Chapter 1 — Tess #3
The kitchen goes very slightly quieter.
James doesn't look away. "County sends notification emails when an investigator's assigned. Your record was attached."
"Right. Of course."
Rhett, sitting next to James, gives his captain a look I can't quite interpret. Murphy has gone still in a way that suggests he's figured out there's something happening here that he doesn't have context for.
I take a bite of pasta I no longer want and wish I'd stayed in my car.
The conversation picks back up around us, Anthony asking Travis something about a training protocol, Declan and Murphy debating the merits of different pizza places in town, but I'm especially aware of James, of the way he's not quite looking at me now, of the fact that I just let something slip that I shouldn't have.
Lunch ends eventually.
The crew disperses, some to the bay, some upstairs, Murphy to kitchen cleanup despite Declan's protests. I help clear plates because sitting still feels impossible, and when I reach for the serving bowl at the same moment James does, our hands brush.
It's nothing. Incidental contact that happens a dozen times a day between people who aren't thinking about it.
Except I am thinking about it, and so is he, and for a second we both freeze with our hands on the same bowl and fourteen years of history sitting between us like a third person at the table.
He pulls back first.
"I'll get the office set up for you," he says, and his voice is perfectly professional, perfectly neutral.
"Thanks."
He disappears down the hall, and I'm left standing in the kitchen holding a serving bowl and trying to remember how to breathe normally.
Travis is watching me from the doorway. He doesn't say anything, just gives me a small nod that somehow feels like acknowledgment, and then he's gone too.
I put the bowl in the sink and press my palms flat against the counter.
Two days. I can do this for two days.
I've conducted assessments in stations where I was openly resented, where captains tried to intimidate me, where crew members treated me like an outsider who didn't belong.
I've handled hostile environments and uncooperative leadership and every flavor of professional difficulty the job can produce.
This should be easier.
It's not.
Because James Callahan was never hostile. He was never difficult. He was thoughtful and considerate and entirely unwilling to give me what I actually wanted, which was all of him instead of the edited version he thought was appropriate for someone fourteen years younger.
And now I'm standing in his station, in his space, with his crew looking at me like they can sense something's off but can't figure out what, and I have to spend the rest of today and all of tomorrow pretending that the man in the office down the hall is just another captain I'm here to assess.
I straighten, smooth my blouse, and head toward his office.
The door is open. He's at his desk, pulling files from a drawer with the same methodical precision he brings to everything.
"Records are organized by quarter," he says without looking up. "Training logs are in the blue binders, incident reports in the red. Maintenance documentation is digital, I can pull it up on the laptop."
"Perfect."
I step into the office. It's small, glassed in on one side so he can see the bay, and it smells like coffee and paper and him. There's a second chair across from his desk, and I take it because standing feels too much like hovering.
He sits too, slides the laptop across to me, and for the first time since I walked into this station, we're alone in a space where the door can close.
It doesn't. But it could.
"Tess..." His voice is quieter now, without the crew as buffer. "We should probably talk."
My stomach drops.
"About the assessment?" I ask, even though I know that's not what he means.
"No."
I look at him. Really look at him, the way I've been trying not to all morning.
The silver in his hair catches the light from the window. There are faint shadows under his eyes like he didn't sleep well. His hands are folded on the desk between us, and I remember those hands, remember the way they felt and the deliberate attention he paid to everything he touched.
I should say we don't need to talk about it. I should say it was a long time ago and we're both professionals and there's no reason to make this more complicated than it needs to be.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Not here."
Something flickers across his face. Relief, maybe. Or resignation.
"Okay," he says. "Not here."
I pull the laptop closer and open the first file.
"Let's start with your incident response times for the last quarter."
James leans back in his chair. "Whatever you need."
What I need is to get through this assessment without doing something I'll regret.
What I need is to stop noticing the way his voice drops when it's just the two of us.
What I need is to remember that I'm thirty-four years old, not twenty, and that I've built a life that works without him in it.
The cursor blinks on the screen in front of me, waiting.
I start typing.