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Chapter Fourteen

Nova

I 've been counting ceiling tiles for an hour when the alarm finally goes off.

Three months in Atlanta, and I still don't sleep. My body runs on three-hour chunks—enough to function when surveillance jobs run past dawn.

I swing my legs over the side of the narrow bed, bare feet hitting cold laminate.

My apartment doubles as a workspace. Six hundred square feet with walls covered in surveillance photos and case timelines.

The kitchen table disappeared two weeks ago under stacks of background checks I've pulled through former colleagues who still owe me favors.

No badge doesn't eliminate options.

Derek Sullivan. Living as David Martinez in Jacksonville. I've known his location for four years—Atlanta PD contacts made that simple. Location was never the problem. The problem was proving which badges helped him fabricate his alibi, which files got buried, which evidence disappeared.

Until Royce confirmed what I'd suspected—the proof exists.

Six years of hitting dead ends because I followed procedure. Respected chain of command. Trusted the system. Now I can pursue leads that would have gotten me suspended.

Derek thinks a new identity and bought alibis will keep him safe. He's wrong.

He was wrong.

I push through fifty push-ups, forty sit-ups, thirty burpees. Physical conditioning is an asset I might need. My PI license permits investigation, not arrest. When I finally track Derek down, I want options.

The shower runs cold after three minutes. I've stopped noticing. Cold is just another variable, like the restlessness that followed me from Shadow Ridge. Nothing a caseload can't fix.

Coffee brews while I dress. Black tactical pants, gray t-shirt, holster that doesn't carry a badge anymore but still holds steel. The weapon stays concealed—a PI with visible hardware makes people nervous. Contingency I hope never to need.

My phone buzzes. Romano—my old partner from Atlanta PD. Early for him to call.

"Nova." He sounds different. Tight, almost careful. "Are you sitting down?"

"What happened?" My coffee mug stops halfway to my lips. Shadow Ridge. The MC. Ash.

"Someone's reopened Carman's case." Romano pauses, letting that sink in. "New evidence submitted to the DA yesterday. Serious material—witness testimony, financial records, forensics that were buried during the original investigation."

The mug hits the counter harder than intended and cracks along the handle. "What? How?"

"Don't know details yet. But there's more." His tone drops. "Package came with credentials from some high-powered law firm in New York. Letterhead that made the Chief sit up straight. This wasn't some random tip—this came through channels with power."

New York. My grip tightens on the phone. The timing feels too precise for coincidence.

"Figured you'd want to know right away." Romano sounds puzzled. "Nova, who the hell do you know with enough pull to fast-track a six-year-old cold case overnight?"

I'm halfway through telling him I don't know when my call-waiting beeps. Unknown number.

"I need to take this," I tell Romano. "Call me if anything else breaks."

I switch calls, expecting a client or the security firm.

"Sheriff Reyes." The caller is male, deep, unfamiliar. Authority that doesn't negotiate.

"Not Sheriff anymore. Who is this?"

"Hammer. Shadow Ridge MC. New York Chapter."

My grip tightens on the phone. The president of the motorcycle club. A man I know by reputation only—the power behind the throne, the one who sanctioned Ash's operation in Shadow Ridge. We've never spoken directly.

"What do you want?" I keep my tone neutral, shoulders tensing.

"Heard you got some news about your sister's case." No small talk, no explanation for how he knows about a call I received minutes ago. He knows my business.

"What's it to you?"

He chuckles, low and brief. "You got a right to know who made it happen."

"Romano said—"

"Your cop friend knows what he was told to tell you. I'm telling you what he didn't." His tone hardens. "Ash stepped down as Shadow Ridge chapter lead the day after you left. Handed control to Vargan and caught the first flight to New York."

My free hand grips the counter. Ash stepped down. Left Shadow Ridge. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because he's spent three months building your sister's case. Called in every legal contact he's cultivated for fifteen years. Burned bridges that can't be rebuilt." A pause. "And made damn sure you'd never know he was behind it."

The counter edge cuts into my palm. "That's not possible." The words come out too fast. "Derek's alibi was airtight. I've spent six years trying to break it—"

"Nobody with a badge." Hammer cuts me off. "But a man with the right motivation and wrong connections? Different story."

My throat closes. Six years. Six years of hitting dead ends, following leads that went nowhere, carrying Carman's death like a weight that never lifted. "What exactly did he do?"

"Got Derek Sullivan to sign a full confession, for starters." Grim satisfaction bleeds through the phone. "Let's say he had a compelling conversation with some associates who helped him understand the value of clearing his conscience."

Derek confessed. The words don't process. Can't process. Derek Sullivan, who walked free while my sister's body went cold in the ground, who disappeared behind bought alibis and dirty badges—he confessed.

"Why would Ash do this?" My own question sounds distant, like someone else asked it.

"You'd have to ask him that." His tone softens marginally. "But he made it clear none of us were to contact you. Said you deserved to move on without Shadow Ridge's baggage. Without his."

"Then why are you calling me?"

"Because loyalty runs both ways, Sheriff. He gave his all for this club when we needed him. Figured someone should return the favor."

My chest tightens. I blink hard, refusing the reaction. "Where is he now?"

"New York chapter house. Taking point on business deals that keep him behind a desk and away from anything that might remind him of Shadow Ridge." A pause. "Orc's functioning, but that's about all I'd call it."

I should thank him for the information. Should feel grateful that Carman might finally get justice. Instead, anger builds in my chest, sharp and unexpected.

"He had no right." The words shake as they spill out. "This was my fight. My sister. My burden to carry."

"Your burden became his at some point. At least, that's how he feels about it." Hammer doesn't sound sympathetic.

"I didn't ask for his help."

"And he didn't ask for permission to give it." A pause. "Just thought you should know who to thank when your sister's killer goes to prison."

The line goes dead before I can respond.

I stand motionless in my kitchen, coffee cooling, phone clutched tight. The evidence wall stares back at me—six years of work, leads that went nowhere, a system that failed my sister at every turn.

Ash fixed it. Without telling me. Without asking. Derek Sullivan will go to prison because of what Ash gave up.

Just like he promised in my bed three months ago: I'll help you get justice. Even if you hate me for it.

I throw the coffee mug against the wall. It shatters, dark liquid splattering across crime scene photos like arterial spray.

Six years. Six years of carrying Carman's death, fighting a system designed to forget victims like her, promising her grave that someone would pay.

And he took that from me, too.

Except... he didn't. He gave Carman justice. Got me the outcome I'd fought for and failed to achieve on my own.

I grab my laptop, fingers moving before my brain processes the decision. Flight to New York, one way, leaves in three hours.

I don't pack. Don't plan. Don't think beyond the urgent need to stand in front of him and demand answers. To understand why, after everything, he would do this and then disappear without a word.

To ask the question that's been burning in my chest since Hammer spoke his name: What exactly did Ash give up to get my sister justice?

And what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

New York doesn't care that I'm running on zero sleep and pure adrenaline. The city swallows me the moment I step off the plane. Another body in the crowd. Exactly how I've lived for three months.

Not anymore.

The cab driver gives me a side-eye when I tell him the address. "You sure about that, lady?"

"Just drive."

He shrugs, meter running as we crawl through late afternoon traffic. The New York chapter house sits in an industrial zone in Queens. Unmarked brick building with reinforced doors. Security cameras positioned at every angle. Different location, same setup as Shadow Ridge.

I pay the driver and step onto the sidewalk.

Two prospects guard the entrance—orcs with green skin and the tattoos that mark camp survivors. Their patches are newer, but their scars are just as deep as any full member's. They track my movement, hands shifting toward concealed weapons.

"I'm here to see Ash."

The taller one looks me over—jeans, boots, leather jacket, exhaustion I can't hide. "Nobody here by that name."

"Tell Hammer's VP that Nova Reyes is here. He'll see me."

Recognition shifts across their faces. Wariness. The smaller one disappears inside while his partner keeps steady watch on me, not hostile but ready. They know exactly who I am. And probably why I'm here.

My chest tightens. What am I doing? Flying across the country to confront an orc who... what? Fixed the thing that's been destroying me for longer than it should? Got justice for Carman when I couldn't?

Minutes drag. Finally, the door opens. Not Ash. An orc with shoulders like granite slabs and intricate tattoos wrapping around forearms thick as my thighs. Forest-green skin marked with scars from the camps, and a single gold ring piercing one tusk.

"Sheriff." His patch reads Road Captain. His name tape says Grinder. His tone doesn't leave room for argument.

"Not Sheriff anymore."

"Inside."