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Chapter Twelve

Nova

I 've been staring at Derek Sullivan's photograph for three hours.

I haven't moved from this kitchen chair since I got home. Haven't opened the folder again. Haven't touched the burner phone Royce left beside it. Haven't done anything except stare at the face of my sister's killer and catalog every reason this deal will damn me.

Derek Sullivan. David Martinez now. Current address, employment records, daily routine documented like a fucking case file. Six years of hunting him, and now I have it all. Address. Work schedule. The name of the coffee shop where he gets his morning latte.

Except I don't have shit.

Location isn't evidence. Having his new identity doesn't prove he killed Carman. For that—for the evidence that proves Derek's alibi was fabricated, for the witness statements that got buried, for the forensics that were never processed—I have to earn it.

That's the deal. Royce made it clear. The proof I need for three months of looking the other way while families lose their homes.

Stall the Henderson appeal. Find procedural issues with the Garcia testimony. Look the other way while Royce steamrolls families who can't fight back. Become the kind of sheriff who works for the highest bidder instead of the badge.

My hands won't stay still. They keep drumming against the table, reaching for the folder, pulling back. Like movement will somehow make this choice easier.

But nothing's stable anymore. Not the case. Not my certainty. Not Ash's face when I pushed him away at the diner.

He saw right through me. Read every tell.

"Something happened. Someone threatened you."

Dead accurate. And I let him think he was the problem instead of admitting Royce had me cornered.

I close my eyes and I'm back in Ash's arms last night. Telling him about Carman while he held me together without trying to fix it all.

He'd made a promise. "When this thing with Royce is over, we'll find him. Derek, the detective, and whoever else was involved."

Twelve hours later, I've got Derek's location sitting on my kitchen table. But not the proof. Never the proof.

I push back from the table and walk to the window, Derek's surveillance photo still in my hand. Street's empty, but I can feel the surveillance. Always watching.

Is Ash out there? Posted up somewhere with that lethal stillness, cataloging threats? Or did he hand off babysitting duty to one of the prospects, reduce me to just another asset that needs monitoring?

I press my palm against the window. Ash trusted me with his scars once. Let me see the evidence of what they did to him as a kid.

But I can't show him this. Can't let him see I'm capable of becoming the kind of bastard who would have left him bleeding in that camp.

I pull my hand back from the window, leaving a perfect print on the glass. The decision locks into place. Cold. Final. I'm compromised, not by Royce's threats, but by my own need for justice. Six years of wanting Derek's blood, and now I'm willing to sell out an entire town for it.

That makes me dangerous to anyone counting on me to do the right thing.

Dawn hits my kitchen window when I reach for the burner phone.

My hands are stable now. Strange how purpose cuts through doubt. Leaves you with nothing but the job that needs doing.

Royce answers on the second ring.

"I was wondering when you'd call." That smooth, practiced tone that made my skin crawl. "Have you made your decision, Sheriff?"

"I want the deal." Tastes like copper. Like blood. But the words come out clean. "I need specifics. Timeline. What do you want me to stall and for how long?"

"Smart woman. I knew you'd see reason." Papers rustling. "Three months. Appeals get delayed. Depositions postponed. You find procedural issues that require additional review. Nothing that implicates you directly."

"Three months of people losing their homes."

"Three months of you getting justice for your sister. Unless you'd prefer Derek Sullivan keeps his new life?"

"And in return?"

"All of it. Derek's real alibi, the one that puts him at your sister's apartment the night she died.

The witness who saw him leave. The forensics that somehow never made it into evidence.

The detective who made sure it didn't." His voice drops, going soft.

"Or if you prefer a more... personal approach, I can have him brought to a secure location.

Somewhere private. Somewhere you can ask all the questions you want without worrying about Miranda rights. "

My free hand clenches into a fist. He's offering me Derek gift-wrapped, defenseless. The chance to look him in the eyes when I tell him Carman's name. To watch his face when he realizes his new life is over.

"How did you access sealed evidence files?" The detective in me kicks in despite the rest. "Those records were buried deep. I've been trying to get at that corruption network for four years."

Royce chuckles. "You were looking through official channels, Sheriff.

Limited by warrants and jurisdictions, and procedural rules.

I have... different resources. People who aren't restricted by badges or oaths.

It's amazing what information becomes available when you're willing to pay the right price. "

"And yet you're willing to give all that to me."

"Consider it a gesture of good faith. A down payment on our working relationship in the future."

"Three months," I repeat, forcing my voice level. "And then you deliver what you promised."

"Of course. But there's another element we need to discuss." His tone sharpens. "The MC. Your... relationship with their leadership has been quite convenient."

"What about it?"

"I need you to maintain that connection. Keep playing the part. Let them think you're still fighting for these families, still building cases against me." He chuckles. "Unless, of course, you've fallen for their Vice President and can't bear to deceive him?"

"I can handle the VP."

"Can you? Because from where I sit, you two looked quite cozy at that town meeting. Some might say you've gotten... attached."

"You're seeing what I wanted you to see." The words scrape out of my throat like glass. "He's useful. Access to their intelligence, their resources. Nothing more."

My stomach turns saying it. Each word a betrayal of what Ash and I shared. But Royce needs to believe I'm just another corrupt cop he can control.

"Ah. So the relationship is purely... professional?"

"It served its purpose." I force my voice flat. Dead. Like I'm reading from a police report.

"Good. Because I need you to keep him believing you're on their side. Keep building that trust. Can you do that?"

A pause. My free hand clenches until my nails bite into my palm. "Yes."

"Excellent. Three months to delay the legal proceedings, maintain your cover with the MC, and keep their leadership believing you're fighting for justice."

"And the corruption files?"

"All of it. Financial records, witness statements, and the whole network that protected Derek. You have my word."

"Your word." I force out a laugh. "How do I know you won't just disappear once you get what you want?"

"Three months," I repeat. My voice sounds hollow even to me. "You'll have your delays."

"Excellent. I'll be in touch soon to check on your progress. And Sheriff?" His voice turns cold. "Don't disappoint me. Derek Sullivan has been untouchable for six years because corrupt officials protected him. It would be a shame if that protection continued indefinitely."

The line goes dead. I hit stop recording and upload the file to my secure cloud drive, then copy it to a flash drive. It goes into my bag with the corruption files and all the materials I've compiled for the hearings.

I pull on my uniform like I have every morning for eight years. Badge over heart. Service weapon on hip. Hair back in regulation ponytail. In the mirror, I look like the sheriff Shadow Ridge hired to clean up their town.

I'm about to become what they brought me here to stop.

I exit through the front door, in full view of any surveillance. I let them see me leaving for work, business as usual. I scan the street as I walk to my cruiser, cataloging threats, looking for Ash's bike.

Knox's Honda is parked two blocks down, partially concealed behind a delivery van.

Relief hits me like a physical blow. It's not Ash watching me. I'm not sure I could go through with this if I had to look him in the eyes one more time.

I drive deliberately slow, taking the most visible route to the station, checking my mirrors at each turn. Knox stays three car lengths back, skilled enough in his surveillance that most people wouldn't notice. But I'm not most people. I've been trained to spot tails.

I stop at Greene's Diner like I do every morning. Helen pours my usual coffee without being asked, and I make the same small talk about the weather. I even complain about the Bauer family's paperwork taking forever, same as I have all week. My voice stays level, casual. Natural.

Helen hands me the to-go cup with a smile. "You take care now, Sheriff."

"Always do." The lie comes out smooth as silk.

When I pull into the station parking lot, I take my time getting out. Let Knox see me walking in with my usual coffee and laptop bag, same routine as always. Let him report back that Sheriff Reyes stopped for coffee, chatted with Helen, and went to work. Business as usual.

The station is quiet this early. Roberta won't show for another hour. Santos is still running his overnight patrol. I'm alone with the evidence of my own corruption, about to join the list of dirty officials who've worked out of this building. Dawson. Morris. Now me.

My office feels different as I arrange it all on the desk. The recording, clearly labeled. Every file I've compiled on the foreclosure fraud. Bank records. Property transfers. Witness statements. A roadmap to destroying what Royce has built.

I write the note fast and direct:

Santos, This is what you need. The recording proves bribery and conspiracy. Use it. Ash will know what to do with the rest. The families deserve justice. Make sure they get it. N.

I place my badge on top of the stack. My service weapon goes in the desk drawer, locked.

Then I change clothes. Black jeans, dark sweater, boots that won't echo in empty hallways.

I take my time hanging the uniform in the small closet by the bathroom.

Each piece precisely aligned, smoothing my fingers over the crisp fabric one last time.

Eight years of my life hung neatly on a wooden hanger.

Morris mapped every exit in this building, including the back window that opens to the narrow alley. The window opens onto the narrow alley behind the building, where dumpsters provide cover from the tree line and security cameras don't reach.

I boost myself up onto the sill. The drop is maybe five feet to the pavement below, nothing I can't handle. One last look at my office and what I'm leaving behind, then I swing my legs over and lower myself down.

I stay low, moving along the building's shadow until I reach the tree line.

Movement near the front entrance catches my eye as I pause to scan the perimeter.

Knox. He's leaning against a lamppost, eyes fixed on the front door, occasionally checking his phone.

Probably texting updates to Ash or Diesel.

A twinge of guilt hits me as I watch him. He's just doing his job. Following orders. And in a few hours, he'll be the one facing Ash's fury when they realize I've disappeared. The prospect doesn't deserve that fallout, but there's no clean way out of this.

I ease deeper into the shadows, making sure he doesn't spot me. No sign of other surveillance from this angle—no watching eyes or waiting motorcycles.

I slip through the woods, keeping to the shadows. No other surveillance visible.

Twenty minutes through the woods, then residential streets back to my apartment. My sedan sits in the lot, packed with essentials only.

I scan the area one final time. No sign of Ash's bike or his massive frame waiting in the shadows. The street stays empty.

The way I planned.

I slide behind the wheel and allow myself one moment—just one—to look up at the window to the apartment where Derek's photograph still sits on the kitchen table.

My throat closes as I think of Ash hearing that recording. The cold dismissal in my voice when I called him useful. Access to intelligence. He'll believe it because I made sure it sounded true. I had to, so he won't try to follow.

Carman's photograph sits on my dashboard. Four years of keeping tabs on Derek, making his life hell in every legal way possible. Four years of hitting walls because the corruption ran deeper than one man.

Now I have the evidence to prove that conspiracy. And I'm leaving it behind.

The families will keep their homes. Ash will get his victory. Shadow Ridge will heal.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as the weight of what I'm doing crashes through me. I've spent my entire career believing in the system, in doing things by the book. Now I'm using that same system against itself.

The math is simple. If I stay, any lawyer destroys the recording as entrapment. But if I disappear after taking Royce's deal? The recording becomes evidence instead of misconduct. Ash gets what he needs to finish this legally.

I press my forehead against the steering wheel. Ash will hear those words—useful, access, nothing more—and believe them. He'll think what we had was strategy.

I pull back and start the engine. In my rearview mirror, Shadow Ridge shrinks to nothing. My badge, my life, my chance at justice for Carman—all of it left behind so Ash can do what I couldn't.

Stop the corruption legally. Save the families. Win the case.

The highway stretches ahead, empty and dark. I've got a full tank of gas and nowhere to go. No badge, no authority, no identity except the one I just burned to save a town that never trusted me.

Derek Sullivan gets to keep his new life. The corruption network that protected him stays buried. Carman's real killers will never face justice.

But Shadow Ridge will be free. Royce's family loses their stranglehold on the town. Families keep their homes. The cycle of corruption that's been strangling this place for years finally breaks.

And Ash gets to be the hero he's always been, instead of the monster everyone expects him to be.