Chapter 13
VICTORIA
Victoria’s office smelled faintly of burnt coffee and toner, the ordinary trappings of a precinct morning. But the photographs on her desk were anything but ordinary.
She turned another page in the forensics packet, her blue eyes scanning every detail with the cold precision she was known for.
The car bombing report was clinical in its breakdown: ignition source, accelerant traces, fragmentation patterns.
None of it surprised her. The syndicate had money, training, and no shortage of explosives.
But the evidence log stapled to the back stopped her cold.
Recovered among the twisted metal had been a warped evidence tag, edges blistered from fire. The lab’s inventory confirmed it: a chain-of-custody form bearing Detective Isabel Torres’s signature.
Victoria’s jaw clenched as she slid the charred photograph closer. The log entry detailed items Torres had supposedly signed out two days prior—printouts of phone records, fragments of a burner phone recovered near the Harper gala. All of it was now listed as destroyed in the explosion.
Her pulse ticked at her throat. Isabel had been driving that car. Isabel had nearly died in it. Yet here was proof—on paper, at least—that she had checked out evidence that no one recalled her requesting. And now it was gone, obliterated in a fireball before anyone else could see it.
It was too neat. Too convenient.
Victoria leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers.
Her instincts told her this was a setup—an inside job meant to turn suspicion inward, toward the one detective already under scrutiny.
But the weight of command pressed down on her shoulders all the same.
She couldn’t ignore what was in front of her.
The blinds rattled softly as a draft slipped through the vent above, and for the first time in years, Victoria found herself hesitating. She trusted her gut. Always had. And her gut said Isabel Torres wasn’t dirty.
Still, the only way to be sure was to look her in the eye.
Victoria closed the folder, the snap of the cover echoing in the stillness of her office. She rose, her posture rigid, the decision already made.
She was going to confront Torres.
Victoria stood at the window of her office, the file resting like lead on her desk. From here she could see the bullpen—detectives clustered around desks, the low hum of chatter, phones ringing. Isabel was among them, laughing at something Darcy said, her shoulders loose, her expression unguarded.
Victoria’s stomach tightened. After last night, she knew that look—knew how rare it was for Torres to drop her defenses.
The memory of warm skin, tangled sheets, and Isabel’s steady breathing against her shoulder lingered with a dangerous pull.
For one night, Victoria had allowed herself to forget. To feel.
Now she had to cut it all down.
She pressed the intercom. “Detective Torres. My office.”
Isabel looked up at once. No smirk, no swagger—just that open, softened expression from the night before. She rose and walked in without hesitation, shutting the door behind her.
“Afternoon, Captain.” Isabel’s voice was warm, almost playful. “You just couldn’t go one day without—”
“Sit.”
The command was sharper than Victoria intended, and it stopped Isabel midstep. Confusion flickered across her face, but she lowered herself into the chair opposite the desk.
Victoria pushed the folder toward her. “Explain this.”
Isabel glanced down at the charred evidence log, her brows knitting. “What am I looking at?”
“Chain of custody forms. Items destroyed in the car bombing.” Victoria’s voice was steel. “All of them checked out under your signature.”
For a beat, silence hung heavily between them. Then Isabel gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. “That’s impossible. I never signed that out.”
“The forms say otherwise.”
Isabel’s eyes snapped up to hers, fire sparking behind the disbelief. “You actually think I would steal evidence and stash it in my own damned car? That I’d put a target on myself like that?”
Victoria kept her arms folded, her face unreadable even as something twisted in her chest. “I think the possibility warrants answers.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Isabel shoved the folder back across the desk, her chair scraping as she leaned forward. “After everything we’ve been through—after last night—you think I’m dirty?”
Victoria’s fingers curled against her sleeve, her nails biting through the fabric. “This isn’t about last night. This is about the case. The integrity of this department.”
Isabel’s jaw clenched, the warmth she’d carried in now burned to ash. “No. This is about you not trusting me. About you looking for a reason to push me away.”
Her voice cracked sharp against the walls, drawing the faintest glance from the bullpen through the glass before the blinds rattled closed in the draft.
Victoria stayed standing, her tone quiet but unyielding. “Then tell me why your name is on that form.”
Isabel rose in one swift motion, eyes dark, shoulders taut. “I can’t tell you, Captain, because it isn’t mine. Someone wants me out of the way, and you’re handing them exactly what they want.”
The accusation cut deeper than Victoria let show.
Isabel shook her head, backing toward the door. “I thought—” She stopped, lips pressing tight, then yanked the handle and stalked out before the words could finish.
The door shut hard behind her.
Victoria stood alone in the silence, the echo of Isabel’s anger still vibrating through the room. She turned back to the window, her reflection cold and hollow against the glass.
For the first time in years, she doubted not just her detective—but herself.
Victoria didn’t move for a long time after Isabel stormed out.
The blinds swayed faintly in the air from the force of the door closing, their steady rhythm a counterpoint to her churning chest. Eventually, she sank back into her chair, pulling the folder toward her once more as though the charred pages could provide clarity if she stared long enough.
They didn’t.
The rest of the day unfolded on autopilot.
She gave directives in clipped tones, reviewed reports, sat through meetings with the command staff.
Her voice never wavered, her posture never faltered, and if anyone noticed the iron edge in her tone, no one dared comment.
To the precinct, Captain Langley was as composed as ever.
But every time her eyes dropped to her desk, she saw Isabel’s expression—shock, then fire, then betrayal—burned into her mind.
By dusk, she drove home in silence, the hum of the SUV a dull backdrop to her thoughts.
She parked, entered her townhouse, and locked the door behind her with mechanical precision.
Shoes lined neatly on the mat. Blazer hung on the hook.
Sidearm secured in the safe. Each motion was second nature, a ritual of order.
Victoria moved through her townhouse like a ghost, every action precise, deliberate, and empty of meaning. Dinner. Wine. Dishes. Shower. Pajamas. The rituals held her body steady, but her mind spun out of control.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the lamplight throwing pale circles against the walls, and replayed every detail until it blurred together.
Isabel’s name on the evidence log. The signature, neat and deliberate. Too deliberate.
Victoria rubbed at the crease between her brows, her thoughts drilling deeper.
Torres had been the one to expose a corrupt superior back at her last precinct.
Victoria remembered reading that in the transfer file.
A brave move, risky as hell, but it showed conviction.
Integrity. The kind of detective Victoria wanted on her team.
But then there were the whispers that had followed Isabel’s career like a shadow. Some of her colleagues had claimed she’d fabricated evidence to bring the man down. That she’d framed him. That she’d been the dirty one all along.
Victoria weighed the two sides as though her soul were a scale. On one side: a woman willing to sacrifice her career to uphold her oath. On the other: a pattern of suspicion that clung like smoke, too thick to dismiss entirely.
Her gut clenched, leaning toward what she already knew in her bones. Isabel Torres was not a dirty cop.
Victoria lay back against the pillows, her chest tightening as her mind leapt to the car bombing.
She remembered the call from dispatch—the words officer down, possible fatality—and the way her heart had slammed against her ribs like it wanted out.
The memory of racing to the scene, of seeing the ambulance doors shut, of the moment she thought she was already too late.
The panic rose in her throat even now. Isabel’s face pale under the harsh ambulance lights. The rush of relief that hit when she realized Torres was alive. Breathing. Talking. Fighting, as always.
Victoria exhaled, long and shaky, pressing her hand against her sternum as though she could steady the tremor inside her.
Her mind drifted to the night afterward, the quiet of her own bedroom. Isabel curled against her, warm and trembling, the two of them wrapped together in a fragile peace. Victoria had held her, smoothed her hair, whispered reassurances she hadn’t realized she was even capable of giving.
And then the comfort had shifted into something deeper. Not just heat, not just need—it had been something else, something that cut through years of solitude and walls she thought would never fall. It had been…connection. Real and raw.
She closed her eyes, the memory tugging at her with painful clarity.
She knew, deep in her soul, Isabel wasn’t behind this. And yet—the evidence sat in the folder on her desk, accusing and undeniable in black and white.
Victoria turned onto her side, staring into the darkness of her room. The sheets felt cold without Isabel there. For the first time in years, the silence of her house was unbearable.
She ached with the truth she couldn’t ignore—she didn’t want to be alone tonight. She wanted Isabel beside her.
The thought lingered as sleep finally pulled her under, heavy and restless. And in her dreams, she reached for Isabel only to find empty air.