Page 24

"Bank records. Cash deposits that didn't match any legitimate income. She thought Derek was laundering money through fake businesses, but she wasn't sure." My throat tightens. "I told her to stay out of it. To focus on school and let the authorities handle it."

"Nova—"

"Three days later, she was dead." The words come out flat. "Found in an alley, apparent drug overdose. Except Carman never touched drugs. She barely drank wine with dinner."

His hand stops stroking, settling heavy and warm between my shoulder blades. "What did the investigation find?"

"Nothing. Derek had an alibi. No witnesses. The detective in charge said sometimes good girls make bad choices." I bite out each word. "Case closed in under a month."

"But you knew better."

"I knew my sister. She was trying to get away from Derek, not deeper into whatever he was involved in.

" I lift my head to look at him, seeing something dangerous burning in his amber eyes.

"The worst part? I wasn't there when she needed me.

I was working a case in Atlanta, too busy being a good cop to save my own sister. "

"It's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" The words spill out of me. "She called me for help, and I told her to mind her own business. If I'd listened, if I'd taken her seriously—"

"She'd still be dead." His voice turns hard, certain. "Because men like Derek don't leave loose ends walking around."

I go quiet. No platitudes about everything happening for a reason. Just truth.

"The case went nowhere," I continue. "The detective in charge retired months later, moved to Florida. Derek disappeared too—left town, changed his name. By the time I got my detective shield and could dig deeper, the trail was cold."

"That didn't stop you from trying.”

I shake my head. “It took me four years, but I finally tracked him down.

" I can feel the old frustration burning in my chest. "I found out where he was living, who he was pretending to be now.

But he had protection—someone with serious money and influence keeping him clean.

Ironclad alibi for the night Carman died, paperwork that made him look like a saint. All of it bought and paid for."

Ash's jaw tightens. "How much protection?"

"The kind that makes evidence disappear and witnesses forget what they saw.

The kind that gets cases buried so deep they never see daylight again.

" I press my face against his chest. "I had nothing.

Just a dead sister and the knowledge that her killer was walking free because someone wanted him to. "

"When this thing with Royce is over, we'll find him. Derek, the detective, whoever else was involved." His arms tighten around me. "Your sister deserves justice, and you deserve peace."

"Ash—"

"No arguments. Some debts can only be paid in blood, and I'm very good at collecting." Something dark and certain in his voice makes me shiver.

"Why?" I ask. "Why would you do that for me?"

His hand tilts my chin up so I have to meet his eyes. "Because you matter to me. Because what happened to her is part of what made you who you are. And because no one should carry that kind of grief alone."

My throat closes for a moment.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when Derek's body turns up in a ditch." His smile is dark, predatory. "And it will, Nova. I promise you that."

I believe him. The thought should scare me.

"For now," he continues, voice gentling, "you need sleep. Real sleep, not the short catnaps you've been surviving on."

"I don't sleep well."

"You will tonight." His hand moves to my hair, fingers combing through the tangled strands. "I've got you. Nothing's getting through me to hurt you."

Lying there in his arms, listening to his heartbeat, I believe that too. I close my eyes and let someone else stand guard.

Sunlight streams through my bedroom window. My body aches in places that remind me of everything Ash did to me last night - a good kind of ache.

The other side of the bed is empty, sheets already cool. That's Ash - no morning-after conversations or lingering breakfasts. He protects by keeping distance when it matters.

I stretch, muscles protesting slightly. I slept through the night without a single nightmare. No dreams of Carman's funeral. No visions of black sedans or broken glass. Just sleep.

The shower washes away the evidence of our night together, though I can still feel the phantom touch of his palms on my skin. Still taste him when I run my tongue across my lips.

By eight-thirty, I'm in uniform and heading for the sheriff's station. Another routine check-in to maintain the illusion that I'm still working out of the compromised office instead of the MC's war room.

The building feels hollow as I unlock the front door, footsteps echoing in the empty bullpen. Santos won't be back from rounds for another hour, and Roberta rarely shows before nine. Perfect timing for a quick appearance before heading to the clubhouse.

I push open my office door and freeze.

Royce Carvello sits behind my desk like he owns it, expensive suit immaculate despite the early hour. He's reading through a case file—one of the foreclosure documents I'd left there yesterday for appearance's sake.

"Good morning, Sheriff." His smile is warm, friendly, and fake. "I hope you slept well. You certainly sounded like you were having a good time last night."

My blood chills. He heard us. Has been listening to us. The surveillance of my apartment wasn't just visual—they've been recording everything.

"Mr. Carvello." I keep my voice level, controlled, though my hand moves instinctively toward my sidearm. "You're trespassing."

"Am I?" He gestures to the chair across from him—my own chair, in my own office. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

"I'll stand."

"Suit yourself." He closes the file and leans back, studying me. "Quite a night you had. Very... passionate. I particularly enjoyed the part where Mr. Thornshade promised to find Carman’s killer."

Carman's name in his mouth makes my fists clench."I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please, Sheriff. We both know your apartment has been under surveillance for weeks. Audio and visual. Very high quality equipment." His tone stays conversational. "I have to say, you're much more vocal than I expected. And Mr. Thornshade is certainly... thorough in his attentions."

My jaw clenches, but I force myself to remain still. "What do you want?"

"To make you an offer. A generous one, considering the circumstances." He opens a desk drawer—my desk drawer—and pulls out a manila folder. "Derek Sullivan. Current address, employment records, daily routine. Everything you'd need to find him."

My heart stops. "That's not possible."

"Oh, but it is. You see, unlike Mr. Thornshade, I don't make promises I can't keep.

" Royce slides the folder across the desk.

"Derek's been living in Jacksonville under the name David Martinez.

Works at a marina, lives alone in a studio apartment above a bait shop. Very isolated. Very... accessible."

I stare at the folder without touching it. "Why?"

"Because I can deliver what your lover cannot.

Justice for your sister. Real justice, not the kind that takes years and might never come.

" His voice drops. "I can put Derek in a room with you, Sheriff.

Just you and him, and all the time you need to get answers.

And when you're finished—when you've done whatever you feel needs doing—I'll make it all disappear.

Accident at the marina. Tragic drowning. You'll never be connected to it."

Everything I've wanted for years. Right here.

"What's the catch?"

"Hardly a catch. More of a... adjustment to your current investigative priorities.

" Royce straightens his tie. "You continue being sheriff.

You still meet with families, still fight for justice, still play the part of the incorruptible law woman.

You just do it a bit more slowly. And under my guidance. "

"You want me to be your puppet."

"I want you to be reasonable. The families you're helping—they'll still get help. Just not in ways that interfere with legitimate business interests." His smile never wavers. "Everyone wins."

"And if I refuse?"

"Nothing dramatic. No threats, no violence." He shrugs. "Just some interesting evidence surfacing at your next court hearing. Photos of you entering the MC clubhouse. Audio recordings from this office. Documentation of your intimate relationship with their vice president."

My face goes cold. "You're blackmailing me."

"I'm offering you choices." He stands, smoothing his jacket.

"How do you think Judge Kellerman will react when he discovers the sheriff building cases in his courtroom has been compromised by personal relationships?

How will the families you're trying to help feel when they learn you've been playing both sides? "

"I haven't been—"

"Haven't you?" His voice turns cold. "You've been working out of an MC facility. Using their resources. Sleeping with their leadership. Any case you've built becomes tainted evidence the moment that comes to light."

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cell phone, setting it on my desk beside the folder. "When you're ready, call the first number in the contacts. I'll take care of the rest."

Royce moves toward the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Sheriff? Don't take too long deciding. Every breath Derek takes is another moment he stole from your sister, and opportunities like this don't last forever."

The door closes behind him with quiet finality, leaving me alone with the folder and the phone and the weight of an impossible choice.

I sink into my chair—the one he'd been occupying moments before—and stare at the folder. Inside is the man who destroyed my sister's life. The man who's been living free while Carman lies in the ground. Justice, real justice, within my reach.

All I have to do is betray everything I believe in.

I think about last night. About Ash's touch on my skin, his promise to help find and prosecute Carman's killer, the way I slept through the night for the first time in months.

I pick up the folder.

Derek Bauer. Current address. Daily routine. Everything I need.

My fingers don't even shake.

The question is: which version of justice am I willing to live with?