Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the baton striking the windshield. Sometimes the sound became the sharp crack of a gunshot, and I woke with my heart racing. Other times, I saw Ruth standing behind her fence while Garrett reached toward his weapon. The memory would stop at exactly the moment when I had believed he might shoot her, leaving me lying awake and staring at the ceiling.
My father had prepared my old bedroom.
The walls were still painted the pale blue I'd chosen when I was sixteen. A photograph of my mother sat on the dresser beside a collection of medals and certificates I'd received during my early years in military service. My father had never moved them, even after I told him the room didn't need to remain a museum.
That night, I was grateful he hadn't changed it.
I lay beneath the familiar quilt and listened to the house settle around me. Somewhere down the hall, I could hear my father moving through the kitchen. He was probably making coffee he didn't need and worrying about things he couldn't fix.
I wanted to reassure him.
But I didn't know how.
At 5:40 the following morning, I gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs.
My father was already at the kitchen table.
He looked up.
"Morning."
I smiled faintly.
"Morning."
He studied my face.
"Didn't sleep?"
"Not much."
He nodded as though he'd expected that answer.
Then he pushed a cup of tea toward me.
I sat.
For several minutes, we didn't speak.
Finally, he asked, "What happens now?"
I looked into the cup.
"Investigators establish what happened. They preserve the evidence, interview witnesses, and determine whether any criminal charges are supported."
He nodded.
"And the officer?"
"That depends on the investigation."
My father leaned back.
"Renata, I know you're trying to sound professional."
I looked toward him.
He continued.
"But I'm asking as your father."
I swallowed.
He held my gaze.
"Are they going to let that man put on a uniform again and do this to somebody else?"
I wanted to give him a definite answer.
I couldn't.
"I don't know yet."
He looked away.
For several seconds, he stared through the kitchen window.
Then he said quietly, "That's what scares me."
I reached across the table.
He took my hand.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then my father said something that reminded me why I had become an investigator in the first place.
"Your mother used to tell me that justice wasn't about making powerful people afraid of somebody more powerful."
I nodded.
"I remember."
He looked toward me.
"She said it was about making sure the truth mattered even when nobody important was involved."
I felt my eyes fill.
"She did."
He squeezed my hand.
"Then make sure this isn't only about your badge."
I looked toward my injured wrists.
"I won't."