Her eyes softened, but the answer didn’t. “No,” she said. “Because girls like us don’t get to clock out at five. We build the thing we never had, or we spend our lives regretting it.”
There it was again. That voice. That impossible, grounded clarity she had that made everything I said feel… half-baked.
"You ever going to share your story with me, Carter?"
She didn't answer; instead, she asked. “Have you ever thought about doing a fundraiser?”
I blinked. “For the department?”
“Yeah. Community-building, education, and outreach. Good PR." She made a face and added, "You could use it.”
“I could,” I admitted. “But it sounds like something I’m going to regret.”
She grinned. “Probably.”
I shook my head, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I can't decide what kind of trouble you are, Carter.”
“And I can't decide if you are old school or just old.”
That made me cough on a sip of cold tea. “Old?”
“Aren't you?” she teased. “You’ve got ten years on me, easy. Might as well be ancient.”
I pointed my tea at her. “Careful. I could pull you in for disrespecting a superior officer.”
She mock-gasped. “Wow. You really are old. Quoting codes like that.”
I chuckled. “You’re a smartass.”
“You’re just mad I’m right.”
We stood there a second longer. Then I said it, without thinking, without planning.
“Thanks, kiddo.”
She went still. Her whole face contorted like I’d just slapped her with a fish.
“Did you just call me kiddo?”
“I did.”
“That’s disgusting. Don’t ever do that again.”
I laughed again. I only knew Remi for a few months, but she felt familial, like the little sister I never had. “Why not?” I asked.
“Because it makes you sound like a grandpa.”
I smirked. “Fine. What do I call you then?”
She paused. “Your wake-up call?”
“That tracks.”
“Next thing I know, you’ll be carrying butterscotch candies in your pocket and telling us about the good old days.”
I deadpanned. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve got a jar at home.”
Her jaw dropped. “Of course you do.”
