Chapter 44: The Reporter's Gambit
Milo Davidson’s rental was a tomb of silent ambition. The only light came from his laptop screen, painting his weathered face in a cold blue glow. Spread across the cheap IKEA coffee table was his expanding dossier on Jennifer Wu. He added a new line to the ‘Behavioral Notes’ section: Subject uses professional disdain as primary defense mechanism. Fatigue indicators (periorbital shadows, micro-delays in response time) suggest significant emotional preoccupation unrelated to case. Likely source: interpersonal entanglements (see Weaver, J.; Ruiz, J. Vulnerability may be accessed through simulated professional respect coupled with calculated personal disregard.
He minimized the file and brought up the financial trails he’d been untangling. Eleanor Vance’s public philanthropy was a glossy curtain. Behind it, his sources had traced a filament–a shell company named “Acheron Holdings” registered in Delaware. It was a ghost, but a ghost with transactions. Small, regular payments from an offshore bank in the Caymans flowed into it, and from there, dispersals to a handful of domestic accounts. One of those accounts belonged to a “K. Larson,” who, after some digging, turned out to be the attending physician for Eleanor Vance’s late husband during his final, agonizing year battling pancreatic cancer.
Milo leaned back, the chair groaning. A shell company paying a dead man’s doctor. That wasn’t philanthropy. That was silence. That was a secret.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from an editor at the Herald: Heard you’re embedded with LAPD on the Vance adjutant case. Copy by Friday?
He didn’t reply. The story was inflating, becoming something heavier, more valuable. And Jennifer Wu was his ticket to the heart of it. He had leverage now, but it was brittle. He needed to apply it with precision.
He picked up his burner phone and dialed her number. It rang four times before she answered, the sound of wind and traffic flooding the line.
“Davidson,” she said, her voice flat. “I’m at a scene. Make it fast.”
“And a lovely good morning to you too, detective.” He swiveled to face the city lights. “I’ve been a good little ghost, digging where you pointed. Eleanor Vance. Her finances are… creative.”
A pause. He heard a car door slam, then the sounds of the street became muffled. “How creative?”
“Creative enough to have a private pipeline to her late husband’s oncologist. Regular payments, routed through a shell corp called Acheron Holdings. Sounds cheerful.” He let the information hang. “Now, I could start calling in favors to trace Acheron’s other tentacles. But that would make noise. The kind of noise that might scare interesting fish back into the deep. Or, we could have a proper conversation. Share notes. I whisper what I find into your ear, and you… point me in the next productive direction. A true partnership.”
Her silence was taut. He could almost hear her weighing the options, her dislike for him warring with her need for the information. “I don’t have time for a coffee and a chat, Davidson. I’m at a pharmacy in Westwood. The one David Hoyle mentioned. Eliza Tillman was a regular here.”
That was new. That was good. She was sharing, however reluctantly. “Prescription pickups for Eleanor Vance?” he guessed.
“For a ‘Mr. Vane,’” Jennifer corrected, her tone sharpening with investigative focus. “But the script was always for high-dose OxyContin. Eleanor Vance’s husband died four years ago, Davidson.”
Milo’s mind made the connection instantly. “So someone’s been using a dead man’s prescription to feed a live person’s habit. Or someone’s pocket. You think Eliza was the mule.”
“The pharmacist is… nervous. He remembers Eliza. He didn’t remember the prescriptions being for a deceased person until I showed him the death certificate. Convenient.”
“Pressure him,” Milo said, his reporter’s instincts clicking into place. “He’s the linchpin. He either knew it was fraudulent, which makes him an accomplice, or he was willfully blind, which makes him liable. Either way, he’s more scared of you than he is of Eleanor Vance right now.”
“I don’t need coaching,” she snapped, but there was no real heat in it. It was reflex. “What else did you find on Acheron?”
“That’s the thing about partnerships,” he said softly, smiling at the glowing skyline. “They require reciprocity. You’ve given me a tasty crumb about a pharmacy. I’ll give you a name. The oncologist is Dr. Kenneth Larson. Retired. Lives in Santa Barbara. But the payments from Acheron to his personal account continued for two years after the husband’s death. Then they stopped, roughly around the time Eliza Tillman was hired. Interesting timing, no?”
He heard her exhale, a slow release of breath. He’d handed her a solid lead, one that connected the financial mystery directly to her victim’s timeline. She’d have to take it.
“Santa Barbara,” she muttered, probably already calculating the drive time. “Fine. Email me everything you have on Larson and the payment trail. Do not contact him. Do not go near him.”
“See? We’re cooperating. It’s almost pleasant.” He could feel her wanting to end the call. “One more thing, detective. Off the professional record. You sound tired. This case, the department politics, Weaver… it’s a lot. Don’t burn yourself out trying to prove you don’t need anyone.”
The line was silent for so long he thought she’d hung up. Then her voice came through, low and clear, stripped of all pretense. “Don’t you dare psychoanalyze me, Davidson. You want to be useful? Be a silent partner. Send the files.”
The call died. He put the phone down, his smile widening. He’d gotten under her skin. That was the first step. The dossier was updated: Responds to strategic vulnerability with increased aggression, but accepts necessary intel. Professional integrity is primary lever. He opened his email, attached the carefully curated documents on Dr. Larson—leaving out a few juicier, unverified tidbits for later—and hit send.
Subject: Our Mutual Friend. Enjoy Santa Barbara.
The Westwood pharmacy had the sterile, fluorescent anxiety of all places that traffic in controlled substances. The pharmacist, a balding man named Arjun with trembling hands, had folded the moment Jennifer mentioned the Medical Board. Yes, he remembered Eliza. Pleasant young woman. Yes, the prescriptions were under “Charles Vane.” They seemed in order. He’d never checked. It was a busy practice.
“A dead man’s prescription for a Schedule II narcotic seemed in order?” Jennifer had asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
Arjun had begun to sweat. That’s when Milo had called. Dr. Kenneth Larson. Santa Barbara. The pieces were slotting together with a grim, logical click. Eliza hadn’t just been an assistant. She’d been a component in a hidden machine—one that likely distributed pills, laundered money, or both. And if she’d wanted out, or had made a mistake, or had threatened to expose it…
Jennifer drove back to the Parker Center with the windows down, letting the choked LA air clear the pharmaceutical smell from her nostrils. She needed to see the Captain, to get authorization to pull Larson’s records and to trek up to Santa Barbara. And she needed to do it before Milo decided to “help” by making the trip himself.
Captain Ruiz’s office was a welcome capsule of familiar clutter. He looked up from a report as she entered, his eyes narrowing at her expression.
“Wu. You look like you’ve been wrestling with angels and losing.”
“Demons, maybe.” She slid into the chair across from him, not waiting for an invitation. “Eliza Tillman was picking up Oxy scripts for Eleanor Vance’s dead husband. The payments from Vance’s shell company to the deceased’s doctor continued for years after his death. I need to go talk to that doctor. Kenneth Larson. In Santa Barbara.”
Ruiz leaned back, steepling his fingers. “You got this from Davidson.”
It wasn’t a question. “He has sources in financial records I don’t. I verified the pharmacy lead myself. The connection is real. Larson is a direct link between Vance and possible prescription fraud. It gives Eliza a potential motive for murder beyond a simple robbery.”
“It gives you a mess,” Ruiz corrected, but he was nodding. “A rich, connected mess. You go up there, you tread like you’re on eggshells wearing combat boots. Larson’s retired, he’s got money for a lawyer who’ll sue the department for bothering him. You have to make the approach… soft.”
“I’ll be the soul of diplomacy,” Jennifer said, her tone dry.
Ruiz snorted. “Right. And how’s your other partnership? The forced one.”
The question was casual, but his gaze was sharp. Fatherly. She deflected. “Davidson is a tool. I’m using him for the information he can access. He wants a story. I want a killer. Our interests are parallel, not congruent.”
“Tools can cut the hand that holds them,” Ruiz said quietly. He studied her for a long moment, seeing past the professional armor to the fatigue Milo had noted. “Sam Weaver is a good man. Uncomplicated. In our line of work, that’s a rare thing.”
The non-sequitur was a deliberate probe. Jennifer felt a flush of heat on her neck. “This isn’t about Sam, Captain.”
“Isn’t it?” He sighed, a sound of weary understanding. “I’ve known you a long time, Jennifer. You collect complications. You think you can manage them, and most of the time you do. But sometimes they manage you. This case, with Vance, with Davidson sniffing around, with a dead girl who was in over her head… it’s a hall of mirrors. Don’t get so focused on the reflections that you forget which one is really you.”
The advice was too close to the bone. She stood, smoothing her blazer. “My focus is on finding who killed Eliza Tillman. That’s the only reflection that matters right now. Do I have the go-ahead for Santa Barbara?”
Ruiz held her stare for a beat longer, then waved a hand in acquiescence. “Go. Be soft. And keep your tool on a short leash. Reporters have a way of turning into loose cannons.”
Back at her desk, the weight of the day settled on her shoulders. She booked an unmarked car for the morning drive. She updated the case file, detailing the pharmacy interview and the Larson lead. As she typed, her personal phone lit up with a text.
It was from Sam. Dumpster Doe finally got a name. Maria Flores. We’re tracking down next of kin. It’s grim. Dinner tonight? I’ll cook. Something without ginger.
A simple, solid anchor in the shifting ground. She typed a reply. Yes. Please. She hesitated, then added, It’s good you gave her a name.
Her desk phone rang, the internal line. It was the front desk. “Detective Wu? There’s a delivery for you. A messenger just dropped it off.”
A cold trickle of foreboding ran down her spine. “Send it up.”
Five minutes later, a uniformed clerk placed a slim, thick cardboard envelope on her desk. No return address. Her name was typed on a plain label.
Using a letter opener, she slit the top. Inside was a single photograph. It was a telephoto shot, grainy but clear. It showed her and Sam, two nights ago, standing in the window of her loft. She was in her tank top and shorts, his arm around her waist, her head leaning against his shoulder. A private, peaceful moment, stolen from the darkness.
There was no note.
Her blood went quiet and cold. She turned the photo over. Nothing.
She carefully slid it into a clean evidence bag, her hands steady despite the chill in her veins. She scanned the squad room. Junior detectives typed reports, a sergeant laughed on the phone, the mundane machinery of the department churned on.
Someone was watching. Someone who knew where she lived. Someone who wanted her to know they were watching.
Milo? It was his style, a psychological play. But he’d just been on the phone with her, playing his financial leverage game. This felt cruder, more invasive. A different kind of threat.
Or was it connected to the case? To Eleanor Vance’s world, where secrets were currency and enemies were dealt with in the dark?
She placed the sealed evidence bag in her desk drawer and locked it. The click of the tumbler was final. She looked out the window, at the sprawling, indifferent city. The hall of mirrors, as Ruiz had called it, had just gained another reflection—one that stared right back into her most private self.
The case was no longer just about a dead assistant in Silver Lake. It had slithered out of its confines and was now pressing its face against her own window. She picked up her desk phone, her finger hovering over the keypad. She could call Sam. She could call Ruiz. She could even call Milo.
Instead, she placed the receiver back in its cradle. She sat in the gathering dusk of her cubicle, the neon signs outside beginning to bleed color into the sky, and let the silence deepen around her. The only sound was the low hum of the fluorescents and the rapid, determined beat of her own heart, a drum counting down to something she couldn’t yet name.
The only sound was the low hum of the fluorescents and the rapid, determined beat of her own heart, a drum counting down to something she couldn’t yet name. She stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor. The locked drawer seemed to vibrate with the secret inside. She needed air that wasn’t recycled through the building’s vents.
She found Sam in the morgue’s observation room, staring through glass at a shrouded form on a steel table. He didn’t turn as she entered. “Maria Flores,” he said, his voice hollowed out. “Twenty-eight. She’d been working the streets since she was sixteen. She had a son. He’s with her sister in Inglewood.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Don’t be.” He finally looked at her, his eyes dark with a familiar, quiet rage. “Be angry. Someone dumped her like garbage. John’s out there right now, talking to the sister. He’s good with people. Better than me.” He noticed her expression then, the tension she couldn’t fully mask. “What’s wrong?”
She almost told him. The words fizzed on her tongue—someone took a picture of us. But saying it aloud would make it real in a different way. It would pull him into its orbit, and his protective instincts would eclipse everything. The case would become secondary. She couldn’t afford that. Not yet.
“Long day,” she deflected, leaning against the doorframe. “The pharmacy lead panned out. I’m driving to Santa Barbara tomorrow to talk to a retired doctor.”
“The one from Milo’s financial magic trick.” Sam’s tone was flat. “You trusting him now?”
“I’m using the information. There’s a difference.” She pushed off the frame. “Dinner still on?”
“Yeah.” He peeled off his latex gloves, tossing them into a biohazard bin. “Let’s get out of this place. I’ll follow you home.”
The drive to Santa Barbara the next morning was a study in tense silence. The sealed evidence bag with the photograph was in her glove box, a toxic passenger. She replayed the image in her mind: the unguarded slope of her shoulders, Sam’s easy embrace. The violation was intimate, precise. It felt less like a reporter’s move and more like a predator’s—a reminder of her exposed flanks.
Dr. Kenneth Larson lived in a modified Spanish-style villa off Mission Canyon Road, surrounded by meticulously distressed landscaping. Money and taste, aging gracefully. He answered the door himself, a trim man in his seventies with carefully combed white hair and eyes the color of old ice. He’d been expecting her.
“Detective Wu. Please.” He ushered her into a cool, tiled living room that smelled of lemon polish and regret. “I assumed someone would come, eventually. Can I offer you tea?”
“No, thank you.” She remained standing, taking in the room. Framed diplomas, a photo with a former governor, a collection of antique medical instruments behind glass. “You know why I’m here.”
“The prescriptions for Charles Vane.” He settled into a leather armchair, not asking her to sit. “Yes. I continued to write them for two years after his death. It was a… financial arrangement. A kindness, for my silence regarding the nature of his final months.”
“His suffering?”
“His acceleration.” Larson’s gaze didn’t waver. “The cancer was terminal. The pain was unimaginable. My oath is to do no harm, but sometimes mercy wears a complicated face. Mrs. Vance wished to ease his passage. I provided the means. In return, she provided for my early retirement.”
“Through Acheron Holdings.”
A flicker of surprise, then resignation. “You’ve been thorough. Yes. The payments were for my discretion. They stopped when the… inventory… was no longer needed.”
“Inventory.” Jennifer let the word hang in the air, sterile and awful. “The OxyContin.”
“It was all accounted for,” he said, a defensive sharpness entering his voice. “Every pill. The prescriptions were filled legally, at a single pharmacy. Mrs. Vance was vehement about control.”
“And Eliza Tillman was the courier.”
“A pleasant young woman. Reliable.” He looked down at his hands, perfectly still in his lap. “I never asked what happened to the medication after it left the pharmacy. That was not my concern.”
“But it’s mine.” Jennifer took a step forward. “Eliza is dead. Bludgeoned in her home. And someone has been photographing me in my private residence. Does that sound like accounted-for inventory to you, Doctor?”
The color drained from his face. The polished facade crumbled, revealing the frightened man underneath. “I had no part in that. I provided medical care, and then I provided silence. That is the extent of my knowledge.”
“Who else knew? About the arrangement? About the pills?”
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes darting to the window as if expecting to see someone there. “There is a man,” he said finally, his voice barely a whisper. “Mrs. Vance’s… facilitator. He handled the logistics, the payments after the first year. He collected the medication from the girl once, when she was ill. He made me uncomfortable.”
“A name.”
“He only ever gave a first name. James.” Larson looked back at her, his expression pleading. “I want no further involvement. I have told you what I know.”
James. The connection landed like a physical blow. Jennifer left the villa without another word, the California sun feeling cold on her skin. She sat in her car, her hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles ached. The puzzle was forming a picture she didn’t want to see: Vance, a shell company, a corrupted doctor, a dead mule. And someone was watching her, sending her pictures.
She pulled her phone out and called the Captain. It went straight to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message.
The drive back to LA was a blur of smog and rising fury. She went straight to the Vance residence in Bel Air, a modernist fortress of glass and steel perched above the city. She didn’t call ahead. She used her badge to get past the ornate iron gate, her unmarked car crunching up the immaculate gravel drive.
The Vance residence loomed, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces. A woman in a stark black dress answered the door before Jennifer could knock, her face a mask of polite inquiry. “Detective Wu. Mrs. Vance is not receiving visitors.”
“She’s receiving me.” Jennifer shouldered past, the foyer’s marble floor echoing under her boots. The air was chill, scentless. “Where is she?”
“In the sunroom.” The assistant scurried ahead, her disapproval a palpable force. “This is highly irregular.”
Eleanor Vance was exactly as her photos suggested: late sixties, with the kind of taut, careful beauty that spoke of significant expense and negligible joy. She sat beside a wall of glass overlooking the canyon, a half-finished spreadsheet open on a tablet beside her. She didn’t look up.
“You have two minutes, detective. I am grieving.”
“You’re managing assets.” Jennifer stopped a few feet away, not taking the offered seat. “I just spoke with Dr. Larson. He told me about the kindness you paid for. The mercy for your husband.”
Eleanor’s finger paused over the tablet. Her eyes, a flat, weathered blue, finally lifted. “Ken was always melodramatic. Charles’s pain was unmanageable. I managed it.”
“With OxyContin. Prescribed for a dead man. Filled by Eliza. For years after.” Jennifer let the timeline hang in the sterile air. “That’s not managing pain. That’s building an inventory. Where did it go, Eleanor?”
“I have no idea what you’re implying.” She set the tablet down with a precise click. “Eliza was a trusted aide. She handled certain discreet errands. If she was engaged in something illicit, I am as shocked and appalled as you are.”
“Really?” Jennifer pulled the evidence bag from her jacket pocket. She didn’t remove the photo, just let the image of her and Sam in her window face the older woman. “Because someone with a long lens took this. Two nights ago. They left it for me. That feels like a message from someone who’s not shocked at all. Someone who’s panicking.”
For the first time, a crack appeared. A tiny, rapid twitch at the corner of Eleanor’s mouth. Her gaze flicked from the photo to the doorway behind Jennifer. “You should leave.”
“A man named James,” Jennifer pressed, stepping closer. “Your facilitator. Larson said he made him uncomfortable. Where is he, Eleanor? Did he get sloppy? Did Eliza finally figure out she wasn’t just running medicine for her grieving boss? Was she going to talk?”
“Get out.” The words were ice.
“Or what? You’ll send James to take another picture?” Jennifer leaned in, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “He’s not just a facilitator, is he? He’s the one who swung the statuette. He killed her in her home. Your home. Because she was a liability to your little pharmaceutical side business. Was it worth it? For a few hundred thousand in diverted pills?”
Eleanor Vance stood abruptly, her chair scraping on the tile. “I am calling my lawyer.”
“You do that.” Jennifer straightened up, sliding the photo back into her pocket. “Tell him to meet you at the Parker Center. You’re coming in. Now. For questioning in the murder of Eliza Tillman and for conspiracy to distribute controlled substances. And if your friend James so much as blinks in my direction, I will add charges for threatening a police officer so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
The arrest was a quiet, procedural earthquake. Eleanor Vance said nothing else, her silence a wall erected by her lawyer, a sharply dressed man who appeared within twenty minutes and spoke only in legalese. As they processed her, Jennifer’s phone buzzed. It was Milo.
“I hear you’re having a party at the Parker Center and didn’t invite me.”
“How do you even know that?”
“A good reporter is like God, detective. Omnipresent and mildly disappointed. The Herald is running a piece on Vance’s charity finances in the morning. It mentions ‘unnamed sources’ hinting at a connection to a murder investigation. Should apply some lovely pressure.”
Jennifer pinched the bridge of her nose. “Don’t interfere, Milo.”
“Too late. But here’s a gratis tip. That name you wanted? James? Run it against security contractors licensed in the county. Cross-reference with Vance’s known business holdings. You might find a James Corben. He does ‘discrete security’ for several of her shell companies.” The line clicked off.
She ran the search. James Corben. Forty-five. A clean license, a concealed carry permit. His last known address was a condo in Marina del Rey. She put out an APB.
He was found three hours later, trying to board a flight to Bogotá at LAX. In his luggage was a camera with a telephoto lens, and a burner phone with a single number—the main line for Vance’s estate.
He broke during interrogation. He’d been the one to procure the pills from Eliza, to funnel them to a distributor Vance used to grease political wheels and silence problematic associates. Eliza had grown a conscience. She’d told him she was going to the police, that she had records. He’d panicked. The robbery was his hasty, stupid attempt at misdirection.
“She was just a kid,” he mumbled, head in his hands. “She said it was wrong. She said people were dying from this stuff.”
“So you killed her for it,” Jennifer stated, her voice devoid of all inflection.
He had nothing else to say.
The case closed with a satisfying, final thud. Vance was charged with conspiracy, distribution, and murder. Corben took a deal, turning state’s evidence against her to avoid the needle. The paperwork was a mountain, but for the first time in weeks, Jennifer’s loft felt silent in a peaceful way. The locked drawer was empty.
A few days later, she and Sam sat on her couch, a half-eaten container of takeout between them. The silence wasn’t peaceful now. It was heavy, final.
“You’re staying late again tonight,” he said, not a question.
“The case wrap-up is a beast. Ruiz wants it perfect before the DA presents.”
“Yeah.” Sam put his fork down, pushed the container away. He looked at her, really looked, and she saw the understanding there. It was gentle, and it hurt more than anger would have. “We’re good at the cases, Jen. We’re a hell of a team in the field.”
“But not here,” she finished softly.
“Not here,” he agreed. He offered a small, wry smile. “The second time… it’s not about fixing what broke. It’s about seeing if the cracks are part of the pattern now. And I think they are.”
She nodded, a lump in her throat. There was no fight left in either of them. Just a profound, weary respect. “You’re a good man, Sam Weaver. The best I know.”
“Yeah, well.” He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me.” He paused at the door, glanced back. That familiar, irreverent glint was in his eye, a last piece of armor. “So. You gonna be okay? Or are you still hung up on the captain’s kid?”
The question was so blunt, so utterly Sam, that it stole her breath. She just stared, heat flooding her cheeks.
He chuckled softly at her reaction. “That’s what I thought.” He opened his arms. “C’mere.”
She walked into his embrace, burying her face against his shoulder. It was warm, and solid, and a goodbye. He kissed the top of her head. “Try not to get killed, okay?”
“You either.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut with a sound of infinite finality.
Later that day, under the pretense of tying up “outstanding media inquiries,” she met Milo at a pedestrian cafe near the courthouse. He was already there, nursing an espresso, looking vaguely bored with the world.
“I read the charging documents,” he said as she sat. “You buried her. Nice work.”
The straightforward compliment threw her. She’d expected a smirk, a veiled boast about his role. “It was the job.”
“It was justice.” He sipped his coffee, his gray eyes assessing her over the rim. “For Eliza. For that dumpster girl Weaver caught, too. You closed two. That’s a good week’s work.” He set the cup down. “I look forward to working with you again sometime, detective. It’s… stimulating.”
There was no oily undertone, no double entendre she could pinpoint. Just a statement of professional respect. An unexpected spark, tiny and confusing, flickered in her chest. “Don’t hold your breath, Davidson.”
“I never do.” He smiled, a genuine one that briefly erased the cynicism from his face. “Stay out of trouble, Wu.”
She left, feeling oddly off-balance. She did not see him watch her go, his gaze dropping to the sway of her hips, the perfect, confident curve of her ass in her tailored pants. His smile turned private, calculating. Single now, he mused to himself, finishing his espresso. There’s still time for that to happen. Plenty of time.
Sam drove north the following week, his belongings in a trailer hitched to his SUV. The transfer to a forensic liaison division in Sacramento had come through faster than expected. As the sprawl of LA receded in his rearview, he let himself think about her, just for a mile. The what-ifs were a quiet, melancholy song. What if she wasn’t always looking over her shoulder at the next complication, the next ghost? What if it was just us? He turned the radio up, drowning out the thought. Some doors close for good.
The next day, in the Parker Center lobby, Jennifer literally bumped into John Ruiz, a stack of files nearly tumbling from his arms. “Whoa! Sorry, Jen—Detective Wu.”
“John. It’s fine.” She helped steady the files. He looked good, rested. Kelly stood a few feet away, talking animatedly on her phone, offering a quick, friendly wave.
“I heard about you and Sam,” John said, his voice lowering. “I’m sorry. He’s a good guy.”
“It’s okay. Really. It was mutual.” She meant it. The air between them, however, crackled with the old, unsaid things. His eyes held hers a moment too long, and she saw the flicker—the memory, the attraction, the childish crush that had never quite matured into something either of them could grasp.
He felt it too. He took a small, deliberate step back, breaking the connection. “Kelly and I… we’re talking about getting a place. Together. Near her parents in Alhambra.”
“That’s great, John. Really.” The words tasted like dust. She gave him a firm, professional smile. “I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He nodded, awkwardness descending like a curtain. “Well. I should…”
“Go.” She gestured with her chin. “Don’t keep her waiting.”
He moved past her, joining Kelly who slipped her hand into his without looking. The spark sputtered, unresolved, ignored. Jennifer stood still for a heartbeat, the echo of it in her veins. Then her phone rang.
“Wu.”
Captain Ruiz’s voice was gruff, urgent. “My office. Now. We’ve got a new one.” The Captain’s voice was gravelly, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. “Bad as it gets.”
She went into his office grateful for the escape. She could worry about her love life another time.