Chapter Thirty-Two
Saturday morning crept in gray and overcast, as if the skies above Seattle sensed the tension still clawing at Isabela’s insides.
She was alone in her office, nursing a lukewarm latte she’d forgotten to sip, perched on the edge of the leather chair in front of her desk.
The TV on the wall flickered with the live broadcast, the DA’s insignia centered just beneath the podium where Adrienne Mulls stood stiffly, the City Hall steps a muted backdrop.
Her fingers tapped against her thigh, restless, eyes trained on the screen. As Adrienne cleared her throat and began her statement, she leaned forward.
“We will not be pursuing charges against Detective Christopher Macklin,” she announced, the words flat and carefully measured.
“In light of additional video evidence provided by third-party sources and with full cooperation from the Torres family, we find there is not enough to present to a grand jury. The Seattle Police Department’s internal investigation supports this decision.
We extend our sympathies to those affected and regret the confusion caused by this deeply unfortunate misunderstanding. ”
Isabela barely breathed. Relief surged but beneath that sat a hollow ache. This was over. Truly, finally over. Yet she felt nothing like a victor.
She rose and wandered over to the window, arms folded across her chest. The skyline stretched cool and distant beyond the glass, uncaring about her personal anguish.
She should be elated. She’d saved her client.
She’d nailed a complex defense, threaded it through moral minefields and come out the other side without losing her license.
Walker and Doyle would likely hail her as the rising star of the firm.
Hell, maybe they’d rename a conference room after her.
She should be celebrating, but instead, it felt like something inside her had just shut down. None of that seemed to matter.
All she could think about was Chris. His silence. The chill in his stare. The way he hadn’t looked back. She didn't just break his trust; she’d weaponized his most vulnerable moment.
The anchor’s voice snapped her back. “And now we take you to Police Headquarters, where Don Skulski is expected to give a short statement on behalf of Detective Christopher Macklin and the Seattle Police Officers Guild.”
Isabela dropped back into her chair, gaze locked on the screen. Don stood with two lawyers flanking him, offering thanks to the firm and to her by name. She should’ve felt proud. But Chris wasn’t there.
Where was he? Was he okay? Was he just done with all this? With her?
She turned off the TV, the sudden silence pressing down on her. She owed him a sincere apology. Something he heard straight from her, something he could walk away from if that’s what he wanted. Hiding behind the silence wasn’t an option. Not if she wanted to look herself in the mirror.
Packing her bag, she locked her office. The hallway was hushed, just the soft ding of an elevator and the faint echo of someone’s voice down the corridor. The perks of weekend work.
The parking garage was cooler, the air heavy with damp concrete and lingering mist. She spotted her father’s car just a few paces away, a small blessing. Prime parking was another weekend perk.
She reached into her purse, fishing for the car fob. Mundane thoughts distracted her. The insurance claim, maybe treating herself to something sleek and fast once the payout came through. Something that felt like power in a world where control was always slipping away.
Just as her fingers curled around the keys, a hand clamped around her mouth. Her scream never made it past her lips. A hard body pressed against hers. The jab of a gun barrel dug into her ribs.
“Don’t scream,” a low voice hissed in her ear, “or you’ll be dead before you can see your boyfriend again.”
Terror lit up every nerve ending. Her heels scraped against the pavement as she was yanked backward, the sound loud in the echoing garage. Her mind flashed only one thought, sharp and desperate: Chris.
God, please let her survive long enough to see him again.