thought, his phone buzzed on the counter.
“I’m surprised you picked up,” Randall said.
“Me too. What’s up?”
“How’d the meeting go?” his best friend asked.
Chris leaned back against the counter. “About what you’d expect. Sat there while everyone politely pretended I wasn’t a monster.”
“Shit,” Randall muttered. “Did the attorneys seem confident at least?”
“Hard to say. Don and the union guys do. The new lawyers...” He hesitated. “They looked skeptical. I’ve got to meet with them again later this week to build a defense.”
“So, they think the DA’s actually going to press charges?” Randall sounded stunned. “Son of a bitch.”
“They said they’re just being cautious,” Chris said, taking another gulp of water. “But yeah. That’s the vibe I got.”
“I’m sorry, man. I really am,” Randall said.
Chris felt something sharp well up in his chest and quickly shoved it back down. “It is what it is. Comes with the territory when you shoot someone, right?”
A few seconds of silence passed between them.
“Listen, it’s been a long day,” Chris said, his voice rough. “I’m gonna hit the shower.”
“Alright. You want to run soon?” Randall asked, hopeful.
“Yeah. Let me figure out my schedule and I’ll text you.”
“Okay. Keep me posted. I’m here for you.”
“I know,” Chris said quietly. “Thanks, man.”
“Later,” Randall said before hanging up.
Chris left the half-empty can on the counter and dragged himself upstairs. His body ached with weariness, his mind even more so. What a goddamn mess.
Thirty-eight years old, divorced, alone, and now anyone with access to social media thought he was a racist murderer.
What a winner. Chris had perfected appearing indifferent, but it frightened him that he was starting to feel the numbness seeping in.
While he certainly didn’t want to go to prison, he didn’t know how much more he could take. This wasn’t living.
He stepped into the bathroom, stripped off his button-down, and let it fall in a heap on the tile floor. Palms braced on either side of the sink, he leaned toward the mirror and stared.
The reflection that looked back was both familiar and foreign.
The tired eyes and tight jaw were his norm now.
His pecs and shoulders flexed from the pose, at least the gym was paying off.
One of the few benefits of being on suspension was the endless, empty hours.
Working out was something to do. Something he could control.
He turned on the shower and waited for the fog to coat the glass. The first couple of months after the shooting had been eerily quiet. He was placed on paid administrative leave, and outside the department, hardly anyone knew what had happened. That changed overnight.
The deceased’s family, a clan of well-connected social climbers, petitioned for and won a media gag order. Once granted, it sealed all records tied to Hector Torres’s charges and the damning evidence that would’ve been used at trial. In the next breath, they leaked the shooting to the press.
Within hours, his name was smeared across every headline in the country. Christopher Macklin, racist cop and cold-blooded killer. His life had imploded on cue.
Every time he stepped outside, he felt it. The looks, the tension, strangers whispering. People crossing the street. Parents pulling their kids closer. He was radioactive. Today’s meeting hadn’t helped.
The image of his new attorney rose uninvited in his mind. Again. He’d tried to ignore it, but she’d been impossible to forget on the drive home. Isabela. She had a pretty name. She was a pretty woman.
Who was he kidding? She wasn’t pretty, she was drop-dead gorgeous. All sharp eyes and sleek confidence, with that tailored suit and those heels that probably cost more than his monthly mortgage payment. She looked at him like he was something she'd scraped off the bottom of them.
Once upon a time he would’ve had the guts to ask a woman like that out. Flash a grin, see how far his charm took him. Not anymore. Now she just reminded him how far he’d fallen.
Hopefully he wouldn’t have to see much of her around the office. Just thinking about her made his chest tighten for reasons he didn’t want to unpack.
When the bathroom had steamed up enough, Chris stepped into the shower, the water hot and pounding. He tilted his head back and let the spray beat against his neck, washing away the day, or at least trying to.
He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t fighting something.
Combat overseas. Suspects on the street.
His own demons. Now, he was running out of weapons for his battles.
That terrified him, because without them, the pain came fast and hard.
There was nothing left to dull it. Alcohol had nearly destroyed him once. So had pushing everyone away.
Sometimes he felt utterly alone. This was his reality. He told himself it was better this way. Less people to let down when he made another life altering mistake. He cursed under his breath, turning his back on the hot water.
Tonight, his mind should’ve been locked on legal strategy, but it kept circling back to her.
To the lawyer with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue.
The one who had looked at him like he was both beneath her and worth her full attention at the same time.
Isabela Cruz. He couldn’t afford distractions, least of all her.
But for reasons he didn’t want to admit, she might have already crawled under his skin.