Chapter 10
ISABEL
The bullpen’s fluorescent lights hummed mercilessly overhead, washing everything in an unforgiving white glare.
The air carried the sterile tang of burnt coffee and printer ink, punctuated by the shrill ring of phones and the steady murmur of voices trading updates.
Isabel sat at her desk, pen in hand, the Harper file spread open in front of her.
Pages of witness statements, timelines, scraps of evidence—they should have demanded her full attention.
Instead, the words swam uselessly on the page, blurring into the shape of Victoria’s mouth against hers.
She pressed the pen tip too hard into the margin of her notes, leaving a dot of ink that bled into the paper.
The drive back from the cabin replayed in her head like a punishment.
Silence so thick it smothered. Isabel had tried—God, she had tried—to bridge the gap.
A hand out, fingers brushing against Victoria’s sleeve, a touch light enough to be ignored if unwanted, heavy enough to say I’m still here with you.
But Victoria had drawn away as though Isabel’s hand were fire, her eyes locked on the dark road, her jaw clenched.
Then, the moment they parked at the precinct, Victoria had been gone. Door open, her stride brisk and unyielding. No glance back. No word. Nothing. Isabel had sat behind the wheel, her pulse still pounding with the echoes of the cabin, trying to decide if she was a complete fool.
A phone rang nearby, sharp enough to make her flinch.
An officer’s laugh cut across the bullpen, followed by the scrape of a chair against the floor.
Isabel forced her eyes back to the file.
Photos of Chloe at the gala—her long scarf looped loosely around her neck.
The fibers they’d found at the cabin matched in color and weave.
They couldn’t prove it yet, not without Chloe herself to compare against, but the likelihood gnawed at Isabel’s chest. Chloe had been there.
She shifted to a different page, a statement from the caterer the syndicate had bribed that night.
Nervous handwriting full of crossed-out words, she’d sworn she hadn’t known the plan.
She’d claimed she only agreed to smuggle in the equipment, too scared to say no after being paid.
Isabel scrawled a note in the margin, circling scared twice.
People always had a reason. Fear, greed, desperation.
She knew what fear could make someone do.
But even as she tried to sink into the work, her mind slid back where it didn’t belong.
The truth clawed at her—this wasn’t just about great sex.
She’d had great sex before—fast, careless flings that burned out before the sheets cooled.
But whatever was happening with Victoria was different.
It felt dangerous—not just because it broke every professional line in the book, but because Isabel couldn’t shake the sense that she wanted more.
More was terrifying. More was the part that got you left behind.
And Victoria—Victoria with her perfect posture and unreadable eyes—was making it crystal clear she didn’t want more. Maybe she didn’t want anything.
A burst of chatter from the next row of desks snapped her back. Isabel’s jaw tightened. She underlined cabin cleared before arrival in her notes, trying to force her brain to stay here in the case where it belonged.
Her pen hovered. Facts gnawed at her—the way the place had been stripped bare, the fire cold, no food, no personal belongings left behind. Whoever had been there had been long gone by the time they arrived. And not just gone. Ready for them.
She tapped the pen against the margin. It hadn’t felt like a simple coincidence. Someone had known the police were coming. Someone had made sure there was nothing left to find.
The thought should have set her focus, sharpened her edge. Instead, her grip on the pen eased. The ink trailed off into nothing as another memory surged forward unbidden.
But the pen slowed. Victoria’s voice from the cabin, sharp with anger, tangled with the memory of her body pressed close. Hot and cold, all in the same breath.
Isabel closed her eyes briefly, hating herself for even missing that coldness. For wanting to break through it. Anger roiled beneath her ribs—anger at Victoria for pretending none of it happened and anger at herself for caring.
A shadow fell over her desk, and Isabel looked up to see Lieutenant Darcy sliding a folder into the growing stack at her elbow.
“Tire track analysis,” Darcy said, her voice low and steady.
“Mud outside the cabin. Looks like an off-road vehicle, heavy-duty. Not your average pickup—something modified. Could be important once we narrow down the make.” She paused, her expression sharp and probing.
“Cabin turn up anything else? Anything out of place?”
The question prickled. Isabel kept her face still, even as her pulse quickened. “Everything’s in the report,” she said, flipping a page in the file as though absorbed. “You’ll have the details soon.”
Darcy lingered a fraction longer than necessary, the scuffed leather of her boots squeaking against the floor as she shifted her weight. Then she moved on, weaving through the bullpen with her usual deliberate stride.
Isabel exhaled through her nose and went back to her notes, but her pen was motionless.
The fluorescent lights seemed to buzz louder, the ringing phones sharper.
She tried to bury herself in the file, tried to breathe in the case and shut out the rest. But Victoria was everywhere—on the edges of every thought, every distraction.
And Isabel hated, more than anything, that she wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight the pull or give in to it.
Movement at the far end of the bullpen pulled her gaze up.
Victoria walked in as if she owned the place.
Shoulders squared, blazer crisp, expression cut from marble.
She carried a slim folder tucked under one arm, scanning the room with the steady composure that made everyone else straighten in their chairs.
To anyone watching, she was the picture of command, of unshakable control.
To Isabel, it was salt in an open wound.
Victoria’s gaze swept over her once, cool and impersonal, then dropped back to the folder. No hesitation, no flicker of recognition. As if Isabel didn’t exist.
The heat in Isabel’s chest ignited into something sharper. She shoved back from her desk, the chair wheels squeaking across the polished floor. “So that’s it?” she said, her voice cutting across the hum of the bullpen. “You’re just going to walk in here and pretend I don’t exist?”
Several heads turned. Phones continued ringing, but the chatter dulled, leaving the moment suspended in a charged hush.
Victoria froze midstep. Her eyes lifted slowly, locking on Isabel’s.
The steel in her stare could have stopped bullets.
“Detective Torres,” she said evenly, her tone clipped and precise.
“I am sick of your constant unprofessionalism. If you have something to say, bring it directly to me instead of putting on a display in front of the entire department.”
The formality sliced through Isabel worse than any outburst could have. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Oh, I’ve got plenty to say,” she snapped, her voice low but loaded.
For a fraction of a second, panic flared in Victoria’s eyes, too quick for most to catch. Isabel caught it. And she hated herself for the way it twisted in her chest.
Victoria’s spine straightened, her composure slamming back into place like armor. “My office. Now,” she snapped, the words sharp enough to draw more stares from nearby desks. “We will discuss this privately.”
The bullpen air felt tight around them, everyone pretending to refocus on their work, though Isabel could feel their ears straining. She shoved the file under her arm, every muscle thrumming with anger as she followed Victoria toward the glass-walled office.
Victoria didn’t look back. Her stride was clipped, precise, each movement betraying nothing.
Isabel trailed a few paces behind, jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.
When Victoria opened the office door, she held it long enough for Isabel to step through before shutting it firmly, the muted click loud in the sudden quiet.
The room was smaller than it felt from the outside, the walls of glass making the silence sharper, more exposed. Isabel set the file on the edge of the desk with a thud. “You want me to bring it to you directly? Fine. Here I am.”
Victoria circled behind her desk, setting her own folder down with surgical precision.
“You embarrassed both yourself and me out there,” she said, her tone cold enough to frost the glass.
“This department runs on discipline and professionalism, Torres. If you can’t manage that, then you have no place here. ”
The words lit Isabel’s temper like a match. “Oh, don’t you dare make this about professionalism. You walk past me as if I was invisible, like I didn’t even exist, and I’m supposed to just sit there and smile?”
“You’re a detective under my command,” Victoria snapped, her eyes flashing. “This isn’t about you. This is about you doing your job.”
“My job?” Isabel barked out a sharp laugh. “You think I can just switch it off? Pretend the cabin never happened? Pretend you never happened?”
Victoria’s face tightened, color rising high on her cheekbones, but her voice stayed rigid. “You’re crossing a line.”
“Yeah? Maybe I am,” Isabel shot back, stepping closer to the desk. “But at least I’m not hiding behind rank and icy glares, pretending none of it matters. Because it does, Victoria. It damn well does.”