“As long as you want me to.”
From the kitchen, Blythe calls out, “Are we ordering pizza or what? I’m STARVING and my stomach is making REBELLION NOISES!”
“We’re ordering pizza!” I call back. I glance at Dex, “Crisis management through room service. That’s basically been my parenting strategy for two years.”
“Seems to be working out okay,” he says, watching Tyson explain something complex about hockey positioning to his sister, who’s listening with the intensity of someone learning state secrets.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe we’re all going to be okay.
Detective Gonzalez looks youngerthan I expected. Mid-thirties, tired eyes, the kind of careful posture that comes from being the only woman in a room full of cops for most of your career.
“I want to be clear,” she says, settling into my kitchen chair with coffee I made too strong. “This conversation is off the record. I’m here as someone who’s seen Evan Adler’s pattern of behavior, not as an official representative of Seattle PD.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure what else to say.
“There have been three complaints filed against Detective Adler in the past five years. Two were dismissed due to lack of evidence. One was never officially filed because the complainant was... discouraged from pursuing it.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of complaints?”
“Domestic incidents. Use of excessive force during what should have been routine calls. Abuse of authority.” Shepauses. “The complainant who was discouraged? She was a dispatch operator. Filed a harassment complaint, then suddenly transferred to another department.”
“Jesus.”
“The thing is, none of these women had the kind of documentation you have. The recordings, the photos, the witnesses. And none of them had...” she glances toward the living room where Dex is helping the kids with a puzzle, “...the kind of support system you’ve built.”
“So what does this mean?”
“It means if you’re willing to go on record about your experiences with Detective Adler, we might be able to build a case that protects other women. Future victims.”
I feel Dex’s presence behind me before I see him. He’s moved to the kitchen doorway, listening.
“What would that involve?” I ask.
“Formal statement. Testimony if it goes to trial. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be powerful.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then he probably gets a slap on the wrist for what happened to your son and goes back to work in six months.”
The choice feels enormous. Stay quiet, keep my head down, protect what peace we’ve found. Or speak up and risk everything for women I’ve never met.
“I need to think about it,” I say finally.
Detective Gonzalez nods. “Take your time. But don’t take too long. Internal Affairs moves fast when they want to bury something.”
After she leaves, I sit at the kitchen table staring at the business card she left behind.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Dex says, sliding into the chair across from me.
“Just wondering how many other women are sitting in kitchens like this, trying to decide if they’re brave enough to speak up.”
“You’re already brave enough. You’ve been brave enough for years.”
“Have I? Because it feels like I just kept my head down and hoped he’d leave us alone.”
“You documented everything. You kept your kids safe. You left when you had to. That’s not keeping your head down—that’s survival.”
Maybe he’s right. But survival and bravery feel like different things.
