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She should never have let things go this far, Roseline berated herself angrily. When Callan Hemlock had first arrived months ago as one of Commander Beckner’s hand-picked transfers from Boston, she had dismissed him as just another cocky male detective getting by on charm and bravado. Having dealt with more than her share of condescending men during her career with the New Orleans Police Department, she had avoided Callan at first, keeping their interactions crisp and professional.
But Callan had surprised her.
During intense strategy sessions dissecting leads on dark web activity possibly tied to the Game Master killings, Callan asked thoughtful questions and listened when she explained technical details, showing genuine interest in comprehending the digital realm that she navigated with such ease. When other cops taunted or doubted her skills because of her gender during the worst parts of the investigation, Callan always stepped in to defend her value.
Steadily, Callan had broken through the protective walls Roseline had built around herself, proving he was a man she could rely on and trust. He saw the keen intellect and tenacious spirit buried beneath her reserved exterior forged from years of mistreatment by small-minded men. And Roseline soon realized those striking sapphire eyes saw her not just as a computer whiz but as a woman—an appealing, desirable woman.
After, their relationship had grown beyond a mere physical bond. Callan made Roseline feel truly seen and understood. He didn’t just respect her professional skills—he admired the person she was beneath the badge, the woman she kept hidden. And she sensed a similar loneliness in him, a yearning for the kind of profound connection they shared. In Callan’s strong arms, Roseline had found an oasis of tenderness and understanding that eased old wounds and quieted the storms that too often raged inside her.
But now, that cherished sanctuary felt like it was slipping away with each passing second Callan spent in surgery. All Roseline could do was sit helplessly and wait, accompanied only by her raging thoughts and Brandon’s grave silence.
Glancing over at Brandon slouched in the neighboring chair, eyes bloodshot and fixed straight ahead, Roseline was struck by how deeply Callan’s injury was affecting his friend, too. She knew Brandon felt responsible for Callan getting shot while on duty, attempting to protect one of the Game Master’s potential targets, and she sensed Brandon’s guilt ran even deeper, blaming himself for not staying and doing more to shield his friend.
Reaching over hesitantly, Roseline placed a gentle hand on Brandon’s forearm. He stiffened in surprise before turning to meet her eyes. The raw anguish Roseline saw there mirrored her own, bringing them together in shared grief and uncertainty.
“Callan’s strong,” she said, emotion cracking her voice. “He’ll fight his way back to us. I know he will.”
Brandon just nodded, lips pressed in a grim line as he wiped at the tears welling in his eyes. After a heavy silence, he spoke, voice hoarse. “I still remember the day I met Callan at the station as he got transferred here to NOLA,” Brandon said. “Said he was looking for a change of scenery and a new challenge. But I could tell even then it was more than that. He saw this as a fresh start.”
She listened without interrupting.
Brandon straightened up in his chair, gathering himself before continuing. “I’ll never forget showing up down here like a fish out of water, just like him, and how we both helped each other.” He let out a shaky breath before adding softly, “Callan’s the best friend I’ve ever had. If he doesn’t make it…” Brandon’s voice broke off, unable to complete the awful thought.
Roseline gave his arm a supportive squeeze. “He’ll pull through this,” she said, willing her words to be true. “He has too much to live for now.”
She wanted to believe that, for her own fractured heart’s sake as much as Brandon’s. As they returned to heavy silence once more, Roseline’s thoughts drifted back to the early days of working the disturbing Game Master case alongside Callan, how connecting with him had melted the ice around her guarded heart.
And now, facing the possibility of losing this man who had become her rock amid chaos and darkness in a flash, Roseline found it difficult to imagine tomorrow without him.
How could she wake up and not hear his warm, deep voice teasing her? Who would brew the coffee she relied on and bring her an extra cup in the technology cave she called her office? Who would make her laugh with ridiculous jokes after a brutal day or hold her close when emotion overwhelmed her? Without Callan’s unwavering faith in her by her side, even her own confidence in her skills felt shaken.
Glancing at her watch, Roseline realized four hours had crawled by with no updates on Callan’s condition. She shifted anxiously in the hard chair, emotions seesawing between hope and dread. She thought of Hayden, wishing she could talk to her dear friend right now. Hayden would know just what to say to ease Roseline’s anguished mind. But calling Hayden felt impossible until she knew whether Callan would survive.
Commander Beckner strode in, shoulders squared, his normally stern expression creased with worry. His sharp gaze zeroed in on Roseline and Brandon, who hunched in the corner chairs.
Marching over, Beckner searched their faces. “How is he?” he asked gruffly, never one to mince words. “Have you gotten an update on Hemlock’s status?”
Roseline shook her head mutely, the movement making her dizzy. “Still in surgery,” she managed to rasp. “We don’t know anything yet.”
Beckner scrubbed a hand over his chin, jaw clenched. For a moment, the formidable police commander who inspired equal parts fear and awe looked like just another worried friend. Beckner had hand-picked Callan for the New Orleans transfer, believing his stellar case record would help clean up the city’s notoriously corrupt force. Nearly losing one of his star recruits struck deep.
Beckner squeezed Roseline’s shoulder with uncharacteristic gentleness. “You two did outstanding work bringing down Marcus Lavelle. Everyone’s saying so. But you should have called for backup instead of rushing in without support.” His mouth twisted in frustration. “Reckless choices get good officers killed, Fontenot.”
Roseline’s chin quivered as she blinked back hot tears. “Callan was only there because of me,” she choked out. “That bullet was meant for me. He dove right in front of it.”
The horrific moment replayed in her mind—Callan’s body slamming into hers, the dark flower of blood blooming across his chest, his ragged cry of pain. Roseline’s knees nearly buckled at the awful memory, but Beckner’s iron grip kept her upright.
“Now you listen up,” Beckner ordered, his gravelly voice softening. “I pored over Lavelle’s records after his accident that forced retirement. On paper, he seemed all right, just dealing with chronic pain. But that kind of trauma changes a person.”
Brandon frowned. “Yeah,” he muttered. “He’s gone batshit.”
Beckner shook his head thoughtfully. “Warps the mind when you can’t do the job that’s been your whole identity. I had no clue how twisted with vengeance Lavelle had become.” His hands flexed into fists. “But you and Hemlock, you two figured out what no one else could. Pried open this whole ugly mess and took down the son of a bitch. The department owes you. I’m proud of what you did.”
Despite her bone-deep exhaustion, Roseline felt a flicker of pride. She and Callan had taken the discarded crumbs of clues and assembled the full sinister puzzle that nobody else could decipher. But any sense of accomplishment would be hollow if Callan didn’t survive.
As if reading her thoughts, Beckner clasped Roseline’s shoulder again. “Hemlock’s one of the toughest men I know,” he said. “He’ll fight like hell to come back to you. Just you watch.”
Letting her go, Beckner took a step back, regaining his usual commanding presence. “Soon as we know Hemlock’s status, contact me directly. That’s an order. I want updates the instant you have them.”
