Page 62 of Deadly Force

I lift my chin. “I need to know what they saw, what they might’ve left out. If there’s even a chance Eliza’s death wasn’t what it looked like, I can’t just sit on my hands and hope someone else digs up the truth.”

He searches my face, but I don’t look away.

“I’m not trying to blow this open. I’m not chasing headlines.” My voice dips, steadier now. “I just need answers. So do her family.”

Caleb studies my face for a long moment, conflict clear in his expression. Then his shoulders drop slightly in resignation. "This is why they call you Gonzo, isn’t it?"

I blink. For a second, I’m caught off guard. Then it clicks.

Of course he knows the nickname. He must’ve dug into my background before taking this assignment, just enough to figure out what kind of mess he was walking into.

Caleb studies me for a beat, then sighs wearily. “Five minutes. No detours. No touching anything we can’t explain.”

“Agreed.”

His jaw flexes, but thankfully, he doesn’t waste any more time arguing with me.

We head for the exit together, and with each step, I feel the weight of what we might discover settling deeper into my chest.

If there's even a chance Eliza's death wasn't what it seems, the person who examined her will know. And I need to read it for myself, no matter how much it might hurt.

The county morguesits just west of downtown, tucked behind a row of government buildings that all look the same: square, beige, windowless monuments to bureaucracy. Caleb parks near the side entrance and kills the engine.

He watches the doorway for a beat, then glances over, jaw tight. “Last chance to back out.”

I meet his eyes. “We’re just looking at a file.”

He shakes his head once. “We’re hoping to access a report we don’t have clearance for.”

“And?” I prompt, impatient.

“Andif someone catches us, your press ID will be about as useful as a chocolate teapot, and I'll be the one explaining to Mick why I let his sister do this.”

My eyebrows raise. “If we get caught, I’ll tell him I gave you no choice.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, a sound that's less a sigh and more a quiet acknowledgment of a path already chosen.

Still grumbling under his breath, Caleb circles around to my side without a word, positioning himself half a step ahead as we approach the building. Casual on the surface, but every line of his body alert.

His eyes sweep the alley, the side door, the blind spots. One hand near his hip, the other loose, ready.

Inside, the air drops ten degrees and seems to press against my skin. Cold, dry, scrubbed clean of anything human or warm. The receptionist behind the glass partition is on the phone, barely glancing up as we walk past with purposeful strides. Caleb’s weapon and radio, paired with my press credentials, are enough to make us look official. Or at least official enough not to be stopped.

Dr. Ruiz's office is on the second floor, third door on the right. My heart hammers against my ribs as we climb the stairs, each step echoing in the empty stairwell.

The hallway is deserted, fluorescent lights humming overhead. I try the door handle. Locked, of course, but I doubt that will be a problem.

Caleb checks the hallway again, then moves to the door, kneels, and pulls a small tool kit from inside his jacket.

“Is this part of Hightower’s training?” I whisper.

He grunts his response. “Let’s just say I didn’t learn this from a YouTube tutorial.”

The lock disengages with barely a whisper, but inthe silence, it might as well be a gunshot. My palms are slick against the doorframe as we slip inside.

Caleb moves toward the computer with practiced efficiency while I press myself against the wall beside the door, listening for footsteps in the corridor.

He powers it on, then pulls a black USB drive from his pocket and slots it into the tower.