Chapter Thirty-Five
Two Months Later
Chris stood at the window of his temporary rental and cracked his neck. The view wasn’t much, just a parking lot, but it was quiet. No memories clung to the walls. No shadows stalked the corners. It was temporary, but for now, it was exactly what he needed.
He’d spent the past two months stitching his life back together, thread by deliberate thread.
Every Thursday night, without fail, he showed up at Beth’s house.
Sophie greeted him with a hug and increasingly savage teasing about his basketball coaching skills.
It was the highlight of his week. The type of pure normalcy he had always craved.
It was the true, steady acceptance that only came from family.
At the precinct, the shift came without fanfare.
A promotion to lead interrogation specialist. He was a mentor to green detectives, and the face of sensitivity training initiatives.
It kept him out of the field, off the streets, and far from the lens of any camera still lingering on last spring’s firestorm.
It also meant fewer reminders and fewer triggers.
His friendship with Randall was stronger than ever.
After everything they’d endured, the media frenzy, the sleepless nights, the near-death chaos, they’d come out tighter on the other side.
Chris had checked in on their house when Randall took Jeanine and the boys on vacation last month.
Everyone had needed a break from the Torres fallout, Randall and Jeanine included.
These days, their Sunday morning runs had turned into weekly gossip sessions.
Nothing life-altering, just easy chatter about precinct headaches, family antics, and what RJ had managed to destroy that week.
It was ordinary, and it was refreshing. For the first time in months, Chris could enjoy sharing the boring stuff.
Despite the progress, despite the carefully rebuilt life, there was one glaring absence. Isabela Cruz.
He’d asked Randall about her the night he was shot.
The moment his best friend had walked into the ER, as a doctor was tugging stitches through the skin just above his ear, he’d demanded an update.
When Randall confirmed she was physically unharmed, Chris exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
That bastard Keith had survived, too. Paramedics had gotten there in time.
Now he was awaiting trial on charges of kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder.
God knew what else the DA could stick him with.
Chris hated that Isabela would have to sit through a trial, hated that she’d have to testify, hated the trauma she'd carry.
What really gutted him was the silence. She hadn’t reached out. Not once.
It burned, because no matter how things had ended, no matter how much it had hurt, he still wanted to hear her voice. To know she was okay. To tell her he forgave her. That she didn’t need his forgiveness in the first place.
He gave her time, but as the weeks passed in silence, his longing intensified. So, he began calling. First her cell, but that was no longer in service. Then the firm’s main line. After leaving a message on a generic voicemail, he began to worry.
Finally, yesterday, he'd tried a different route and called the only person at Walker and Doyle he could think of to help, Kelly. Chris had expected professional indifference, maybe even a little coldness, but the moment Kelly heard his name, the guy softened.
“Man, I thought you’d never call. I wish I had better news,” he had said. “She’s not here anymore.”
Chris's grip on the phone had tightened. “What do you mean she’s not there?”
“She resigned last month. Requested that we give out no forwarding information.”
Kelly’s voice cracked at the edges. They all cared about her.
Then he lowered his voice. “You didn’t hear this from me, okay? But she’s been staying with her parents. I’ve got the address and her new cell.” Then he hesitated, “Please make her happy.”
Chris promised, then wrote down the information like it was a lifeline.
For the last twenty-four hours, he had contemplated dialing her number a dozen times. Each time he had dropped his phone, sighed, and realized he needed an actual plan.
He ran a hand down his face. Two months of silence.
Of doubt. Of wondering if she blamed herself.
He had tried to stay away out of respect, out of fear he’d be another burden on her already weighty conscience.
It was starting to feel like the wrong call.
What she needed wasn’t distance. She needed to know he was still here. Still in her corner.
Chris grabbed his keys from the table. He still didn’t know what he’d say. Hell, maybe she’d slam the door in his face. At least he would know he’d tried. Because love like this wasn’t the kind you walked away from.
It was the kind you fought for. Chris Macklin had finally learned how to be vulnerable enough to fight for what mattered.