Chapter 9 Brian
Brian
I checked under Ava's car every morning now.
It had become routine. Part of the rhythm of this new life I barely recognized. Check the locks. Check the windows. Check under the car for anything that shouldn't be there.
Some mornings, my hands shook. Others, they didn’t.
Vary the route to the hospital. Never the same streets twice.
Some mornings, my hands shook. Others, they didn’t.
Vary the route to the hospital. Never the same streets twice.
I didn't like who I was becoming. But I liked the alternative less.
At the firehouse, Shane found me in the equipment bay, running checks I'd already run twice. He leaned against the engine, arms crossed, wearing the look of someone who'd known me too long to be fooled.
"You look like hell, Torres."
"I'm fine."
"You don’t look fine." He didn't move, just kept watching.
I set down the coupling I'd been inspecting. My hands were steadier than they'd been yesterday. Small mercies.
"Someone grabbed her, Shane. Outside the hospital. Told her to recant. Or else."
Shane's expression shifted. The easy humor drained away, replaced by something harder. "When?"
"Three days ago. She's got bruises on her arm. Finger-shaped." The words came out flat, like I was reading from a report. It was easier that way. "The Langs sent a message."
"Jesus." Shane ran a hand over his face. "What about Detective Diaz? She's been solid so far. Maybe she can do something with this. File a report, increase patrols. Make noise."
He was right. Diaz had been the only one who treated this case like it mattered. She'd pushed through when the Langs' lawyers blocked her at every turn, gotten Kevin arrested when everyone said it couldn't be done. If anyone could help, it would be her.
"Yeah," I said. "I'll call her."
Shane nodded. "Let me know what she says." He caught my eye. "And Torres. We figure this out together. You're not carrying this alone."
I called Detective Diaz that afternoon.
Her phone went straight to voicemail.
I tried again. Same result.
Something cold settled in my stomach. Diaz had been the only cop who treated Ava like a witness instead of a nuisance. She'd pushed through the Langs' interference, gotten the traffic footage, and made the arrest happen.
I called the precinct directly.
"114th Precinct, how can I direct your call?"
"Detective Diaz, please."
"One moment. What is this regarding?"
"An active investigation. I'm a contact for one of her witnesses."
"Case name or number?"
"The Kevin Lang case. Hit-and-run homicide. Victim was Derek Edwards."
A pause. Keys clicking. Then: "I'm sorry, sir. Detective Diaz is no longer assigned to that case."
The cold in my stomach spread, slow and heavy. "Since when?"
"I don't have that information. Would you like me to transfer you to the detective currently handling the case?"
"Yes."
"One moment, please."
The hold music was tinny, generic. I stood in the firehouse kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, and tried not to think about what this meant. Diaz had been their best shot. Their only shot.
And now she was gone.
"This is Detective Morrison."
The voice was young. Uncertain. Nothing like Diaz's steady confidence.
Not the voice you wanted when someone’s life was on the line.
"Detective, my name is Brian Torres. I'm calling about the Kevin Lang investigation. The hit-and-run that killed Derek Edwards."
"Right. The Edwards case." Papers shuffling. "What can I help you with?"
"I'm looking for an update. The witness in the case, Dr. Ava Rothwell, was threatened outside her workplace three days ago. Someone grabbed her, told her to recant her statement."
"I see." More shuffling. "Well, Mr. Torres, I appreciate you calling, but these things take time. We're working through the evidence—"
"What evidence? The traffic footage that disappeared? The witnesses who've been paid off or scared into silence?"
"Sir, I understand you're frustrated, but—"
"Frustrated doesn't begin to cover it." I kept my voice level. Barely. "A woman is being terrorized, and the people responsible are walking free because their daddy has money. What exactly is being done about that?"
Morrison's voice went defensive. Tight. "The investigation is proceeding according to protocol. If you have additional information to share, I'm happy to take a statement. Otherwise—"
"Otherwise, what? Wait for the Langs to make good on their threats?"
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to—"
I hung up.
Stood there in the kitchen, phone in my hand, and let the truth settle over me like a weight.
The investigation wasn't slow. It was dead. Diaz had been removed because she was getting too close, and the new guy was either incompetent or bought. Maybe both.
The system had been purchased. And Ava was paying the price.
I found Shane and Garrett in the common room after dinner.
Shane was going over incident reports. Garrett was in his usual corner, laptop open, face illuminated by the screen. He looked up when I walked in, dark eyes sharp.
"I have to tell you something."
Shane set down his papers. Garrett closed his laptop. They both waited.
"Diaz is gone. Reassigned, supposedly, but no one will tell me where. The new detective on the case is a kid who can barely tie his shoes, and he's already spouting the company line about 'these things taking time.'" I dropped into a chair. "The investigation is dead. The Langs killed it."
Shane's jaw tightened. Garrett's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. The kind of look that said he was already running scenarios, calculating odds.
"So we go around them," Shane said finally. "Make enough noise that the DA can't ignore it."
"How? We're firefighters, not detectives."
Shane hesitated. His eyes flicked to Garrett first—a quick glance, there and gone—then back to me.
"The Tommy Vickers story," Shane said slowly. "The foster system exposé that ran in the Times last year."
I nodded. The three-part series had sparked legislation, a citywide conversation about kids aging out of the system. It had been everywhere for weeks.
"I worked with the journalist who wrote it. Sloane Harper."
Garrett went still at the mention of her name. I caught it. The way his whole body locked up, the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Shane continued. His voice was careful and measured. "She's the real deal. Relentless, meticulous. Doesn't back down from powerful people. If anyone can take on the Langs and make it stick, it's her."
"What would we even ask her to do?" I asked.
"She's an investigative journalist. This is what she does.
" Shane leaned forward. "We pitch her the story.
Kevin's confession, the cover-up, the way the investigation got torpedoed.
She has resources we don't. Contacts at City Hall, sources who owe her favors.
She can dig into the Langs' finances, find witnesses the cops missed or ignored. "
I turned it over in my head. Going to the press meant losing control of the story. It meant exposure, attention. But staying quiet meant watching the investigation die while Ava kept looking over her shoulder.
"It's the right move."
Garrett's voice cut through my thoughts. I looked at him. He was staring at the table, not at either of us, but his voice was steady.
"The system's been bought," he said. "Police, DA, whoever else the Langs have in their pocket.
We're not going to outspend them or outmaneuver them through official channels.
But public pressure?" He finally looked up.
"That's harder to buy. A story in the Times puts eyes on this.
Makes it politically dangerous to bury. The DA will have to act, even if he doesn't want to.
" He paused, something flickering across his face.
"And Sloane Harper is dedicated to the truth. You can trust that."
The way he said it—like he knew it firsthand, like it cost him something to admit—hung in the air between us.
I didn't ask. Not my place.
"Okay," I said. "We do it."
Shane nodded. "That settles it. I still have Sloane's contact info. I'll reach out, set up a meeting." He looked between us. "I'll let you know when I hear back."
Shane stood, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'll text her now."
I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Garrett's shoulders had gone rigid, his hands flat on the table like he was bracing himself.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Fine." The word came out clipped. He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm going to check the rig. Let me know what she says."
I didn't ask. Whatever was between Garrett and Sloane Harper, it wasn't my business.
Not yet.
The smell hit me the moment I opened the door.
Not smoke. Not burning. Something rich and savory that made my stomach growl before I'd even set down my bag.
Ava had the day off, which meant I didn't need to pick her up from the hospital. I'd half-expected to find her asleep on the couch with Watson on her chest, catching up on the rest she never got enough of.
Instead, she was in the kitchen, hair piled in a messy bun, one of my old flannels thrown over her t-shirt. Watson sat on the counter beside her, a health code violation she refused to acknowledge, watching her stir something with his usual air of supervision.
"You're cooking." I toed off my boots.
"I'm cooking." She didn't look up, focused on whatever was simmering. "And before you say anything, nothing is on fire."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Your face was going to say it for you."
I crossed the kitchen, leaning over her shoulder to peer into the pot. Beef stew, from the look of it. Chunks of meat, carrots, potatoes, all swimming in a dark, fragrant broth.
"Is that rosemary?"
"And thyme. And a bay leaf." She picked up a wooden spoon, scooped up a small bite, and turned to face me. "Here. Taste."
She held the spoon up toward my mouth, her other hand cupped underneath to catch any drips. The gesture was simple. Domestic. The kind of thing couples did without thinking.