Chapter 1
There’s a singular, universal truth that binds us all together. A fragile thread woven through all our hearts that makes us far more similar than we’d ever care to admit:
We are all masters of pretending.
It’s a performance art, really. A desperate, silent theater.
Think about the high schooler manning the register at your local burger joint. She moves at a glacial pace, projecting an aura of bored detachment, a mask of I-don’t-care plastered over her face. But beneath the surface? Beneath the skin and the uniform?
She is screaming into the void, begging the universe on her knees to not make her call the manager over for the third time this shift.
Or consider the Metro riders, the ones scrolling endlessly through apps they’ve already checked five times, their eyes glazed over. They aren’t bored.
They are terrified. They’re building digital fortresses to protect themselves from the excruciating vulnerability of accidental eye contact or a forced conversation with a stranger.
And then there’s the grandpa in front of you in line. He stands with the stoic posture of a man who has seen empires rise and fall, a man who knows the secrets of the earth. Yet, watch his hands. Watch the tremor as he tries to jam his credit card into the chip reader, baffled by the beep, humiliated by the technology, but acting like it’s the machine that’s the problem.
And look—I’m not trying to cast judgment upon the seven-hundred-thousand souls navigating the concrete maze of Washington, DC. I am a co-conspirator. I rarely act like a twenty-five-year-old when I’m on the clock. I lower my voice, I furrow my brow, and I wear the mask of experience because the world listens to gray hairs and wrinkles—not to a boy who looks like his college diploma ink hasn’t even dried yet.
But when a couple is having a loud, teary, earth-shattering breakup three inches from my ear on the train? It takes every ounce of my willpower, every fiber of my being, not to stare.
Okay, fine. Maybe I am throwing a little shade at Washingtonians. Just a smidge.
Oh, okay, you might be saying to yourself. But . . . who exactly are you to be saying this?
I’m Lysander Gray. Investigative journalist.
It is literally my profession to take a scalpel to the facade of people’s lives—to peel back the layers of deception and see who is faking it. But I’ve only been doing this for three years. In the grand scheme of journalism, I am a blip. A typo.
Completely dispensable.
So, Elowen? I don’t care if you need to summon your manager for emotional support because the cash register is scary—just make it quick, because my deadline is a guillotine hanging over my neck.
And Mr. Evans? Some of us have lives waiting for us, lives we are desperately trying to get back to, and we would much rather not listen to your dissertation on why the store owes you free beer as reparations for a faulty card reader.
Despite all of this—despite the hypocrisy and the masks—there is one thing I would never, ever pretend to be: a lawyer. Unsolicited legal advice is like expired milk; it sounds okay in theory, but it usually just makes everyone sick.
Even then, though . . .
“Supernatural Foods?” I squinted at the manila folder in my hands, wondering if my vision was failing or if reality had just gotten stupider. “That name’s got to be breaking at least one law. False advertising? Crimes against logic?”
The woman sitting on the metal bench opposite me didn’t laugh. She was a mountain of a human squeezed into a uniform. Officer Everly.
She just shook her head, the movement slow and heavy. “No lawsuits have been filed since date. I think they were trying to market their products as ‘better than natural’—”
“They really should’ve thought that one through,” I interrupted.
Mistake. Big mistake.
She glowered at me.
I’d only met Officer Everly that morning, and she was already my biggest fan. By which I mean she seemingly wanted to throw me into traffic. She was twenty years my senior, and she had an emotional support apple. Seriously. She was always holding one, crunching into it with a violence that suggested she was imagining it was someone’s head. Probably mine.
“So . . .” she drawled, taking a bite loud enough to crack a window. “Tell me why you’re here again? You training to be a cop? Playing dress-up?”
The van hit a pothole the size of a crater, rumbling over a bridge. The four other officers, who looked like they’d been assembled from spare parts of other, tougher cops, turned to look at me. I hadn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet of introductions.
“Er . . . no,” I said, trying to find a comfortable spot on the metal bench, which was impossible because it was designed by sadists. “I’m just here to confirm for my company that this case gets closed appropriately.”
Everly’s chewing filled the van. It was wet and loud. “What’s the company you work for again?”
“The District Report.”
She let out a low whistle, spraying a microscopic mist of apple juice. “That’s a pretty influential newspaper nowadays, right? How’d you get your job? Connections? Who’s rich—your mommy or your daddy?”
The question hit a nerve I didn’t know was exposed. It stung, sharp and sudden, like a paper cut to the heart.
“I had no help,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. The lie—or the partial truth—tasted bitter. “It was all because of my hard work.”
Everly threw her hands up in fake surrender, the half-eaten apple wobbling in her grip. “Whoa, don’t shoot. I just find it hard to believe that a kid right out of college made it all the way here—with just their ‘hard work.’”
The other officers murmured. A chorus of grunts and nods.
That’s why I’m stuck working with you, I wanted to scream. But I didn’t say that. I just swallowed the anger, letting it sit heavy in my stomach like a stone.
Fortunately, the universe decided to save me from further conversation by trying to kill us. The van skidded. My seatbelt tried to slice me in half as the vehicle jolted into park with the grace of a falling piano.
Bodies slammed against metal panels. The officers rubbed their heads and elbows, muttering things that would definitely get censored on daytime TV.
Truthfully? They deserved it.
The rear doors swung open. A beam of sunlight, harsh and blinding, assaulted my retinas.
“We’re here!” a gruff voice announced. “Best to get out while the day’s young. Move it!”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I unbuckled, scrambling past the officers who were moving with the urgency of molasses in winter. They yelped as I squeezed by, but I was already gone. I jumped from the rear bumper and landed in a different world.
Cars zoomed past, a blur of chrome and steel. I squinted up at the glass skyscrapers stabbing the sky.
We were on Seventh Street. Families were streaming toward the National Portrait Gallery, probably eager to stare at paintings of dead people to feel cultured. I’d gone there with my family once. It was a disaster. Just looking at those white Greek columns made a cold knot form in my gut, a phantom echo of past failures.
“Gather round! I won’t tell you twice!”
The officers spilled out of the van like a litter of clumsy puppies. Everly paused beside me, patted her hip, and cursed.
“Forgot my weapon in the van. Get it for me?”
“But the briefing—”
“You don’t need to hear it. You’re just here to watch, right?” She stomped away before I could argue.
I sighed. A deep, soulful sigh that rattled my ribs. One of these days, I thought, letting the fantasy wash over me, I will type up a resignation letter in Comic Sans, print it on glitter paper, and hand it in. When I can afford to, that is.
I went back to the van. I swung the side door open and stared at the wall of weapons.
Rifles. Pistols. A flamethrower.
Okay, maybe not the flamethrower. But in a normal squad, this would be an armory. This was Squad 16, though. The Bad News Bears of the MPD. The Island of Misfit Toys.
In every job, there are the screw-ups. The people who make you wonder how they manage to put their pants on the right way around in the morning. Usually, they get fired. But the police force was desperate. They needed bodies. So they took the rejects, the reckless, the borderline psychopathic, and dumped them into Squad 16.
And I was babysitting them. Yay me.
I fished a Taser from a blue bucket. Most of these guys weren’t even trusted with real guns or body armor. The logic was: If we give them guns, they’ll shoot themselves. If we give them armor, they’ll think they’re invincible and start fights.
I palmed the Taser and ran back. They were “deep” in the briefing. And by deep, I mean half of them were whispering about lunch.
“Thanks,” Everly grunted, snatching the Taser. “You grab one for yourself?”
“Don’t have my certificate,” I said. “Plus, guns and I? We have trust issues.”
“EVERLY! GRAY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
The side conversations stopped. The traffic noise seemed to vanish.
Everly snapped to attention faster than a whip crack. “Sir! I was enraptured by your speech—until this boy tried to distract me!” She pointed a sausage-thick finger at my nose.
You dirtbag.
Everyone stared. The sea of officers parted, revealing the man, the myth, the terrifying legend.
Officer Fenwick.
He was old enough to be my grandpa, but he could definitely snap me in half like a dry twig. Gray beard, military green sweater, muscles that looked like they were carved from granite. A bullet graze scarred his cheek—a permanent medal of honor. He used to be a drill sergeant.
Now he was also a babysitter of Squad 16.
He glared at me. It felt like he was staring into my soul and judging the furniture. “Gray. You have guts messing around during my briefing.”
“Sir . . .”
“And you’re going to tell me you were handing Officer Everly her Taser . . .”
I blinked. “Actually, that is exactly—”
“BAH!” He scoffed. “How naïve do you think I am?”
Great. He’s already written the narrative. But I couldn’t afford to be kicked off this story. Literally. My rent depended on it.
“Sir, please. I was only trying to help—”
“Help? Enough! I know a liar when I see one. You were talking. So, recite the briefing. Or go sit in the van like a toddler in time-out.”
“You . . . want me to tell you the case file?”
“Exactly. Unless you want to embarrass yourself in front of these . . .” he paused, searching for a polite word, “. . . spirited officers.”
I took a breath. I let the facts flood my brain, pushing away the anxiety.
“We’re here for Callum Wrenly. CEO of Supernatural Foods,” I rattled off, fast and crisp. “No priors. But a breakthrough investigation—my investigation—exposed illegal business practices. We are here to arrest him.”
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
Fenwick turned to Everly expectantly. “Well?”
Everly scanned the file she clearly hadn’t read until five seconds ago. “He’s . . . uh . . . correct.”
Fenwick grumbled. “Lucky guess. Let’s go!”
We marched toward the skyscraper. Twenty stories of glass and ego.
Crunch.
“Thanks for the backup,” I muttered to Everly.
“You handled it,” she said, spitting a seed. “I’m teaching you resilience.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Look, the old fart expects too much. Memorize case files? I have a life. It can’t be that important.”
“It’s literally the difference between life and death,” I said.
She looked genuinely surprised by this concept. Before she could respond, we were in the lobby, breezing past a sleepy receptionist. We packed into the elevator—more like a metal coffin.
The ride up took ten years. People coughed. Someone sneezed on my neck. I questioned every life choice that led me here.
Ding.
“Move out!” Fenwick ordered.
I bolted. I wasn’t brave; I just needed fresh air. I shoved past the hesitant officers and lunged into the hallway.
Twentieth floor. Floor-to-ceiling glass. A garbage truck crawled below. The floor creaked in the wind. My vertigo kicked in, the world spinning slightly. I leaned against the cold glass, closing my eyes.
A rough hand landed on my shoulder. “Take the rear, kid,” Fenwick said. His voice was soft. Unexpectedly gentle. “Let us do our job.”
For a guy who looked like he ate rocks for breakfast, Fenwick had moments of surprising humanity. He was the glue holding this disaster squad together.
Only for a certain officer to mess everything up. “Sir! I’m taking point!” Everly said.
Fenwick looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “You sure? You usually hide in the back.”
“I’m ready.”
Fenwick sighed the sigh of a broken man. “Fine. Everly is in charge.”
Back in the skyscraper, the passageway stretched on for a few dozen yards before yielding to a lone wooden door with a golden plaque: Office of the CEO.
She marched to the door and pounded on it.
“I swear, Vespera!” a voice yelled from inside. “If this is another meeting before eight, I’m firing you! Also, I told you to use the intercom!”
“I’m not Vespera!” Everly yelled back.
“Who are you then?” the voice demanded. “I’m calling the cops!”
She froze. Panic flashed in her eyes. She looked at Fenwick. He shrugged.
“I’m delivery!” Everly blurted out. “I have your . . . breakfast.”
I face-palmed. Delivery? That’s the oldest trick in the book. And the dumbest.
Fenwick grabbed her arm. “What are you doing? We are police officers! I will not have tomorrow’s headline read ‘Cops Impersonate Pizza Boys—Are They Stupid?’” He glared at me while saying it.
“I was tricking him!” Everly stammered.
“It was a bad trick!”
The door swung open.
“Wow, Vespera read my mind,” a blond man said, stepping out. He froze. He looked at the squad. “You aren’t delivery.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Tomorrow’s front page is looking pretty full,” I quipped.
Fenwick shot me a look, then flashed his badge at the blond man. “MPD. Can we talk?”
~~~
Callum Wrenly’s office was a monument to excess. We’re talking beanbags that cost more than my rent, white leather couches that looked like they’d never met a pair of denim jeans, and a desk roughly the size of an aircraft carrier.
Callum himself looked like the poster child for “My Dad Owns a Dealership.” Tight polo shirt. Clean shave. An aura so smug you could practically see it radiating off him like heat waves on asphalt.
There was an older man standing behind the high-backed leather chair like a statue in a tuxedo. Everly pointed a finger at him. “Mr. Wrenly, why is your secretary sitting in your chair?”
I groaned internally. Please, universe. Make it stop.
“I’m Callum,” the young guy in the polo said, not even looking up from his phone. “That’s Deuce. My secretary.”
Deuce smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was the kind of smile a shark gives a seal right before the water turns red.
Fenwick looked ready to spontaneously combust. He dragged Everly back by the collar of her uniform. “Did you even read the file? The target is twenty-five! That man is a fossil! Get out of my sight before I assign you to desk duty for the rest of your life!”
Everly retreated to my corner, sulking like a toddler who’d been denied candy.
“Nice job,” I whispered.
“Shut up.”
Fenwick turned back to Callum, adjusting his tie. “Sorry. My officers are . . . eager. We’re here to serve a warrant. An arrest warrant.”
Callum finally looked up. “Is this about the drug dealer? That wasn’t me! That was Vespera! She dialed the wrong number for my croissant!”
“Not the drugs,” Fenwick said. “Corporate espionage. Sabotage. The Harvest Market fires.”
Callum’s face changed instantly. The smugness evaporated, replaced by something sharper. “Harvest Market? Those bastards deserved to go bankrupt. But I didn’t do it.”
“We have chat logs,” Fenwick said, his voice dropping to that terrifying tone that sounded like ice cracking. “An anonymous source provided us with them.”
Callum’s eyes darted around the room. Searching. Hunting.
His gaze swept over the uniformed officers, dismissing them one by one. Then, it landed on me. He paused. His eyes widened.
“Hey. That’s my prior department of operations. I’d recognize those freaky purple eyes anywhere.”
Freaky purple eyes.
The words didn’t just hit me; they dismantled me.
Time seemed to stretch, pulling apart like taffy, turning the seconds into hours. The air left my lungs in a rush, not because of a physical blow, but because the insult bypassed my skin and struck something far deeper. It was an old ache, a phantom pain from a childhood I tried so hard to bury under layers of sarcasm and professionalism.
I had to hide it. I forced a smile onto my face. It felt heavy, like wearing a mask made of lead.
“Hey, Callum,” I said, offering a weak wave. “I’m Lysander Gray. Investigative journalist.”
Fenwick coughed loudly. “We had some help.”
“You betrayed me!” Callum screamed. “We had a contract!”
“You tore it up when you fired me for ‘scaring a customer’!” I shot back, the anger finally piercing through the shame. “Thanks for that, by the way. Saved me the trouble of quitting.”
That was the spark.
Callum didn’t just get mad. He went supernova. He vaulted over the desk—a blur of pastel polo and unbridled rage. He snarled like a tiger, eyes locked on my throat. He was fast. Terrifyingly fast.
I froze.
Fenwick intercepted him in mid-air like a linebacker sacking a quarterback. He slammed Callum’s face into the mahogany desk with a bone-jarring crunch. He wrenched Callum’s arms back. “Callum Wrenly! You are under arrest for espionage and attempted assault!”
“Murder!” I corrected, stumbling back. “He was definitely going for the throat!”
“We’ll talk later!” Fenwick hissed.
Callum struggled, blood dripping from his nose onto the expensive wood. “You’re monsters! All of you!”
Fenwick slammed him down again. “Shut up. You’ll get your trial.” He slapped the cuffs on.
I leaned toward Everly. “We can’t hit suspects, right?”
“He resisted,” she said, grinning. There was a piece of apple skin stuck between her front teeth. “Fair game.”
Fenwick turned to the older man, Deuce. “You can go. But stay in town.”
Deuce didn’t move. He stood there, calm as a frozen lake in winter. “I’m not leaving without Mr. Wrenly,” he said.
“Not a request,” Fenwick snapped. “Move.”
“I wasn’t asking.” Deuce reached into his blazer, pulled out a handgun, and pointed it at Fenwick’s forehead. “It was a statement.”
My eyes went wide.
I ducked toward the door as shouts filled the room, bouncing off the glass walls like panicked birds in a cage. Even a cop with amnesia would know what to do when their boss was being threatened by a deadly weapon.
Within seconds, half a dozen Tasers were leveled at Deuce. The air in the room felt tighter, hotter, electrically charged. Or maybe that was just because we’d spent way too long talking to Callum, and now the sun was shining at full force through the windows, turning the office into a greenhouse of anxiety. “Drop your weapon,” Everly warned him.
“I’ll say the same thing to you,” Deuce said. “Only, when I shoot, you’re never waking up ever again.”
By this moment, I’d reached the door. My hand rested on the cool metal of the doorknob.
I hesitated.
Sure, I’d have better odds surviving if I ran right now, but . . . we outnumbered him six-to-one. If things went south, I could always continue with my plan of running away.
This arrest was the culmination of a year of my work. Watching this arrest was the only satisfaction I could get. Besides, Fenwick wouldn’t let his officers surrender to one gun.
So I turned back around—just as Fenwick signaled his officers to surrender.
My only reaction was a brilliant, articulate, “Huh?”
At the same time, Everly exclaimed, “Why? We have the advantage!”
“We may have more guns,” Fenwick snapped, “but that means crap. I know at least half of you will manage to miss and hit me. It’s not worth it. Just drop your weapons.”
To demonstrate his seriousness, he raised his hands over his head. Callum kept his head resting on his table, too dazed to move.
“Last chance,” Deuce warned.
The officers wavered. Even though Deuce wasn’t paying attention to Fenwick anymore, the captain didn’t make a move for his gun—the only real one Squad 16 was allowed to have. It was clear that Fenwick didn’t trust his quick-draw timing over Deuce’s reaction time.
Finally, the sound of Tasers bouncing off the floor—safeties off, of course—reached my ears. The officers placed their hands on their heads.
Everly was grumbling, “Just what I needed to enjoy my weekend.”
“Silence!” Deuce snapped. “You officers, to the far corner of the room. Don’t you dare try anything funny, because I won’t hesitate to shoot.” Then he carefully walked toward Callum. “Mr. Wrenly, are you okay?”
“Get me out of these cuffs,” Callum groaned out, his words bouncing off the wood of the table.
“Which one of you has the key again?” Fenwick asked innocently as Deuce looked at him expectantly.
One officer started to speak, but was immediately incapacitated by Everly’s elbow to their solar plexus. The woman may not have known what sarcasm was, but the sound of deception was a piece of cake for her ears.
Deuce growled in frustration—then pulled the trigger.
It sounded like a thunderclap in a library. The bullet cleaved through the connecting chain of the handcuffs and dug a deep crater into the desk—an inch to the right of Callum’s hip.
The young man quickly straightened up, cupping his nose with both hands.
I lowered my hands from my ringing ears just in time for Callum to scold Deuce. “You almost killed me! Why didn’t you just shoot one of them and get the key?”
“I assure you, you weren’t in any danger whatsoever,” Deuce said in a level voice. “As for the officers—killing one would be . . . problematic.”
“You don’t have to drop one of us to commit a crime,” Fenwick called out from the other end of the room. “If it hasn’t been apparent already, holding us at gunpoint is illegal. However, I could speak to the D.A. about reducing your sentence if you surrender now . . .”
“Why would we surrender when we’re not going to get caught?”
“Really? You’re going to play this game?” Fenwick sighed, looking exhausted. “Alright. Let’s break it down. You can’t stay inside the United States—we’ll have your butt in prison before the weekend’s over, no matter how hard you try to hide. That only leaves escaping the country. Unfortunately, TSA takes its job seriously. We’ll put your name on the No Fly List even before the elevator spits you out on the ground floor.”
“You think I haven’t thought that far?” Deuce pulled out two passports with his free hand. “We’re not dumb enough to fly with our real names. C’mon, Mr. Wrenly. We’ve got to reach our private airstrip before these fine officers call for reinforcements.”
But when he turned around, the smile froze off his face. “You. Are you deaf?”
He’d just noticed me beside the door. I hadn’t moved an inch, and he looked ready to kill me for it. If I told him that I was actually trying to escape, I don’t think he’d take it very kindly.
I slowly placed my hands behind my head. “You told the officers to move to the corner. I’m not an officer, so I was a bit confused at what you wanted me to do . . .”
Unfortunately, snark was not the universal language I had hoped it would be. Deuce didn’t look amused. He snarled, “Get in the corner!”
“No,” Callum said. “This is good. I wanted to talk to him.”
He staggered toward me. In the few minutes he’d had since he’d been set free, Callum had managed to procure a tissue box and press the entirety of its contents around his nose. He’d mashed the white paper into a soft ball, peering over it like a mummy. The entire contraption was already soaking through with red.
Despite half his face being covered, I could tell he was mad. Really mad. “Hey, Gray,” he all but growled.
“Nice rhyme,” I told him. “But if you’re looking for revenge, you got the wrong guy. You’ll find the man who broke your nose over there.”
I pointed a finger at Fenwick. The Captain glared back. “Your honesty will be recorded in my police report.”
You WERE the person to admit to Wrenly that I basically ratted him out! I wanted to scream.
But a sharp slap diverted my attention.
“I think I’m talking to the right boy,” Wrenly uttered menacingly. “You know, you were never supposed to work for my company. Or, at least, not at the managerial level.”
“What changed?” I spat out, my right cheek ringing with pain. I didn’t dare launch my own attack back at Wrenly. Deuce was one step behind him, his gun alert for any movement. Wrenly was in control; the only thing I could do was stall and pray for help.
Not like I would get any.
“I decided we needed more . . . diversity on the board.” His smile was callous. “Turns out, maybe Leeloo wasn’t the best option.”
“I’d rather die with these eyes than have yours.”
“Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”
“Mr. Wrenly,” Deuce said in alarm as Callum plucked the gun out of his hands. “He might be an ordinary civilian, but you can’t kill him.”
“I’m not idiotic enough to throw my life away to exterminate an ant. No, I’m just going to put a bullet through his stomach.” Callum looked at me as though he were a wolf, and I was a wounded rabbit. “It’s the least you can do after ruining my life. Gray, you’ll be in a torturous amount of pain. But you’ll still be conscious—you’ll have to watch as your comrades decide on chasing me, or saving you.”
“What’s to say they can’t do both?” I dared.
Callum smirked as he raised the weapon, the barrel level with my navel. “Let’s just see, shall we?”
The moisture in my mouth evaporated instantly.
We both knew the answer.
Arresting a multi-million dollar CEO was more promotion-worthy than saving an entry-level journalist with weird eyes. I didn’t need to look to the side to know that the math was already running through the officers’ heads.
I was a variable they could afford to lose.
The silence in the room wasn’t just quiet; it was loud. It screamed of hesitation. Even if they called for backup, how long would an ambulance take? Long enough for me to bleed out on this pristine marble floor while Fenwick chased a promotion.
Callum’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Any last words?”
“I wish I’d been the one who’d broken your nose,” I said, raising my head indignantly. Call me stupid, but there was no way I would beg for my life in front of him.
“You—you—” Callum was so angry that he sputtered. “You’re insufferable! I’ve had enough of your disrespect. It’s a wonder your parents haven’t abandoned you yet.”
He raised the gun to pistol-whip me.
That was it.
His words snapped the last thread of self-discipline I had left. The fear vanished, replaced by a white-hot flash of instinct.
I ducked underneath his awkward swing and drove my fist into his gut.
Unfortunately, Callum was way more muscular than I realized. Other than his eyes widening in surprise, my attack didn’t incapacitate him. He swung the barrel of the gun toward my head . . .
. . . just as Deuce stepped forward. He’d wanted to protect his boss, only to get cracked upside his chin with a fistful of hard metal. He staggered backward, dazed.
Callum recovered quickly for a wounded man. He spun around to face me—only to find my fist sailing toward his face.
CRACK.
He screamed as I smashed him squarely on his already-broken nose. He dropped to the floor, clutching his face protectively, but not before I ripped the weapon from his hand.
Deuce charged forward—then froze.
“You want to try me?” I said, my voice steelier than I felt. I pointed the gun at him, even though my knuckles felt like they were shattered glass.
Fortunately, my bluff worked. Deuce fled. He raced through the door, slamming it shut behind him. Well, that worked better than expected.
I looked to the officers, who’d been watching the action from the corner with gaping mouths. “A little help here, guys?”
Fenwick snapped his mouth shut and began barking orders: “Get the secretary!”
Half the officers raced for the door. Well, at least they tried to—this was Squad 16 we were talking about. Halfway across the room, most of them were already gasping for breath. It took them a full minute to reach me, and they still had one more obstacle to deal with: Callum.
The young CEO was curled up on the floor, blocking the doorway like a very expensive speed bump. He tried to roll out of the way, but it was like trying to escape from a herd of stampeding elephants.
He yelped as the officers trampled him.
Five seconds later, the door slammed shut. Callum lay on the floor, groaning. The officers had done a satisfying amount of damage. His clothes were ripped. Somehow, he was missing a shoe. He clutched his stomach as if someone had used it as a stepping stone.
I stepped forward, adrenaline still pumping through my veins like fire. I knelt down and grabbed his collar.
The haze in Callum’s eyes dissipated slightly. He croaked out, “How do you know how to fight?”
I didn’t have an answer for him. Bringing a gun to a fistfight usually shuts down any means of resistance. But . . .
“Never talk about my parents like that ever again,” I snarled. “Am I clear?”
He didn’t respond. I shook him slightly, and he groaned in pain—good enough. A pair of steel-toed boots and XXL-size Crocs came into my peripheral vision.
“I think that’s enough,” Fenwick said. “We have to leave enough of him that the paramedics can fix him up.”
“Enjoy rotting in prison, Callum,” I spat out. I let go of his collar, reveling in the sound of his head hitting the hard marble floor with a solid thud.
With a bit of difficulty, I forced myself to turn toward Fenwick. He looked furious.
“Are you deaf?” he demanded. “What part of ‘Don’t hurt him’ did you not understand?”
I shrugged innocently. “He was trying to escape. He was resisting arrest.”
Now, Fenwick wheeled on Everly. “What did you teach him?”
“Nothing!” Everly exclaimed, unable to meet his eyes. “I have no idea why he would shirk responsibility like this . . .”
Fenwick didn’t look convinced. But he had a job to do. “Er . . . I’ll handcuff Mr. Wrenly later—he’s not exactly in the best state to flee. Meanwhile, we have to give credit where it’s deserved . . .”
I was waving him away before he could even finish, the hollow feeling in my gut returning with a vengeance. “We’ll do it like always.”
Everly looked confused. “Captain, what’s he talking about?”
But Fenwick was focused on me. “The money will be deposited in your account by the afternoon. The Department thanks you, like always.”
I forced a smile, then turned to leave.
The throbbing in my knuckles was sharp, a bright staccato rhythm of pain, but it was nothing compared to the heavy, dull thumping of regret in my brain. My procedure was cold and methodical. I’d done it many times before. I took the betrayal, the lies, the look on Callum’s face, and I pushed it all away.
I shoved it toward the darkest place in my mind—a mental vault with thick iron walls where I kept the things I couldn’t bear to look at. I locked it up tight, turning the heavy door wheel until the seal was airtight.
Because if I didn’t lock it away, if I let myself actually feel the weight of what I did for a paycheck, I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed tomorrow.
I wouldn’t be able to put on the mask.
As I moved through the door, I heard Everly whisper to Fenwick, “What just happened?”
“It’s nothing,” Fenwick muttered. “You’d do best to forget it ever happened.”
Then I was gone.
