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I open an incognito browser window and quickly navigate to my blog. The familiar black background with crimson text fills my screen, and I feel a small thrill of excitement.
“The Scarlett Holmes Blog,” the header proclaims. Not the most original title, but it’s become my sanctuary. I scroll through, checking for new comments. A notification catches my eye—someone’s left a detailed response to my latest post. I make a mental note to read it thoroughly during my lunch break, then close the page and begin my work for the day.
I’m deep into scrutinizing a particularly puzzling fiber analysis when the door to my boss’s office opens, allowing the voices of my boss and Jim Pearson, one of the prosecuting attorneys, to cut through my concentration.
“We need that fiber sample yesterday, Doug,” Jim hisses, his nasal voice sharp with frustration. “This entire case hinges on it.”
“I know that,” Doug replies, his tone tight. “But it was an honest mistake. A human error. However, what you’re asking us to do is a deliberate breach of the rules. Jim, we can’t just—”
“Can’t just what? Do your job? Clean up your mess?” Jim cuts him off harshly. “Tommy Martelli’s defense team are dirty, slimy bastards. We need to meet them on the mat for this. Otherwise, we’ll lose the case, and you know that motherfucker deserves to rot in prison.”
My boss’s tone gets testy. “Okay, Jim. I really can’t get involved here. We’re neutral—”
“Spare me the sanctimonious bullshit, Doug, and clean up your fucking mess. I’ve already spoken to my contact in Chicago. They’ll hand over the sample once we give them a positive ID. There’ll be no memos, no paper trail. We do this under the radar. I want to see that smug defense team choke on their latest ruse.”
Chicago. The word hits me like a sucker punch, and suddenly I’m not in the lab anymore. I’m back in that restaurant, the smell of gunpowder in my nostrils, Dante’s eyes cold and predatory as he stood over the bodies. My stomach lurches, and I grip the edge of my desk, willing the memory away.
Doug’s sigh of resignation comes through again. “Tim Carter is a Boy Scout. He can’t pull this off.”
“No, but the woman will. What’s her name . . .” he trails off as if trying to recall. “O’Shea. Let O’Shea do it. I hear she’s the brains around this place, yet she’s hardly seen.” Jim’s parting jibe as he walks off roots me to the chair.
What the hell?
They’re planning something shady, and my name has just come up as the prime candidate to carry out the operation. I’m not sure whether to be pleased or insulted by it.
I try to go back to work, but I’m too distracted, and I find myself counting down the seconds until—
Right on schedule, Doug’s moon-like face pokes through my office door. “O’Shea. Nice of you to finally turn up to work. My office, right now.” He leaves, fully expecting me to follow.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I already know what’s coming, but still, my hands shake with dread. I stand, square my shoulders, and ignore the twinge in my hip.
Doug’s small, cluttered office smells of stale coffee and cheap cologne. He’s seated behind his desk, a steaming mug in his hand. To my surprise, he gestures to an identical mug on the corner of his desk.
“Have a seat. Coffee?”
I eye the mug suspiciously. Doug Harrison offering me coffee? This can’t be good. “No, thanks,” I say cautiously, settling into the chair across from him.
Doug leans back, his chair creaking under his weight. “You’re one of our best analysts, Addy. Sharp, thorough, discreet.” He pauses, his gaze boring into me. “That’s why I need you for a . . . delicate situation.”
My stomach tightens. “Doug, if this is about what I overheard—”
“Then you know you’re going to Chicago,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Chicago. The city I swore I’d never return to. I swallow hard, fighting to keep my voice steady. “But I’m in the middle of the Oscar case. Surely someone else can—”
“This takes priority,” Harrison cuts me off again. “Jim Pearson has us by the throat. Apparently, some fool in Chicago mixed things up, and we didn’t realize until too late. We need that fiber sample, or our jobs are on the line.”
I open my mouth to protest again, but Harrison’s next words stop me cold. “You’re in line for team leader, and this move could be a big shove in that direction, O’Shea.”
The implication is clear. Do this, or kiss my promotion goodbye. I’m being backed into a corner, and we both know it.
As he outlines the details, my mind races. An off-the-books evidence retrieval? The ethical implications alone are staggering. But beneath my professional concerns, a more personal dread is building. Chicago means the possibility of encountering Dante.
But what are the odds of running into him on a same-day return trip to Chicago? It’s not as if he’s the city’s gatekeeper or something.
I take a deep breath, then ask, “When do I leave?” I hate how defeated my voice sounds.
A smile spreads across Harrison’s face, smug and satisfied. “ASAP. The lab in Chicago is expecting you as of noon today.”
