Victoria’s stomach tightened. After last night, she knew that look—knew how rare it was for Torres to drop her defenses. The memory of warm skin, tangled sheets, and Isabel’s steady breathing against her shoulder lingered with a dangerous pull. For one night, Victoria had allowed herself to forget. To feel.
Now she had to cut it all down.
She pressed the intercom. “Detective Torres. My office.”
Isabel looked up at once. No smirk, no swagger—just that open, softened expression from the night before. She rose and walked in without hesitation, shutting the door behind her.
“Afternoon, Captain.” Isabel’s voice was warm, almost playful. “You just couldn’t go one day without?—”
“Sit.”
The command was sharper than Victoria intended, and it stopped Isabel midstep. Confusion flickered across her face, but she lowered herself into the chair opposite the desk.
Victoria pushed the folder toward her. “Explain this.”
Isabel glanced down at the charred evidence log, her brows knitting. “What am I looking at?”
“Chain of custody forms. Items destroyed in the car bombing.” Victoria’s voice was steel. “All of them checked out under your signature.”
For a beat, silence hung heavily between them. Then Isabel gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. “That’s impossible. I never signed that out.”
“The forms say otherwise.”
Isabel’s eyes snapped up to hers, fire sparking behind the disbelief. “You actually think I would steal evidence and stash it in my own damned car? That I’d put a target on myself like that?”
Victoria kept her arms folded, her face unreadable even as something twisted in her chest. “I think the possibility warrants answers.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Isabel shoved the folder back across the desk, her chair scraping as she leaned forward. “After everything we’ve been through—after last night—you think I’m dirty?”
Victoria’s fingers curled against her sleeve, her nails biting through the fabric. “This isn’t about last night. This is about the case. The integrity of this department.”
Isabel’s jaw clenched, the warmth she’d carried in now burned to ash. “No. This is about you not trusting me. About you looking for a reason to push me away.”
Her voice cracked sharp against the walls, drawing the faintest glance from the bullpen through the glass before the blinds rattled closed in the draft.
Victoria stayed standing, her tone quiet but unyielding. “Then tell me why your name is on that form.”
Isabel rose in one swift motion, eyes dark, shoulders taut. “I can’t tell you, Captain, because it isn’t mine. Someone wants me out of the way, and you’re handing them exactly what they want.”
The accusation cut deeper than Victoria let show.
Isabel shook her head, backing toward the door. “I thought—” She stopped, lips pressing tight, then yanked the handle and stalked out before the words could finish.
The door shut hard behind her.
Victoria stood alone in the silence, the echo of Isabel’s anger still vibrating through the room. She turned back to the window, her reflection cold and hollow against the glass.
For the first time in years, she doubted not just her detective—but herself.
Victoria didn’t move for a long time after Isabel stormed out. The blinds swayed faintly in the air from the force of the door closing, their steady rhythm a counterpoint to her churning chest. Eventually, she sank back into her chair, pulling the folder toward her once more as though the charred pages could provide clarity if she stared long enough.
They didn’t.
The rest of the day unfolded on autopilot. She gave directives in clipped tones, reviewed reports, sat through meetings with the command staff. Her voice never wavered, her posture never faltered, and if anyone noticed the iron edge in her tone, noone dared comment. To the precinct, Captain Langley was as composed as ever.
But every time her eyes dropped to her desk, she saw Isabel’s expression—shock, then fire, then betrayal—burned into her mind.
By dusk, she drove home in silence, the hum of the SUV a dull backdrop to her thoughts. She parked, entered her townhouse, and locked the door behind her with mechanical precision. Shoes lined neatly on the mat. Blazer hung on the hook. Sidearm secured in the safe. Each motion was second nature, a ritual of order.
