“Detective Torres,” Victoria said evenly, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You’re still here.”
“Yeah,” Isabel said quietly, closing the door behind her. “I needed to talk to you.”
Victoria’s gaze sharpened, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “If this is about yesterday?—”
“It’s about the case,” Isabel cut in. Her voice was low, controlled, but trembling just beneath the surface. “And about me.”
That stopped Victoria cold.
“I have proof,” Isabel said, reaching into her jacket pocket. Her fingers closed around her phone as if it were a weapon. “I’m not the mole, Victoria. And I know who is.”
Victoria’s brow furrowed, her voice careful. “What proof?”
Isabel glanced toward the glass panels of the office, toward the half-open blinds that looked out on the dim bullpen. Even this late, there were still a few stragglers—dispatch clerks, night-shift detectives, the janitor pushing a mop. Every sound felt too close.
She swallowed hard, lowering her voice even more. “Not here. I don’t trust this place. The walls, the phones, any of it. If I’m right—and I am—then whoever’s behind this already has ears everywhere.”
Victoria’s expression darkened, suspicion and concern warring in her eyes. “Torres, if you have evidence, I need to see it. We can secure the conference room?—”
“No,” Isabel said firmly, stepping closer to the desk. “Please. Just…not here. I need to show you, but somewhere safe. Your place.”
Victoria hesitated, the air between them tightening. For a moment, Isabel thought she’d refuse, pull rank, remind her who was in charge. But then something flickered in her eyes—trust, maybe, or guilt—and she exhaled slowly.
“All right,” Victoria said at last. “My place.”
Relief flooded Isabel’s chest, mingling with nerves. She nodded once, quick and businesslike, but her voice came out softer than she meant. “Thank you.”
Victoria stood, grabbing her coat and keys. “You’d better be right about this.”
“I am,” Isabel said. “You’ll see.”
As they stepped out into the cool night air, Isabel caught a glimpse of their reflection in the glass doors—two shadows moving fast and quiet through a building full of secrets.
She didn’t know what waited for them outside, but she knew one thing for certain: after tonight, nothing between them would ever be the same.
The drive to Victoria’s place was quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in from every direction—too heavy, too full. Isabel sat with her hands clenched in her lap, watching the streetlights streak across the windshield. She could feel Victoria beside her, rigid and distant, her eyes fixed on the road as if the car might fly apart if she so much as blinked.
When they pulled up in front of the townhouse, Victoria killed the engine but didn’t move. For a long moment, neither of them did. The click of the cooling engine filled the space between them.
Finally, Victoria got out without a word. Isabel followed.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and wine. The place was pristine—coldly beautiful, much like the woman who lived there. Isabel had been here once before, but that had been different. Warmer. Softer. Now, everything between them felt brittle.
Victoria hung up her coat and turned to face her, every inch of her posture composed. “You said you had proof.”
Isabel pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked it with shaking fingers. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do.”
She moved to the table and opened the video she’d recorded in the security room. The footage was grainy, flickering slightly, but clear enough. She pressed play and handed it over.
Victoria leaned in, her arms folded tight as she watched Darcy’s figure pass down the hallway on the screen—once, twice, again—always carrying something different.
“Keep watching,” Isabel said, her voice low. “Count the trips. Count how many times she goes in empty-handed and comes out full.”
Victoria did. With each pass, her jaw tightened, the muscles along her temple ticking.
When the clip ended, Isabel swiped to the next photo—the evidence logbook. “Only two sign-outs in the last two weeks,” she said. “Now look at the handwriting on those signatures—Darcy’s—and compare it to this.”
She brought up the charred form from the bombing. Her own name, signed in a hand that suddenly looked far too familiar.
