The blood on Marcus's jacket was still wet when they told me it was an accident. I stood in the rain outside the warehouse, watching them zip my partner into a body bag, and every instinct I'd honed over eight years on the force screamed that something was wrong. Marcus Chen—no relation, despite sharing my last name—had been the best undercover operative in our precinct. He didn't make mistakes. He certainly didn't walk into ambushes unprepared. "Detective Chen." Captain Morrison's hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and cold. "Go home. Take the week. We'll handle the investigation." Investigation. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. "I want to see the scene," I said, already moving toward the warehouse entrance. Morrison's grip tightened. "The scene is compromised. Rain's washed away most of the evidence. It's a tragedy, but these things happen in undercover work. You know that." I did know that. I also knew that Marcus had called me three hours before he died, his voice tight with excitement. "Lia, I've got something big. Names you wouldn't believe. Meet me tomorrow and I'll show you everything." Tomorrow never came. I pulled away from Morrison and headed for my car, my phone already buzzing. James. My fiancé's name lit up the screen, his concern probably already triggered by whatever alert system prosecutors had for dead cops. "Lia, sweetheart, I just heard. I'm so sorry." James's voice was smooth, practiced sympathy. District Attorney material. "Where are you? I'm coming to get you." "I'm fine. I need to work." "You need to grieve. Let me take care of you." Something in his tone made my skin crawl. James never took care of me—we took care of each other. That was our deal. Equal partners in everything. "I'll see you at home," I said, and hung up. The precinct was chaos when I arrived, everyone carefully not looking at me. I made it to Marcus's desk before Morrison emerged from his office, his face darkening. "Detective Chen, I told you to go home." "I need to collect Marcus's personal effects. For his sister." A lie, but a plausible one. Morrison hesitated, then nodded curtly. I had maybe ten minutes before someone stopped me. Marcus's desk was already clean. Too clean. The organized chaos of an active investigation had been stripped away, leaving only a coffee mug and a framed photo of his niece. I opened drawers with shaking hands, finding nothing but standard office supplies. Then I saw it—a tiny tear in the lining of his bottom drawer. The kind of hiding spot Marcus would use. The kind I would use. I slipped my hand inside and felt paper. "Detective." Morrison's voice was right behind me. "Step away from the desk." I palmed the folded documents and stood, turning to face him with what I hoped was a grief-stricken expression. "Sorry. I just... I needed to feel close to him." Morrison's eyes were flat. "Go home, Detective. That's an order. And Chen?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Let this go. Marcus knew the risks. Don't make his death mean nothing by turning it into a conspiracy theory." The drive home took twenty minutes. I waited until I was in my apartment, door locked, blinds drawn, before I unfolded Marcus's hidden papers. Bank statements. Wire transfers. Dates and amounts that meant nothing to me. And then, on the last page, a list of names in Marcus's handwriting. Judge Richard Whitmore. Senator Patricia Voss. Captain Thomas Morrison. My breath stopped. James Whitmore. My fiancé's name, circled three times in red ink. ---