Victoria.
She answered, and before she could speak, Victoria’s voice barreled through, sharp with panic. “Isabel? Tell me you’re all right.”
“I’m fine,” Isabel croaked, though her voice betrayed the tremor underneath.
“I heard the call. The explosion.” Victoria’s breath hitched, ragged on the other end. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way. And you’re not going back to your apartment until we’ve cleared it. Understood?”
Isabel opened her mouth to argue, but all that came out was a shaky, “Yeah. Understood.”
Minutes later, headlights swept the lot, and then Victoria was there—slamming her car door, cutting through the crowd like a storm. Her eyes found Isabel instantly. Relief flickered across her face, but it didn’t soften the strain etched around her mouth. She looked…shaken. More than Isabel had ever seen her.
“Come on,” Victoria said, she voice gentler than the command it wanted to be. She slipped the blanket tighter around Isabel’s shoulders, her hand steady at her back as she guided her to the car. “You’re coming with me.”
Back at Victoria’s house, Isabel expected an argument, maybe even cold distance once the panic wore off. Instead, Victoria fussed—checking her over again, pressing a glass of water into her hand, pulling another blanket over her when she sat on the couch. Isabel almost laughed at the image: Captain Langley, unflappable ice queen, hovering like a mother hen.
But the laugh caught in her throat. The adrenaline was gone now, leaving only the hollow echo of what might have been. Sheshould have been dead. The thought cracked something inside her, and before she could stop it, a tear slid down her cheek. Then another.
“Hey.” Victoria was beside her in an instant, slipping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in tight. For once, there was no command in her touch, no restraint. Just warmth. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Isabel let herself sag into her, pressing her face into the crook of Victoria’s neck. The tears weren’t loud or many, but they were real, and they left her feeling raw and human in a way she rarely allowed. Victoria’s embrace was steady, grounding her as nothing else could.
When Isabel finally drew back, their faces were close, breaths mingling. Victoria’s thumb brushed away the last tear clinging to her cheek. The look in her eyes wasn’t ice, wasn’t guarded—it was open, vulnerable, terrified of what could have been lost.
Isabel leaned in first, but Victoria met her halfway, their lips pressing together in a kiss that started soft and comforting. Then need surged between them, desperate and alive, pulling them deeper.
The night deepened around them, and when Victoria finally led her upstairs, Isabel didn’t resist. She didn’t want to. She wanted to forget the flames and the fear, wanted to lose herself in the one place she felt safe.
And in Victoria’s arms, she did.
13
VICTORIA
Victoria’s office smelled faintly of burnt coffee and toner, the ordinary trappings of a precinct morning. But the photographs on her desk were anything but ordinary.
She turned another page in the forensics packet, her blue eyes scanning every detail with the cold precision she was known for. The car bombing report was clinical in its breakdown: ignition source, accelerant traces, fragmentation patterns. None of it surprised her. The syndicate had money, training, and no shortage of explosives.
But the evidence log stapled to the back stopped her cold.
Recovered among the twisted metal had been a warped evidence tag, edges blistered from fire. The lab’s inventory confirmed it: a chain-of-custody form bearing Detective Isabel Torres’s signature.
Victoria’s jaw clenched as she slid the charred photograph closer. The log entry detailed items Torres had supposedly signed out two days prior—printouts of phone records, fragments of a burner phone recovered near the Harper gala. All of it was now listed as destroyed in the explosion.
Her pulse ticked at her throat. Isabel had been driving that car. Isabel had nearly died in it. Yet here was proof—on paper, at least—that she had checked out evidence that no one recalled her requesting. And now it was gone, obliterated in a fireball before anyone else could see it.
It was too neat. Too convenient.
Victoria leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. Her instincts told her this was a setup—an inside job meant to turn suspicion inward, toward the one detective already under scrutiny. But the weight of command pressed down on her shoulders all the same. She couldn’t ignore what was in front of her.
The blinds rattled softly as a draft slipped through the vent above, and for the first time in years, Victoria found herself hesitating. She trusted her gut. Always had. And her gut said Isabel Torres wasn’t dirty.
Still, the only way to be sure was to look her in the eye.
Victoria closed the folder, the snap of the cover echoing in the stillness of her office. She rose, her posture rigid, the decision already made.
She was going to confront Torres.
Victoria stood at the window of her office, the file resting like lead on her desk. From here she could see the bullpen—detectives clustered around desks, the low hum of chatter, phones ringing. Isabel was among them, laughing at something Darcy said, her shoulders loose, her expression unguarded.
