Chapter Twenty-Nine Grayson
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Grayson
The house was sealed before Violet’s tears dried on her cheeks. I led her out, past the crime scene tape that had since gone up. The bright-yellow bands stretched across her porch and secured her yard, a flimsy barrier between her and the crowds of onlookers.
The bloody cruiser still sat gutted at the curb, a hollow reminder of what had happened here.
The corpses were no longer stretched out on the lawn, now zipped away in body bags and loaded into vans.
Neighbors still lined the sidewalks, their phones out as they took pictures and videos to post online.
It pissed me off—people turning her nightmare into content, knowing those clips could spread and put her face everywhere.
I ushered Violet into my SUV, my hand firm at her back. She didn’t resist, but she moved slowly—silent, in shock, and probably just floating in this moment because she was out of it.
Harper had fought like hell to stay with Violet, but eventually one sergeant cut her off, saying they needed a proper intake before anyone else could interfere.
Harper proclaimed she’d follow on her own.
I had to give Violet’s friend credit—she was tough, and she would stand by Violet’s side no matter what.
The drive was silent, but I knew that was what she needed. I kept my hand on her leg, desperate to touch her to keep myself grounded.
Inside the precinct, I knew everything was too bright and loud for her. Phones rang, radios crackled, boots scuffed across linoleum, and voices rose, shouting orders. Even to me, every sound felt amplified and jagged, like the world was trying to cut everything it touched open.
They didn’t put her in an interrogation room this time.
Instead, the victim liaison brought us into a smaller office.
This space looked less like a cage and more welcoming, to make you feel more at ease.
Although they did a shit job at even that—a scratchy tweed couch sagged against one beige wall, no doubt meant to be a calming color, but it fooled no one.
Violet took a seat on the couch and stared silently into space.
A woman came in and introduced herself as Marie Brownstein, victim services coordinator. She had a soft voice meant to ease people, to make them feel like they were in a safe space. She offered Violet a bottle of water, set a box of tissues on the table, and took a seat across from the couch.
“Will you stay?” Violet asked, looking at me.
I cleared my throat and nodded. “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”
“Can you please shut the door?” Marie asked, gesturing for me to do it since I stood in the doorway.
“Ms. Santos,” she began, folding her hands on top of the thin manila folder in her lap. “I’ve been briefed on what’s been going on. First, I want to say I am sorry, but I’m here to help you work through things.”
Violet nodded, smoothed her hands over her legs, and finally relaxed back against the couch cushions, staring at Marie.
“You’ve had a very traumatic morning. I know this is overwhelming. Right now, our priority is your safety. Your home is an active crime scene, so you won’t be able to return tonight—or possibly longer.”
I sat down next to Violet, taking her hand in mine and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Marie looked at me where I held Violet’s hand, then opened the folder in front of her and made a quick note before continuing.
“We’re going to move you into temporary housing—secure, discreet, and closely monitored.”
Violet’s gaze flicked to me, wide and unsteady, like the words themselves had knocked her off-balance. I squeezed her hand again, grounding and reassuring her.
“What does that mean?” Her voice was soft but torn at the edges. “Like . . . a hotel?”
“Not exactly.” Marie’s smile was thin, professional but meant to soothe.
“We lease houses under city funds for sensitive situations like this. They’re used for domestic violence survivors, witnesses, and victims of violent crime.
The units aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re clean, quiet, and, most importantly, safe.
You’ll have a direct line to responding officers twenty-four hours a day.
Patrol units will rotate through the area, and a plainclothes team will be nearby if needed. ”
Violet squeezed my hand, no doubt thinking about the last time she had a cruiser watching her. I could feel tension bleeding out of her, like she was trying hard to cover that wound, but it seeped out from between her fingers. “I don’t want to be sent away alone.”
“You won’t be,” I said before Marie could answer. My voice was steady, but final. “I’ll stay with you.”
Marie hesitated but didn’t argue. It wasn’t her place to say anything on the matter. If she had a problem with it, she could go to the higher-ups to deal with me.
“Okay,” Violet whispered, clutching at that single word like it was her life jacket.
Marie opened the folder, took her notepad out, and handed a few pieces of paper and a pen to Violet. “We’ll need you to look over and sign these.”
“What are they?” Violet asked, pulling the folder closer and scanning the pages.
“Consent for relocation, acknowledgment of the crime scene restrictions, and a release for us to provide you essentials if you need them. Clothing, toiletries, meals, etc.”
“Okay,” Violet said softly as she took the pen, her hand lightly shaking, and scrawled her name. I reached over, covered her trembling hand with mine, and steadied it long enough for her to finish.
“Thank you, Ms. Santos,” Marie said. “Now, we’ll also need to log your phone as evidence. I know that’s difficult, but it’s standard. If there were any communications with the individuals who targeted you, they will help us.”
Violet nodded. She’d already surrendered it at the scene. I leaned close, my voice low against her temple. “They’ll get you a replacement. You won’t be cut off.”
She nodded, swallowing hard.
Marie stood and gathered the paperwork. “Once we’re finished here, a car will take you to the safe house.
” Her gaze shifted to me. “Mr. Iverson, as the lead investigator, you can request to stay with Ms. Santos, but you’ll need clearance before that’s official.
There are forms allowing dual occupancy, and the request has to be logged and signed off by the supervisor overseeing protective housing.
It’s not automatic, even for investigators. ”
I nodded. “Thanks. I know the drill.”
Her tone softened slightly as she added, “Given the circumstances, I don’t expect pushback. But the paperwork has to be in order before you move in with her.”
She slid a business card across the table. “In the meantime, if you need anything, this number connects directly to the unit on call.”
When she left, the silence was heavy. Violet sat stiff in her chair, staring at the card with a blank expression.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Confusion tightened my chest, and I pulled my brows low. “For what?” I asked.
“For all of this.” She sighed. Her gaze dropped to our joined hands. “For you keeping my secret,” she whispered. “For making everything worse.”
“No.” My hand closed around hers, strong enough that she flinched but didn’t pull away.
“You reacted like anyone would with death outside their window and a threat still looming. Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for surviving.
” I drew in a hard breath, my chest tight with the truth I’d been pushing down.
“But, Violet, I can’t keep it from them much longer.
Two officers dead, a heart dumped on your doorstep .
. . they’re already connecting the dots, and if I don’t tell them about the cult, it’ll come out another way.
And when it does, it’ll look like you were hiding something worse. ”
Her head snapped up, fear flashing in her eyes, but I held her hand tighter, steadying her.
“I’ll be the one to lay it out, not them. On my terms. You’ll tell your story when you’re ready. But it has to be on the record now, Violet. Otherwise, it’ll be worse in the end.”
Her gaze lifted to mine, fractured, searching.
“God.” She rested back on the couch again and closed her eyes.
“This all feels so terribly, horribly wrong.” She opened her eyes and blinked, gaze shining.
For a second I thought she might cry again, but she held herself together. She was so damn strong.
“I know you don’t want to. I know it’s brutal. But you saw today. They killed two armed officers in broad daylight. If we keep pretending this isn’t about the cult, about your past, then we’re handing them the knife.”
She shook her head. “If I tell them, they’ll use it against me. They’ll twist it, make me look guilty.”
“Violet.” I caught her chin, forced her to meet my eyes. “Your entire life is already turned upside fucking down. Better the truth comes from you than from them.”
She took a steadying breath, then nodded. Before either of us said anything, the door opened again. Marie poked her head in. “If you’re ready, we have forms to fill out, Violet. Mr. Iverson . . .”
“I know. I have some, too.”
Violet nodded mutely. I stood, helped her to her feet, and guided her away.
The safe house was tiny, nondescript, and tucked two neighborhoods over in a cluster of houses built in the seventies.
There was nothing special about it. There was already a patrol car parked a short distance down from the house, lights off, but a clear shadow of someone in the driver’s seat was still visible.
I knew there were several other officers nearby, some in uniform, others dressed in plain clothes.
We walked up to the front door. The lock disengaged easily once the key was turned. Inside, the place smelled faintly of fresh paint and bleach.
I stepped inside, but Violet stood frozen in the doorway, clutching her bag like she might bolt again.
Her gaze roamed the interior in slow sweeps.
There was a tiny living room with an aged, low sofa pressed against one wall, a coffee table in front of it, and a smaller end table beside one arm of the couch.
A faded floral lamp sat on the small table, and a few outdated magazines rested on one of the couch cushions.
She finally stepped in, shut the door, and immediately locked it behind her.
There was a kitchenette to the right, cabinets made of that cheap laminate that was already peeling in the corners.
I stepped into the kitchen and flicked on the light.
All the blinds were drawn, making the space feel even smaller than it was.
Every surface looked scrubbed clean, with the laminate counter scoured raw in some places. It was functional but stripped of anything that made this place a home. No photographs on the walls. No clutter on the counters. There was nothing to mark this place as anything but what it was.
Her voice was barely audible. “This feels so . . . sterile.”
“It’s temporary. But it’s safe,” I said and took her bag from her, setting it on the two-seater kitchen table. “No paper trail. No familiarity.”
She walked further in, one slow step at a time, like the house might swallow her.
She walked down the short hallway to the bedroom.
Violet pushed open the door, and it creaked.
I followed behind her. Inside there was a twin bed with a thin quilt.
White folded sheets sat on the dresser. The lone window had its blinds drawn.
Her brittle laugh snapped in the air. “Safe,” she whispered. “Nothing feels safe anymore, Grayson.” She turned, her eyes wide and rimmed red. “What if—”
I crossed the room in two steps and wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight and steady. “I have you, baby. I have you.”
For a moment silence stretched between us, only broken by the hum of the refrigerator in the other room.
She was the one who pulled away, and I followed her into the living room.
She sat on the sofa, curling one leg beneath her, and worried her bottom lip.
She pulled the business card that Marie had given her out of her bag, tracing the raised, embossed name and number printed on the front.
I turned on the lamp and sat beside her, close enough that our knees brushed. The golden glow from the lamp caught her hair, showing copper glints in the strands. I hated that Violet looked emotionally stripped down to the bone.
Her voice cracked when she finally spoke. “I don’t even know who I can trust anymore.”
I turned fully, caught her gaze, let her see nothing but steel in mine. “Then don’t.”
Her brow furrowed, confusion flashing through the fear. “W-what?”
“You don’t have to trust anyone,” I whispered. “Not the cops. Not Harper. Not anyone trying to dig pieces out of you.” I reached out, touched the side of her face with my hand, rough thumb brushing the trembling line of her jaw. “All you have to do is trust me, sweetheart.”
Her eyes shone, a thousand unsaid things flickering in their depths. She nodded again, but this time it wasn’t small—it was sharp, like she knew I spoke an oath.
I let my hand fall away, forcing myself to give her the whole truth. “There’s something else. I need you to hear it from me before you hear it from anyone else.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been taken off the case.” I kept my voice level, even though the words tasted sour. “They called it a conflict of interest. They know I’m too close to you . . . too involved. Romantically involved.”
The color drained from her face. “So you’re not . . .” She stopped talking, swallowing before speaking again. “What does that mean for me?”
“It means I can’t be the investigator anymore,” I admitted.
“Not officially. If I kept touching evidence, if I took your statements, the defense would tear the entire case apart. They’d use me to discredit everything.
” I cupped both sides of her face. “They took the case from me, but they can’t take you away from me. You understand, Violet?”
She nodded, but didn’t speak.
“I’ll protect you the way they can’t.”
Her breath hitched, but some of the panic in her eyes eased.
“And you don’t have to trust anyone but me, Violet. Not anymore.” I leaned in and kissed her. “We’re going to tell them everything. I’m going to be right by your side when you tell them about the cult and everything they’ve been doing to you.”
As I held her, I knew one thing for certain. Everything had changed. For me. For the case. Hell, everything in my fucking life.
I’d burn down anyone and everything who tried to take her from me.