Page 2 of The Wild Card

My hands tighten on the bar. “No.”

“Word is they’re looking at you for it. Leadership position. New task force.”

“It’s a rumor.”

“Daniels has been asking about you.” Foster sets down his weights. “Specifically about your, quote, ‘ties to the community.’ Wanted to know if you were seeing anyone.”

I rack the bar harder than I mean to. “Why would he care about that?”

“Because they want to transfer you, genius. And it’s easier to relocate someone who doesn’t have roots.”

Roots.

The word echoes in my head. What I have is a cat who showed up on my fire escape and refuses to leave, a string of failed roommates, an apartment I can’t afford alone, and a carefully balanced regimen that took years to get right and would have to start all over if I moved.

Not exactly the picture of stability.

“Jensen.” The voice comes from across the gym, and my spine straightens automatically. Lieutenant Daniels stands in the doorway, silver-haired and unreadable. “My office. Five minutes.”

He’s gone before I can respond.

Foster and I exchange a look.

“Told you,” he says quietly.

I grab my towel, my water bottle, my phone. Check that I have everything. Check again. My hands are steady because I’ve trained them to be, but inside I’m the furthest thing from calm.

Daniels’s office smells mildly of coffee. Family photos cover his desk—wife, four kids, a golden retriever. A normal life. Normal attachments.

Must be nice.

“Sit down, Jensen.”

I sit.

“How long have you been with the Dallas office?”

“Six years, sir.”

“Six years. Decorated record. Multiple commendations. One of the best tactical minds I’ve ever worked with.” He leans back, and I can feel the but coming before he even says it. “Which is why I’m recommending you for the Anchorage task force.”

There it is.

The words hit my chest like a physical blow, but I keep my expression neutral. Steady. Never let them see you spiral.

“Anchorage, sir?”

“It’s a promotion, Jensen. Leadership position. You’d be heading up the Northern division’s tactical response unit.” He smiles like he’s handing me a gift. “It’s an honor. You should be thrilled.”

I am not thrilled.

What I am is watching my carefully constructed life crumble in real time while sitting in this leather chair pretending to be a functional adult.

Anchorage, Alaska. Two thousand miles from everything I’ve built. From my apartment—the first place that’s ever been truly mine. From Dr. Reyes, who spent the last few years helping me build the coping strategies that keep me functional. From the psychiatrist who finally got my medication right after eight months of trial and error.

New city. New doctors. New routines. New everything.

My brain starts its familiar spiral: You’ll have to find a new therapist. Start over from scratch. Explain the foster homes, the military, the discharge. They won’t understand. They never understand.