Page 106 of Deadly Force
Seconds tick by before the words come out. "My name is Brooke. I'm a journalist. I know a lot has been said about Eliza in the media, but most of it isn't anywhere near the truth."
I swallow past my dry throat, taking courage from the thumbs-up Mick gives me. "I didn't know Eliza long, but she was so incredibly brave. She spent the final days of her life fighting for the truth."
My eyes fill, and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms. Not now. I can grieve later. This is about honoring Eliza and helping her parents understand.
I shift my gaze to them and force my voice to stay steady. "Your daughter didn't die because she was weak or broken or lost. She died because she was strong enough to stand up when everyone else stayed silent. She died because she refused to let evil hide in darkness."
My voice breaks, but I push through. "Eliza could have walked away. She could have kept quiet and stayed safe. But she chose truth over safety. She chose to protect others even when it cost her everything."
I look directly at Mrs. Moreno, whose tears are flowing freely now. "Your daughter was a hero. Not the kind they make movies about, but the real kind. The kind who does what's right even when no one is watching."
Mr. Moreno reaches for his wife.
I pause long enough to pray quickly, "And because of her courage, other young women will be protected. The truth she died to preserve is going to save lives. Your daughter's sacrifice will not be forgotten, and it will not be wasted."
I grip the podium and whisper the words, "I’m so sorry."
Sniffing and blinking back tears, I walk down from the podium on unsteady legs, and the pastor quietly moves the service toward its close.
My throat constricts as I lower myself into the pew, heat burning behind my eyes. I fold my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking, but it doesn’thelp. I can feel the weight of every stare, curious, cautious, calculating.
The pastor clears his throat, voice low and even. “Let’s stand and worship together.”
The first few notes of“How Deep the Father’s Love for Us”swell from the piano, familiar and devastating.
The congregation rises around me like a tide. I force myself up, knees unsteady, vision swimming. My lips move, but no sound comes out, not really. Not when I’m choking on guilt and grief and the terrible knowledge that no song, no sermon, no Sunday best will ever make this right.
The final verse fades too fast.
Before I’m ready, the service dissolves into movement. People drift into line like sleepwalkers, pausing at the casket, murmuring words that mean nothing because Eliza can’t hear them.
A whisper grazes my ear. “We’ll wait outside.”
Sam. I nod, barely. She touches my shoulder, firm and brief, then turns. Mick follows. They slip through the side aisle, quiet as shadows.
Caleb doesn’t say a word, just stands beside me like a sentinel, wounded, unmoving.
The black suit fits him like armor: sharp lines, pressed collar, sleeves that stretch too tight across the shoulders. I still don’t know where he got it, but somehow it doesn’t matter.
Maybe I just needed him to look untouchable today. Like someone who wouldn’t crumble if I did.
A voice cuts into my thoughts, making me turn. “Thank you for what you said.”
Mr. Moreno stands a step away, posture upright, but barely. His hands tremble at his sides, his eyes raw. Tracks of salt cut through the stubble on his jaw.
“The police won’t talk to us. They said it’s an ongoing investigation because of the police officer involved.”
I swallow, hard. “They’re protecting themselves.”
His gaze sharpens. “You know what really happened to our daughter, don’t you?”
“I do.” My voice steadies. “And with your permission, I’d like to tell her story.”
He stares at me for a long second—then gives a slight, grief-worn nod. “She was a good girl. Not perfect. She made mistakes… but…”
His words break. He bows his head.
I say what he can’t. “You loved her dearly,” I say, my voice thick.
