Chapter 14 #2
By four o’clock, Isabel’s head throbbed. Her nerves were frayed. She’d checked the hallway outside the locker three separate times that day, making sure no one else had tampered with it. Everything looked normal. Too normal.
At five, most of the bullpen began to clear out. Darcy finally grabbed her jacket and purse. She paused on her way out, offering Isabel a friendly smile. “Don’t work too late,” she said lightly.
Isabel’s throat tightened. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
When the door shut behind her, Isabel let out a slow, shaking breath. The noise of the precinct dimmed, leaving only the hum of the overhead lights.
She waited another half hour—just to be sure—then rose from her chair. Her legs felt heavy, but her resolve had never been clearer.
She pulled the phone from her pocket, checked the files one more time—the grainy footage, the photos of Darcy’s signature—and then slipped it back in.
It was time.
The halls were nearly empty as she made her way upstairs. Each step echoed off the walls, loud in the quiet. She thought of Victoria—of the accusation, the hurt in her eyes, the distance in her voice—and prayed that this would be enough to make her see the truth.
By the time Isabel reached the door to Victoria’s office, the sky outside had dimmed to indigo. The glass panels reflected her face back at her—tired, determined, still burning.
She straightened her shoulders, took a breath, and knocked.
Victoria looked up from her desk when the knock came, the late hour already etched across her expression. “Come in.”
Isabel stepped through the doorway, heart pounding so loud she could almost hear it.
For a beat, neither of them spoke. Victoria looked tired—drawn, guarded—but her eyes flicked to Isabel with something like surprise. Maybe relief.
“Detective Torres,” Victoria said evenly, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You’re still here.”
“Yeah,” Isabel said quietly, closing the door behind her. “I needed to talk to you.”
Victoria’s gaze sharpened, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “If this is about yesterday—”
“It’s about the case,” Isabel cut in. Her voice was low, controlled, but trembling just beneath the surface. “And about me.”
That stopped Victoria cold.
“I have proof,” Isabel said, reaching into her jacket pocket. Her fingers closed around her phone as if it were a weapon. “I’m not the mole, Victoria. And I know who is.”
Victoria’s brow furrowed, her voice careful. “What proof?”
Isabel glanced toward the glass panels of the office, toward the half-open blinds that looked out on the dim bullpen. Even this late, there were still a few stragglers—dispatch clerks, night-shift detectives, the janitor pushing a mop. Every sound felt too close.
She swallowed hard, lowering her voice even more. “Not here. I don’t trust this place. The walls, the phones, any of it. If I’m right—and I am—then whoever’s behind this already has ears everywhere.”
Victoria’s expression darkened, suspicion and concern warring in her eyes. “Torres, if you have evidence, I need to see it. We can secure the conference room—”
“No,” Isabel said firmly, stepping closer to the desk. “Please. Just…not here. I need to show you, but somewhere safe. Your place.”
Victoria hesitated, the air between them tightening. For a moment, Isabel thought she’d refuse, pull rank, remind her who was in charge. But then something flickered in her eyes—trust, maybe, or guilt—and she exhaled slowly.
“All right,” Victoria said at last. “My place.”
Relief flooded Isabel’s chest, mingling with nerves. She nodded once, quick and businesslike, but her voice came out softer than she meant. “Thank you.”
Victoria stood, grabbing her coat and keys. “You’d better be right about this.”
“I am,” Isabel said. “You’ll see.”
As they stepped out into the cool night air, Isabel caught a glimpse of their reflection in the glass doors—two shadows moving fast and quiet through a building full of secrets.
She didn’t know what waited for them outside, but she knew one thing for certain: after tonight, nothing between them would ever be the same.
The drive to Victoria’s place was quiet.
The kind of silence that pressed in from every direction—too heavy, too full.
Isabel sat with her hands clenched in her lap, watching the streetlights streak across the windshield.
She could feel Victoria beside her, rigid and distant, her eyes fixed on the road as if the car might fly apart if she so much as blinked.
When they pulled up in front of the townhouse, Victoria killed the engine but didn’t move. For a long moment, neither of them did. The click of the cooling engine filled the space between them.
Finally, Victoria got out without a word. Isabel followed.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and wine. The place was pristine—coldly beautiful, much like the woman who lived there. Isabel had been here once before, but that had been different. Warmer. Softer. Now, everything between them felt brittle.
Victoria hung up her coat and turned to face her, every inch of her posture composed. “You said you had proof.”
Isabel pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked it with shaking fingers. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do.”
She moved to the table and opened the video she’d recorded in the security room. The footage was grainy, flickering slightly, but clear enough. She pressed play and handed it over.
Victoria leaned in, her arms folded tight as she watched Darcy’s figure pass down the hallway on the screen—once, twice, again—always carrying something different.
“Keep watching,” Isabel said, her voice low. “Count the trips. Count how many times she goes in empty-handed and comes out full.”
Victoria did. With each pass, her jaw tightened, the muscles along her temple ticking.
When the clip ended, Isabel swiped to the next photo—the evidence logbook. “Only two sign-outs in the last two weeks,” she said. “Now look at the handwriting on those signatures—Darcy’s—and compare it to this.”
She brought up the charred form from the bombing. Her own name, signed in a hand that suddenly looked far too familiar.
Victoria stared at the screen, silent. Her eyes flicked from one signature to the other, then back again.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “Son of a bitch.”
The words hit Isabel like a rush of cold air. Relief and exhaustion flooded through her so fast she nearly swayed. “It’s her, Victoria. It’s been her all along.”
Victoria’s eyes lifted to meet hers. For the first time in days, there was no ice in them—only guilt, raw and unguarded. “I should’ve known. I should’ve trusted you.”
Isabel let out a shaky laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, well…you didn’t.”
Victoria flinched. The silence stretched again, brittle and heavy.
Then, softer, “I’m sorry.”
Isabel’s throat tightened at the sincerity in her voice. “You really thought I could do that to you? To the department?”
“I didn’t want to,” Victoria said quietly. “But I let the evidence speak louder than my instincts. That was my mistake.”
Isabel crossed her arms, looking down, trying to blink back the sting in her eyes. “You think saying that makes it hurt less?”
“No,” Victoria said. “But I needed to say it anyway.”
Something in her tone—low, steady, regretful—cut straight through Isabel’s defenses. The anger in her chest softened into something else, something just as dangerous.
Victoria stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. “You could’ve taken this to Internal Affairs. You didn’t have to come to me.”
Isabel shook her head. “I wanted you to be the first to know. I needed you to believe me.”
That last line hung between them, raw and bare.
Victoria reached out then, hesitant, her fingers brushing Isabel’s hand. Isabel didn’t pull away. For a moment, they just stood there breathing the same air, the world narrowing to the space between them.
Then Victoria’s hand slid up, her palm resting against Isabel’s cheek. “I do believe you,” she whispered. “I always did.”
The words hit harder than Isabel expected. She let out a breath that trembled on its way out, leaning into the touch she’d been craving for days.
And when Victoria leaned in, Isabel didn’t stop her.
The kiss wasn’t frantic this time. It was deep and deliberate—an apology, a promise, and a release all at once. Days of tension and mistrust melted into warmth and need. Isabel’s hands found Victoria’s waist, pulling her closer, feeling the solid weight of her body, the steady thrum of her pulse.
Victoria broke the kiss only long enough to whisper, “I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”
“Then don’t,” Isabel murmured, pulling her back in.
They stumbled together toward the couch, the weight of everything—fear, anger, relief—collapsing into touch. The world outside could wait. For now, there was only this: forgiveness, fire, and the fragile truth finally between them.