Page 135 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

“Ashgrave,” the detective manages, his voice suddenly hoarse. “This isn’t what it looks like?—”

“Isn’t it?” Connor interrupts, moving closer with unhurried steps. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks very muchlike a law enforcement officer destroying evidence related to a federal investigation. An investigation, I might add, that has become of particular interest to my family.”

The detective’s eyes dart between us, calculation and fear warring in his expression. “I’m just doing my job?—”

“Your job?” Connor repeats, his soft voice somehow more menacing than a shout could ever be. “Is your job to protect human traffickers, detective? To shield those who kidnap and sell omegas? To obstruct justice when it threatens your…benefactors?”

Each question makes the detective flinch despite Stone’s restraining grip.

“You don’t understand,” the detective insists, desperation creeping into his voice. “Heath has reach. People everywhere. If she thinks I’ve crossed her?—”

“Heath is in Venezuela,” Connor states with calm certainty, “believing herself beyond the reach of American justice. And perhaps she is, for now. But her network here? Her collaborators? They are very much within our reach, detective.”

“What do you want from me?” the detective asks, defeat beginning to seep into his posture.

Connor smiles—a small, cold expression that never reaches those pale eyes. “The same thing my associates here want. The truth. All of it. Names, dates, methods, locations. Every piece of evidence you’ve tampered with, every case you’ve compromised, every colleague you’ve corrupted or who has been corrupted alongside you.”

“And in return?” The question is barely above a whisper.

“In return,” Connor says, “you get to live with the consequences of your choices in a federal prison rather than facing what Heath would do to you when she discovers your cooperation.” He pauses, studying the detective with clinicaldetachment. “And she will discover it, detective. Make no mistake about that.”

I exchange a glance with Stone. This is a reminder of how little we truly know about the Ashgraves despite their assistance.

“An FBI agent is waiting three blocks from here,” Connor continues, his voice conversational now, as if discussing the weather rather than a federal investigation. “An associate of my family for many years. Very discrete, very thorough, and very interested in what you have to say about Heath’s operation.”

The detective’s expression shifts from fear to something approaching hope. “A deal? Witness protection?”

“Potentially,” Connor concedes. “Dependent on the value and verifiability of your information. But the offer is time-sensitive, detective. It expires the moment we walk away from this conversation.”

It’s clear from the detective’s face that he recognizes the choice before him isn’t a choice at all. Cooperate or face the consequences—from Heath, from the Ashgraves, from whatever remains of the legal system he hasn’t yet corrupted.

“Not here,” he finally says, resignation evident in his voice. “Too exposed.”

Connor nods, seemingly satisfied. “There’s a diner three blocks east. My FBI contact will meet us there. You can make your statement, begin the process of… redemption.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in a vinyl booth at the far end of an almost empty diner. The fluorescent lighting is harsh, but the lone waitress is keeping her distance after delivering our coffee, giving us the privacy we need. Stone sits beside the detective, effectively blocking any potential escape, while Connor and I face them across the sticky tabletop.

A man in an unremarkable suit sits at a table near the door—the FBI agent Connor mentioned, positioned to both monitorthe entrance and give our conversation the appearance of privacy.

“Start talking,” I prompt, my patience wearing thin despite the change in venue.

The detective wraps his hands around his coffee mug, staring into the dark liquid as if it might offer some escape from this situation. “Three years ago,” he begins reluctantly, “I was working a case—human trafficking, supposedly. Small operation bringing omegas in from Eastern Europe. Except when I started pulling at threads, things didn’t add up.”

He takes a sip of coffee, grimacing either at the taste or the memory. “The victims didn’t match the profile. Too educated, too well-connected back home. Not the desperate, vulnerable targets most traffickers go after. And the money trail was…sophisticated. Offshore accounts, shell companies, legitimate business fronts.”

“Heath’s operation,” Stone supplies.

The detective nods. “Though I didn’t know that at the time. I just knew I’d stumbled onto something bigger than a standard trafficking ring. I was building a case, gathering evidence, when I received a visit from a woman who introduced herself as a federal agent. Said my investigation was interfering with a larger operation. Asked me to back off, let the feds handle it.”

“Heath?” I guess.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Someone working for her. I didn’t meet Heath until later. This woman…she was convincing. Had credentials, knowledge of ongoing federal operations that checked out. I believed her.”

The admission comes with a hint of embarrassment—a seasoned detective taken in by a con. “A week later, I received an envelope containing ten thousand dollars in cash. A ‘consulting fee’ for my cooperation, according to the note. That’s when I realized what was really happening.”

“But you kept the money,” Stone observes.

The detective meets his gaze briefly before looking away. “Yes. I told myself it was compensation for the case I’d been forced to abandon. Just this once. A one-time compromise.”

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