Chapter Twenty-One
On Tuesday morning, the conference room was cool, quiet, yet somehow suffocating. Isabela sat at the long table, tapping her pen. Her blouse clung to the back of her neck with a single bead of sweat that had no business existing in an air-conditioned building.
The room looked exactly as it had two weeks ago, but Isabela felt like a different woman sitting in it. She had arrived early, hair pinned in a neat twist, notes highlighted and stacked precisely beside her tablet. She still didn’t feel ready.
Noise from the hallway drew her attention to the door. The nerves in her stomach became an ache she had to press on to dull. Don Skulski and his team entered the room a few moments later, Chris behind them.
She watched him, waiting for the moment their eyes met. But he didn’t look at her, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. It was like being doused in cold water.
Chris sat stiffly in the same seat as last time, the one directly across from her.
He folded his arms across his chest, his jaw as hard as stone.
She felt like a stranger across a courtroom instead of the woman he’d kissed twice.
Like she wasn’t the same person he’d asked to get dinner when this was all over just days ago.
She didn’t expect anything obvious between them, but a glance didn’t seem like too much to ask for.
Nicole cleared her throat. “You’re up, Isabela.”
She startled, not realizing the room was now full.
Rising to her feet, she smoothed her skirt and stepped toward the head of the room.
On the wall-mounted monitor, Marcus Walker's face flickered into view.
Even laid up in a hospital bed, the lead partner looked immaculate.
He wore a crisp white shirt, slate blue tie, and was freshly shaven.
As Marcus adjusted in his bed, the collar of his shirt shifted just enough to reveal the edge of a clean white bandage against his throat. The sight snagged Isabela’s focus like a fishhook.
In an instant, the conference room faded.
She was behind the wheel, there was the jolt, the sharp crunch of metal folding in on itself, the blur of grass spinning past her windows.
Her hands had flown up instinctively, but there was nothing to grab, no way to stop what was coming.
She pushed against the airbag, that had both saved and smothered her.
The water hit next, sloshing in around her feet, cold and rising.
Her seatbelt locked her in place like a restraint.
Panic swelled in her throat as silence replaced the world.
Just as quickly, the memory vanished, pulled away like a ripcord, but her pulse had quickened, her breath grown shallow.
She swallowed hard and blinked back into the present.
“You ready Isabela?” Marcus spoke quietly as if only for her.
Instinctively her gaze flashed to Chris, and he looked concerned. Then, as if she imagined it, his face was blank again. She forced her eyes away from the indifference and refocused.
“Good morning,” she began, voice steady despite the nerves tightening her spine. “Today I’ll walk you through our findings in the Hector Torres case, with context to mitigate prosecutorial intent.”
She tapped her tablet, and the screen behind her came alive with dispatch records, radio logs, and grainy surveillance stills.
She moved methodically, stitching together the narrative: a high-stress environment, a detective without his taser due to administrative oversight, the DA’s reckless decision not to cuff Torres.
It all lead to the chaos that ended in a single shot.
Her words were sharp, her evidence clean, her story coherent. But every time her gaze strayed to Chris, he was a stone wall. There was no reaction, just those arctic eyes like the day they met. The cold edge had returned like a door slamming shut.
The SPOG head, Don, and his staff were engaged at least, leaning forward in their seats. They nodded in agreement with her words. When she clicked through the last slide and returned to her seat, the silence that followed was heavy.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Well presented,” he said. “But I’m underwhelmed.”
Isabela turned to face the monitor. “May I ask why?” she lifted her chin.
Marcus offered a practiced smile. “Because this case isn’t about court.
It’s about keeping it out of court. What you’ve built is trial-ready.
But we need to stop it before trial. We need pressure.
A story so strong the DA doesn’t dare touch it.
Right now? All we have is a nervous cop who fired under stress. ”
Isabela’s throat tightened. “So, what do you suggest?”
“What we need is a reason for the DA to drop this before it ever lands in front of a judge. Right now, it’s all circumstantial justification,” Marcus said smoothly. “That won’t scare the DA or the press off. Find the skeletons in the Torres family closet.”
She nodded, throat tight. “Understood. I’ll dig deeper.”
It felt strange, talking about Chris like he wasn’t sitting right there. If only he used words instead of building walls, then maybe she’d already have her smoking gun.
Don chuckled and slapped the table. “That’s why we hired you, Walker. Always sharper than the rest of us.”
Nicole leaned in, her voice sympathetic. “Let’s reconvene Thursday. That will give you some time to present something sharper.”
The meeting dissolved into low conversations and rustling chairs. Marcus disconnected with a final nod. The SPOG crew stood as Nicole rushed to open the doors. Chris also stood without saying a word and walked straight out.
He offered no backward glance. No subtle smirk. No familiar warmth. Just cold, focused movement, like none of what they’d shared mattered. Isabela stayed frozen for a minute before rising slowly and walking back toward her office.
That meeting had been less than ideal. She'd stumbled over her words more than once and left with the sour taste of inadequacy on her tongue. Even Marcus was underwhelmed.
She was trying not to beat herself up about it. Everyone was allowed an off day, especially two days after they were fished out of a pond. She just needed a moment to breathe, to regroup.
Turning the corner toward her office, she spotted Kelly standing beside his desk with an almost conspiratorial smile.
“There she is,” he drew out the words like a game show host. “Back from the lion’s den, I presume?”
“I’ve had better mornings,” she sighed, rolling her shoulders. “You wouldn’t believe the verbal hopscotch I just survived.”
“Well,” he said, stepping aside with a flourish, “maybe this will cheer you up.”
Her brow creased, then she saw them. A dozen red roses in a glossy black vase sat proudly on the edge of his desk, petals full and almost indecently lush.
“Oh,” she blinked. “Alexis really outdid herself.”
Kelly grinned. “They’re for you, silly. Delivered just after you left for the meeting. What aren’t you telling me?
Isabela frowned. “Absolutely nothing.”
Kelly gave her a playful scowl as she plucked the card from the bouquet. Part of her was expecting some generic get well message. The other part was secretly hoping they were from the man who wouldn’t make eye contact this morning. But the moment she read the handwriting, her stomach dropped.
Wishing you a smooth recovery.
Yours Truly,
L. Torres
The air seemed to thin as her fingers tightened around the small square of cardstock. Beneath its polite tone and overly personal edge, the message left her deeply unsettled.
Kelly’s voice softened, sensing her shift. “Not a secret admirer?”
“No, just a get well message” she said, forcing a tight smile.
“Are you okay? You went pale.”
“Rough morning.” Isabela shrugged, trying to reassure her friend. “Thanks, Kel.”
He didn’t look convinced but let her go with a nod. She turned away, the roses clutched in her hand, their cloying scent thick in her nose like smoke. As she stepped into her office and closed the door behind her, the air felt heavier somehow, as if the room itself had absorbed her unease.
Setting the vase down, she tried to shake the chill crawling up her spine. Red roses. The most romantic flower there was.
These weren’t ‘get well soon’ daisies. They weren’t sympathy lilies. They were blood red, velvety, and lush. The message was bold and intentional. It was a threat wrapped in thorns, or a taunt.
Pushing the flowers to the edge of the desk, she refused to look at them. She refused to think of the man who sent them or the other equally infuriating man who had just ignored her for the last hour.
Instead, her laptop greeted her. She reopened the Macklin file, pulling up every piece of data she hadn’t yet reviewed. There had to be more. Something that could tilt this in their favor.
As the morning wore on and she poured though documents, she kept losing her focus.
Chris’s indifference clung to her like static.
Was he angry? Regretful? Embarrassed? Maybe he thought kissing her was a mistake.
Or maybe he was just underwhelmed, unimpressed with her legal counsel.
He had asked for her to be replaced after all.
Why would a make out session change his mind?
Isabela frowned, grinding her teeth until her jaw ached. Then she pushed her laptop away. She couldn’t work like this. Couldn’t think like this. She needed answers and only one person could offer them. Grabbing her bag, she stood with purpose. It was time to find out the truth.