Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Liam
A week after New Year's, I still couldn't let it go.
Aria was home. She was safe. She was ours. That should have been enough.
But it wasn't.
Someone had sent those photos. Someone had terrorised the woman I loved, had tried to destroy what we were building. And that person was still out there, unpunished, potentially planning their next move.
I didn't operate that way. In the courtroom, I built cases brick by brick until the structure was unassailable. I anticipated every counterargument, closed every loophole, left no avenue for escape. This situation demanded the same approach.
If someone had committed a crime against my family, then they would face consequences. That was the only acceptable outcome.
I pulled into the parking lot of Gabriel's precinct just after seven in the evening. He'd agreed to meet me after his shift, and I'd brought everything I'd compiled over the past week. Files, notes, theories—all of it organised in the leather portfolio on my passenger seat.
Gabriel was waiting by his patrol car, still in uniform, looking as tired as I felt. We'd both been working this quietly, separately, not wanting to worry the others until we had something concrete.
"Tell me you've got something," he said by way of greeting.
"Nathan called an hour ago. He might have a lead." I gestured toward my car. "Want to grab coffee and go over everything?"
"Fuck coffee. Let's go to my place. I've got a whiteboard."
Of course, he did.
Twenty minutes later, we were in Gabriel's apartment—a surprisingly neat space that smelled like gun oil and coffee—standing in front of a whiteboard covered in his handwriting. He'd been working this harder than I'd realised.
"Walk me through it," I said.
Gabriel picked up a marker. "Okay. We know the photos were delivered physically—left at Aria's door, no postage, no delivery service. That means someone local, or someone who travelled here specifically to deliver them."
"Agreed. Which suggests personal motivation rather than random harassment."
"Right. The photos themselves—crime scene images from Eva's death. Those aren't public record. They were part of a closed investigation in Florida."
I nodded, following his logic. "So our suspect either had access to those files directly, or knew someone who did. Law enforcement, legal team, or someone close to the investigation."
"Exactly." Gabriel tapped the board. "I've been going through Ronan's past—or Adam's past, I guess. His FBI career. The cases he worked."
"And?"
"He put away a lot of bad people, Liam. Organised crime, drug trafficking, corruption. Any one of them could have a grudge."
I considered that, running through the legal implications. "But most of them would still be incarcerated. And even if they weren't, why target Aria? Why not go after Ronan directly?"
"Because hurting someone he loves is worse than hurting him," Gabriel said quietly. "It's what I'd do if I wanted to destroy someone."
The casual way he said it reminded me that Gabriel had seen the worst of humanity in his line of work. He understood how predators thought.
"So we're looking for someone with access to those files, a personal grudge against Ronan, and the psychological profile of someone who attacks indirectly." I pulled out my own notes. "I've been approaching it from a different angle. Who benefits from Aria leaving?"
Gabriel's eyebrows rose. "Cui bono. Classic lawyer thinking."
"It works. If Aria had left permanently, what would have changed? Ronan would have been devastated. We all would have been. But who gains?"
"Someone who wants to hurt Ronan specifically," Gabriel said slowly. "Or someone who wants access to something he has."
"Or someone who wants him isolated and vulnerable."
My phone buzzed. Nathan.
I put it on speaker. "Nathan, you're on with me and Gabriel. What have you got?"
"Okay, so I've been running down the digital trail like you asked." Nathan's voice crackled through. "The photos themselves were printed at a FedEx Office in Fort Worth, paid for with cash. But here's the thing—whoever printed them had to upload the files from somewhere."
"And?" Gabriel leaned forward.
"And I found the upload. It came from a library computer in Clearwater, Florida. Three weeks before the photos were delivered."
Florida. Where Ronan had lived. Where Eva had died.
"Can you trace who used that computer?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Library computers don't require login, but they do have security cameras. I've got a buddy who works there. He pulled the footage for me." Nathan paused. "I'm sending you a screenshot now."
My phone chimed. I opened the image, and Gabriel moved to look over my shoulder.
The photo showed a man in his fifties, with grey hair and glasses, wearing a polo shirt. He looked ordinary. Forgettable.
Except I'd seen his face before.
"Fuck," Gabriel breathed. "That's—"
"Detective Marcus Holloway," I finished. "He was the lead investigator on Eva's case."
The pieces clicked into place with the satisfying precision of a closing argument.
Detective Holloway had investigated Eva's death.
He'd had access to all the crime scene photos.
And according to the reports Ronan had shown Aria, Holloway had been convinced it was murder, not suicide—convinced that Ronan was guilty.
"He never let it go," I said, thinking out loud. "Even after Ronan was cleared, even after witness protection relocated him. Holloway still believed he was guilty."
"So he tracked him down," Gabriel added. "Found out about Aria. And decided to 'save' her by showing her what he thought was the truth."
"It's harassment at minimum," I said, my legal mind already building the case. "Possibly stalking, depending on how long he's been watching. Definitely interfering with a federal witness protection case."
Nathan's voice came through the phone. "There's more. I dug into Holloway's background. He was forced into early retirement six months ago. Excessive force complaints, evidence mishandling. He's been spiralling."
A detective with a grudge, a tarnished career, and nothing left to lose. That was a dangerous combination.
"Where is he now?" Gabriel asked.
"That's the thing," Nathan said. "I tracked his credit cards. He's here. In Dallas. Has been for the past three weeks."
The same timeframe as when the photos were delivered.
Gabriel and I looked at each other. We were thinking the same thing.
"Send me everything you have," I told Nathan. "Every transaction, every location ping, all of it."
"Already done. Check your email."
I hung up and immediately started reviewing Nathan's files on my phone. Gabriel was doing the same on his.
"He's staying at a motel off I-35," Gabriel said. "Shitty part of town."
"Last credit card transaction was yesterday. Gas station near Ronan's neighbourhood." I looked up. "He's still watching."
"Then we end this tonight."
I should have argued for a more measured approach. Should have insisted on building an airtight case first, going through proper channels, ensuring every step was legally sound.
But this was my family. And I was done waiting.
"Let me make a call first," I said.
I dialled a number I'd hoped I wouldn't need to use. It rang twice before a gruff voice answered.
"Special Agent Morrison."
"Agent Morrison, this is Liam Cross. I'm calling about one of your protected witnesses—Adam Rowland, currently known as Ronan Hale."
There was a pause. "How did you get this number?"
"I'm an Assistant District Attorney with connections. That's not important. What's important is that someone has compromised your witness's location and is actively harassing people connected to him."
"Explain."
I laid out everything we'd discovered, keeping it concise and factual. When I finished, Morrison was silent for a long moment.
"Detective Holloway," he finally said. "Son of a bitch. We suspected he might have been digging, but we had no proof."
"Well, now you do. And he's in Dallas, potentially planning his next move."
"Give me the address. I'll have agents there within the hour."
"With respect, Agent Morrison, we're going now. You're welcome to join us, but this ends tonight."
Another pause. Then: "I'll meet you there. But Cross? Don't do anything stupid. I don't want to have to arrest a goddamn ADA."
"Understood."
I hung up and looked at Gabriel. “TheFBI's on their way. But we're going first."
"Damn right we are."
***
The motel was exactly as depressing as I'd expected. Peeling paint, flickering neon sign, the kind of place where people went to disappear or to do things they didn't want witnessed.
Gabriel had changed out of his uniform into jeans and a jacket, but he still moved like a cop—alert, assessing, ready. I'd left my suit jacket in the car but kept my tie. Some habits were hard to break.
"Room 117," Gabriel said, checking his phone. "Around back."
We found it easily. The curtains were drawn, but light leaked around the edges. Someone was inside.
Gabriel positioned himself to one side of the door. I stood on the other. We'd done this before—not together, but the choreography was universal. Cop and lawyer, different sides of the same system.
Gabriel knocked. "Detective Holloway? Dallas PD. We need to talk."
Silence.
Then footsteps. The door opened a crack, chain still attached.
Marcus Holloway looked worse in person than in the security footage. Unshaven, bloodshot eyes, the sour smell of alcohol wafting through the gap.
"I'm not a detective anymore," he said. "And I don't have to talk to you."
"Actually, you do," I said, keeping my voice level. "I'm Assistant District Attorney Liam Cross. We have evidence linking you to harassment and stalking. You can talk to us now, or you can talk to the FBI agents who are en route. Your choice."
His eyes widened slightly at the mention of the FBI. Good. He should be scared.
"I didn't do anything illegal," he said, but his voice wavered.