Page 61 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

Downtown L.A. was loud.

L ouder than Blue’s clinic. Louder than a battlefield, in a different way—sirens, voices, the clash of too many lives crammed into too little space. I missed the wind off the cliffs of the reservation. The crash of waves back home. But this wasn’t about me.

This was about her.

Tag’s final report came two days ago.

Aponi Lightfoot—now Aponi Hartman—Detective, LAPD, violent crimes task force. Thirty years old. Single. No kids. Dozens of commendations. A reputation for being sharp, fearless, relentless.

She didn’t know I was here.

I wasn’t even sure she knew she had a brother.

I leaned against the hood of a dusty rental car across from her precinct, ball cap pulled low. Watching.

Then she walked out.

Even across the street—I felt it.

She moved like someone trained to survive.

Alert eyes, precise stride, her hand always near her sidearm even off-duty.

But there was more. She carried herself like someone who’d fought for every inch of ground.

Confident. Steady. A grown version of the girl I used to carry on my shoulders through dust storms.

She stopped to speak to a homeless man. Gave him something. Smiled like he mattered.

Then walked on.

Didn’t look back.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Eventually, I crossed the street, heart thudding, and crouched next to the man she’d spoken to.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “That lady’s an angel. Comes every Thursday. Calls me ‘sir.’ Nobody calls me sir.”

“She’s special,” I murmured.

I watched her disappear down the sidewalk. I wanted to run after her. To shout her name.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

She had a life now—built from pain and survival. If I barged in, I could wreck everything. I had to be sure. I had to do this right.

I texted Tag.

She’s alive. She’s everything I hoped. I’m going to find the right moment.

He replied a minute later:

Let me know if you need backup.

I smiled. Then turned and walked away.