Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Both,” he admitted. “I went to Westerly Cove running from guilt and failure. But I’m staying because I found something worth staying for. That’s not running—that’s choosing.”
Rodriguez nodded. “Then I’m glad for you. You were a good detective, Harrington. One of my best. But after Traci died, you were just going through the motions. Better to leave while you still have something left than stay until there’s nothing.”
They talked for another twenty minutes about logistics, benefits, final paperwork. When Brooks left the building, he felt lighter.
His second stop was harder.
Traci’s house sat in a quiet suburb north of the city. Kids’ bikes in the driveway. Basketball hoop over the garage.
Marcus Washington answered the door. Traci’s husband had aged since the funeral—more gray, thinner face—but his handshake was firm.
“Brooks. Come in.”
The house smelled like Sunday dinner. Traci’s mother was in the kitchen with the kids. They waved at Brooks but didn’t come running like they used to. He’d been a fixture in their lives before the warehouse. After, he’d become the man who’d let their mother die.
“Coffee?” Marcus offered.
“Please.”
They sat at the kitchen table where Brooks had shared dozens of meals with Traci’s family. Planning fishing trips. Watching game replays. Arguing about the best barbecue in Austin.
Marcus poured two mugs and sat across from him. “Your message said you were leaving Texas for good.”
“Took a permanent position in Rhode Island. Small coastal town. It’s time.”
“Good.” Marcus’s voice was rough. “You’ve been punishing yourself for three years. Traci would have hated that.”
“I got her killed.”
“No. Santos got her killed. The dirty cops who fed us bad intel got her killed. The system that let corruption fester got her killed.” Marcus met his eyes. “You were her partner, Brooks. You followed procedure. You made the best call you could with the information you had.”
“She wanted to wait for backup.”
“And you thought the intel was solid. You’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes good decisions have bad outcomes.” Marcus took a breath. “I was angry after she died. Angry at everyone—you, the department, God. But over time I realized that being angry at you was easier than accepting that sometimes shit just happens.”
Brooks’s throat tightened. “I should have listened to her instincts.”
“Maybe. But if you had, you might have missed the window entirely. Santos might have gotten away, set up somewhere else, hurt other people.” Marcus leaned forward. “You can’t Monday morning quarterback a tactical situation, Brooks. You made the call you thought was right. Traci knew the risks when she put on the badge every day.”
“She saved my life. Threw herself between me and those bullets.”
“Because she was your partner. Because that’s what partners do.” Marcus’s voice softened. “She would want you to forgive yourself. Move on. Find something worth living for instead of just existing.”
“I think I have.”
“Yeah?”
“Her name’s Vivienne. She’s . . .” Brooks searched for words. “Different from anyone I’ve ever met. She challenged how I see the world. Made me question assumptions I didn’t know I had. Working with her feels right in a way nothing has since Traci died.”
Marcus smiled for the first time. “Then Traci would approve. She always said you needed someone who wouldn’t let you get too stuck in your head.”
They talked longer. About the kids, about Marcus’s new job, about the memorial fund they’d started in Traci’s name.
When Brooks stood to leave, Marcus walked him to the door.
“Take care of yourself, Brooks. And this Vivienne—take care of her too.”
“I will.”
“Good.” Marcus offered his hand again. “Traci’s badge is in your car, right? In that box you never unpacked?”
“How did you—”
“Because I know you.” Marcus’s expression was kind. “Take it out. Display it somewhere. She would want you to remember her, not hide from the memory.”
Brooks drove away with tears he’d been holding for three years finally breaking free. By the time he reached his hotel, he felt hollowed out but clean.
He returned to his hotel and called Vivienne.
She answered on the second ring. “How’s Austin?”
“Hot. Loud. Familiar in all the wrong ways.” Brooks settled into a chair by the window. “I met with Rodriguez. Submitted my resignation officially. It’s done.”
“How do you feel?”
“Lighter.” He paused. “I also saw Traci’s husband. Her family.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was. But it needed to happen. He gave me permission to move on. To forgive myself.” Brooks’s voice roughened. “He said Traci would want me to find something worth living for.”
“And have you?”
Brooks thought about the past five weeks. The case, the town, the woman who’d challenged everything he thought he knew about truth and evidence and faith.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I have.”
Silence on the other end. Then Vivienne’s voice, soft: “When are you coming home?”
Home. Not back to Westerly Cove. Home.
“Tomorrow afternoon. Flight gets in at three.”
“I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“You don’t have to—”