Chapter 14
ISABEL
Isabel sat at her desk, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles ached. The chatter of the precinct swirled around her—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the scrape of chairs—but all she heard was Victoria’s voice echoing in her head. Cold. Distant. Explain this.
Her chest burned, fury and heartbreak tangled into a knot she couldn’t untangle.
Just last night, she had lain in Victoria’s arms, the Ice Queen finally softening, letting Isabel in.
For the first time in years, Isabel had felt safe.
Not just wanted, not just desired—but secure.
Like maybe, finally, she’d found someone she could lean on.
And with a single accusation, it was gone.
Her throat tightened as the familiar weight of betrayal pressed down.
It was always like this. She gave herself piece by piece, only to have the ground ripped out from under her.
It was just as it had been in her last precinct—she’d exposed a dirty cop there, risked her badge to do the right thing.
She’d thought that would mean something.
Instead, she’d been dragged through the mud, whispered about in hallways, branded as the one who couldn’t be trusted.
Now here she was again, history repeating itself.
For a fleeting moment, the thought slid across her mind. Pack it up. Walk away. Quit the badge, quit the fight. Stop letting this city chew you up and spit you out.
Her jaw tightened. No.
She shoved the thought aside as anger surged hot through her veins. Whoever had planted that evidence, whoever had tried to paint her as the mole—they wanted her gone. They wanted her broken.
The hell with that.
If it was the last thing she did, Isabel Torres was going to find out who’d set her up. She was going to drag the truth into the light even if it burned her alive in the process.
The precinct had emptied out by midnight, the usual hum of voices and phones fading into silence.
Isabel stayed hunched over her desk, the glow of her lamp the only light in the bullpen.
Her jacket was tossed across the back of her chair, her sleeves rolled up, and her eyes burned from hours of rereading reports, cross-checking logs, and chasing threads that led nowhere.
But giving up wasn’t an option. Not this time.
At two a.m., she slipped down the hall and pushed open the heavy door to the security room. The night clerk barely looked up from her crossword puzzle before nodding Isabel through. Inside, the wall of monitors flickered, rows of grainy black-and-white feeds looping the day’s movements.
Isabel slid into the chair, her pulse sharp with adrenaline. She keyed in the timestamp from when the evidence had supposedly been checked out under her name and fast-forwarded the tape, her eyes narrowing. One by one, she marked down each person who entered the evidence locker hallway.
Most were routine—detectives with sealed envelopes, clerks with boxes, a uniform dropping off a bagged knife. All by the book.
Then she saw Darcy.
The first time, Darcy carried nothing in. She came out with a slim folder clutched tight under her arm. Isabel frowned and jotted it down.
Minutes later, Darcy appeared again. In with an empty tote bag. Out with it lumpy and half-zipped.
Isabel’s frown deepened. She rewound the footage, watching each frame carefully. Darcy had passed through that hallway more than anyone else that day—far more. Every trip contained the same pattern: empty hands in, something concealed out.
Isabel’s pulse kicked up. She pulled out her phone and began recording the screen, rewinding and replaying each of Darcy’s trips down the hallway. If anyone tried to bury this later, she’d have proof.
Her chest tightened as the pattern crystallized in her mind. Darcy was siphoning evidence. Little by little, small enough not to raise alarms.
Isabel shoved back from the desk, heat rising in her cheeks. Son of a bitch.
She stormed down to the evidence locker, flashing her badge. “I need the log. Now.”
The clerk slid the ledger across the counter without question. Isabel flipped through the pages, scanning for Darcy’s signature. Twice. Only twice in the last two weeks.
Her pen tapped against the paper, sharp and angry. That didn’t add up. Darcy had been down that hallway at least half a dozen times on the footage Isabel had just watched. Isabel slid her phone out, snapping quick photos of the pages, her breath tight with fury.
Then her gaze froze.
She looked at Darcy’s neat, looping signature on the official entries and then at the burned fragment from her own supposed checkout, the one with her name forged across it.
Her stomach turned cold. The handwriting was nearly identical.
Darcy hadn’t just been stealing evidence. She’d been the one who’d forged Isabel’s name. She was the mole.
The weight of the realization pressed hard against Isabel’s chest as she left the precinct. Her phone felt heavy in her pocket, stuffed with grainy video clips and photos that proved she wasn’t crazy. She had enough to clear her name—if she lived long enough to show it.
She didn’t even glance at the motor pool, didn’t bother calling for a ride. Her car was gone—blown to pieces—and the idea of cramming herself into a cab or waiting under a bus shelter in the dead of night made her skin crawl.
So she walked.
The streets of Phoenix Ridge were quiet at that hour, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows across cracked sidewalks. Her boots struck a steady rhythm on the pavement, each step sharp in the silence. It was a long walk, too long, but the burn in her legs matched the storm in her chest.
By the time she reached her apartment, sweat slicked her spine and her hands were shaking. She locked the door, slid the chain into place, and yanked the blinds shut tight.
She wasn’t safe. Not anymore.
Isabel paced the length of her living room, her fingers raking through her hair as her mind ran circles.
Darcy. Every instinct rebelled at the thought.
The lieutenant had always seemed steady, dependable, even friendly.
They’d shared late-night coffees, inside jokes in the bullpen, the easy camaraderie that came from years of service. Darcy had felt like a good cop.
But the evidence didn’t lie. Darcy’s face on the grainy footage slipping in and out of the evidence hallway with stolen files. Darcy’s signature—the same neat loops and slants—mirrored in the forgery that had nearly buried Isabel alive.
Isabel stopped pacing, her stomach dropping as the pattern sharpened. Only three people had known about the mole: Victoria, Isabel, and Darcy. And now, with every clue pointing in one direction, it was harder and harder to deny the truth.
Her gut twisted, betrayal settling like a stone inside her.
She tried to piece it together—why Darcy would risk everything, what the syndicate had over her—but every theory dissolved before it made sense. The only thing Isabel knew was that she’d been marked, framed, and nearly killed.
Exhaustion crashed down on her all at once. She rubbed her face hard, willing her mind to still. There was no sense chasing shadows at three in the morning.
She dropped onto the couch, tugged the throw blanket over her, and closed her eyes against the pounding in her skull.
Tomorrow, she’d put the proof in front of Victoria. Tomorrow, she’d clear her name.
Sleep crept in slowly, uneasy and fractured, but one truth burned steadily through the haze: Isabel Torres wasn’t going down for something she hadn’t done.
The next morning, the precinct felt different. Louder. Closer. Every sound seemed sharper—the ring of the phones, the thud of file drawers, the scrape of chairs on the tile. Isabel’s nerves buzzed like exposed wire.
She’d told herself walking through the front doors was the bravest thing she could do. But now, with the phone full of evidence burning a hole in her pocket, it just felt reckless.
Her gaze swept the bullpen automatically, searching for one person. Darcy stood near the whiteboard, coffee in hand, her easy smile in place as she chatted with two uniforms about a traffic bust. Isabel’s stomach turned over.
She forced herself to move as if nothing had changed.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” she said evenly as she passed.
Darcy looked up with a warm smile. “Torres. Early start?”
“Yeah,” Isabel said, keeping her tone casual. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Darcy chuckled. “You and me both. I swear, this case has everyone running on fumes.” She turned back to the board, scribbling something with a dry-erase marker. “I’m going to grab another coffee before the meeting—want one?”
Isabel shook her head quickly. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Darcy’s attention shifted back to her notes, just like any other day.
Isabel walked past, forcing her stride to stay steady even as her heart hammered against her ribs. She made it to her desk, dropped into her chair, and pretended to scroll through her inbox.
For the next several hours, she went through the motions.
Reports. Phone calls. Briefings. Every few minutes, her gaze flicked toward Darcy’s desk.
Watching. Counting. Measuring every movement.
Each time Darcy laughed or leaned over someone’s shoulder, Isabel’s pulse spiked, her fingers curling into fists beneath the desk.
When lunch rolled around, she ducked into the break room and ate standing up, her back to the wall. Her appetite was gone, but she forced down a sandwich anyway. Food kept her sharp.
The afternoon crawled. Darcy seemed calm—too calm.
Isabel tried to convince herself she was imagining things, that she hadn’t seen what she’d seen.
But the images from the CCTV played in her mind like a loop: Darcy slipping into the evidence hallway again and again with the same casual efficiency she used for everything.