Victoria moved through her townhouse like a ghost, every action precise, deliberate, and empty of meaning. Dinner. Wine. Dishes. Shower. Pajamas. The rituals held her body steady, but her mind spun out of control.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the lamplight throwing pale circles against the walls, and replayed every detail until it blurred together.
Isabel’s name on the evidence log. The signature, neat and deliberate. Too deliberate.
Victoria rubbed at the crease between her brows, her thoughts drilling deeper. Torres had been the one to expose a corrupt superior back at her last precinct. Victoria remembered reading that in the transfer file. A brave move, risky as hell, but it showed conviction. Integrity. The kind of detective Victoria wanted on her team.
But then there were the whispers that had followed Isabel’s career like a shadow. Some of her colleagues had claimed she’d fabricated evidence to bring the man down. That she’d framed him. That she’d been the dirty one all along.
Victoria weighed the two sides as though her soul were a scale. On one side: a woman willing to sacrifice her career to uphold her oath. On the other: a pattern of suspicion that clung like smoke, too thick to dismiss entirely.
Her gut clenched, leaning toward what she already knew in her bones. Isabel Torres was not a dirty cop.
Victoria lay back against the pillows, her chest tightening as her mind leapt to the car bombing. She remembered the call from dispatch—the wordsofficer down, possible fatality—and the way her heart had slammed against her ribs like it wanted out. The memory of racing to the scene, of seeing the ambulance doors shut, of the moment she thought she was already too late.
The panic rose in her throat even now. Isabel’s face pale under the harsh ambulance lights. The rush of relief that hit when she realized Torres was alive. Breathing. Talking. Fighting, as always.
Victoria exhaled, long and shaky, pressing her hand against her sternum as though she could steady the tremor inside her.
Her mind drifted to the night afterward, the quiet of her own bedroom. Isabel curled against her, warm and trembling, the two of them wrapped together in a fragile peace. Victoria had held her, smoothed her hair, whispered reassurances she hadn’t realized she was even capable of giving.
And then the comfort had shifted into something deeper. Not just heat, not just need—it had been something else, something that cut through years of solitude and walls she thought would never fall. It had been…connection. Real and raw.
She closed her eyes, the memory tugging at her with painful clarity.
Sheknew, deep in her soul, Isabel wasn’t behind this. And yet—the evidence sat in the folder on her desk, accusing and undeniable in black and white.
Victoria turned onto her side, staring into the darkness of her room. The sheets felt cold without Isabel there. For the first time in years, the silence of her house was unbearable.
She ached with the truth she couldn’t ignore—she didn’t want to be alone tonight. She wanted Isabel beside her.
The thought lingered as sleep finally pulled her under, heavy and restless. And in her dreams, she reached for Isabel only to find empty air.
14
ISABEL
Isabel sat at her desk, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles ached. The chatter of the precinct swirled around her—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the scrape of chairs—but all she heard was Victoria’s voice echoing in her head. Cold. Distant.Explain this.
Her chest burned, fury and heartbreak tangled into a knot she couldn’t untangle. Just last night, she had lain in Victoria’s arms, the Ice Queen finally softening, letting Isabel in. For the first time in years, Isabel had felt safe. Not just wanted, not just desired—but secure. Like maybe, finally, she’d found someone she could lean on.
And with a single accusation, it was gone.
Her throat tightened as the familiar weight of betrayal pressed down. It was always like this. She gave herself piece by piece, only to have the ground ripped out from under her. It was just as it had been in her last precinct—she’d exposed a dirty cop there, risked her badge to do the right thing. She’d thought that would mean something. Instead, she’d been dragged through the mud, whispered about in hallways, branded as the one who couldn’t be trusted.
Now here she was again, history repeating itself.
For a fleeting moment, the thought slid across her mind.Pack it up. Walk away. Quit the badge, quit the fight. Stop letting this city chew you up and spit you out.
Her jaw tightened.No.
She shoved the thought aside as anger surged hot through her veins. Whoever had planted that evidence, whoever had tried to paint her as the mole—they wanted her gone. They wanted her broken.
The hell with that.
If it was the last thing she did, Isabel Torres was going to find out who’d set her up. She was going to drag the truth into the light even if it burned her alive in the process.
The precinct had emptied out by midnight, the usual hum of voices and phones fading into silence. Isabel stayed hunched over her desk, the glow of her lamp the only light in the bullpen. Her jacket was tossed across the back of her chair, her sleeves rolled up, and her eyes burned from hours of rereading reports, cross-checking logs, and chasing threads that led nowhere.
