Still a liar.
Below:
But you went anyway.
Marcus laughed.
Then cried.
Quietly.
He placed the photograph beside Patrice’s.
The phone rang.
Deputy Chief Shaw.
“Chief, city manager’s here.”
“What did I do now?”
“Apparently they want to discuss your contract.”
Marcus looked toward the window.
Five years had passed.
His original term was ending.
Rumors said the council wanted to extend him.
Other rumors said Marcus might leave.
Isaiah had asked.
“Do you want another five?”
Marcus did not know.
Reform becomes dangerous when leaders begin believing institutions cannot survive without them.
He had always said that.
Now he had to prove he meant it.
At the contract meeting, the city manager offered three more years.
Marcus surprised everyone.
“One.”
The manager stared.
“One year?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Marcus looked toward Shaw.
“Because succession is part of reform.”
The city manager frowned.
“We want stability.”
“So do I.”
Marcus folded his hands.
“If Riverside only behaves differently while Marcus Reed occupies the chief’s office, then Riverside did not change.”
He proposed his final-year priorities.
Train internal leadership.
Transfer audit authority permanently to independent bodies.
Formalize civilian oversight by ordinance so the next chief could not undo it alone.
Build succession.
Deputy Chief Shaw would likely apply.
Others too.
The city manager asked:
“You’re really going to walk away?”
Marcus smiled.
“I walked in.”
“That was harder.”
His final year passed faster than the first week.
On his last day, Marcus wore the same dress uniform.
Four stars.
Polished shoes.
Black tie.
The same badge.
His old leather briefcase had been repaired but still carried a scratch where Caldwell had dropped it.
Marcus kept the scratch.
Some marks do not require restoration.
At 8:50 a.m., he entered the lobby.
This time people knew.
Officers lined both sides.
Marcus stopped.
He had specifically requested no ceremony.
Deputy Chief Shaw smiled.
“You’re not chief much longer.”
“Mutiny.”
“Probably.”
Isaiah stood near the front.
Evelyn Warren beside him.
Darius too.
Sergeant Porter.
Melissa Dane from records.
Samuel Briggs, retired evidence technician.
Alvarez.
The old waiting-area peace lily sat huge and ridiculous near the window.
Marcus stared at Evelyn.
“You kept it alive?”
She smiled.
“Your people did.”
Fair.
A podium stood near the center.
Marcus groaned.
Isaiah whispered, “Suffer.”
Shaw stepped forward.
“We know you hate speeches.”
“Yes.”
“So we kept this short.”
She handed Marcus something.
Not a plaque.
A folder.
He opened it.
Inside were copies of the first ten civilian complaints processed under Riverside’s new independent tracking system.
Not because the complaints themselves were celebratory.