Page 105 of Deadly Force
Her lips part. Her breath catches. Something shifts in her face, surprise giving way to something deeper as she flushes. “I love you too,” she whispers.
Am I hearin’ things?
“Say that again.”
She reaches for my hand—the one without the IV. Her fingers are warm, steady. “I love you too,Action Man.”
Despite the fire roaring through my chest, I laugh. “Since when?”
Her teeth catch her lip. “When you prayed instead of kissing me. It was the first time I saw your spiritual muscle.”
A wry smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I shift against the stiff hospital pillow. “Hardest call Iever had to make. Glad you think it was the right one.”
She leans in, elbow brushing mine, voice low and teasing. “I didn’t at the time. I was too absorbed with your actual muscle. But hindsight is twenty-twenty.”
I chuckle under my breath and thread my fingers through hers, slow, deliberate. Her grip tightens just enough to let me know she’s not letting go.
There’s still fallout ahead. Still calls to make. Reports to file. We’ll have to give testimony. A criminal trial’s coming—high-profile, messy, loud. There’ll be subpoenas. Headlines. Protests. Victims stepping out of the shadows. Politicians scrambling.
A world outside this room that won’t stop spinning just because we’re catching our breaths.
But for now, I’ve got her heart, and her hand in mine. And that’s more than enough.
Brooke
Three days later…
The pew is hard beneath me, unforgiving wood that makes my back ache. I shift, and the slight creak sounds too loud in the hushed sanctuary. Desert light slices through stained glass, painting everything in jeweled fragments—red across my hands, blue on the sling on Caleb's shoulder.
Mick keeps tugging at his collar—the samenervous habit from childhood—and it's almost comforting to see something familiar in this sacred, terrible place. Samantha sits perfectly still beside him, her face composed, but I catch the slight tightness around her eyes. Even she isn't immune to the injustice.
We shouldn’t be here. Wewouldn’tbe here if the media hadn’t twisted Eliza’s death into a rallying cry for “reproductive rights.”
A teenage girl dies under suspicious circumstances, and somehow it becomes a story about access, not accountability.
I was so agitated that Caleb and Mick, who arrived last night, insisted I come to put the record straight.
How they think I can do that is yet to be seen. This isn’t the time or place.
Eliza’s parents, along with the rest of her family and friends are grieving.
Mrs. Moreno is sitting in the front row, posture rigid as carved marble. She hasn't turned around once during the service and is just staring at the white casket. Mr. Moreno's weathered hand rests on her shoulder, trembling like autumn leaves. His other hand grips a tissue twisted into damp pulp.
One by one, people from Eliza's life come forward after the pastor asks if anyone would like to share memories. Dr. Callahan, her engineering professor, tries to speak about analytical minds and precision,but his words fracture on brilliant, shatter completely on dedicated. Past tense, all of it. Every memory now locked behind the terrible wall ofwas.
He stumbles down from the podium, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, and nearly collides with Mia Park as she climbs the steps. Her hands shake as she unfolds a piece of paper, reads it once, then crumples it into her palm. "Eliza was just..." she begins, her whisper barely threading through the silence. "She was really good at explaining things. Like, when I didn't understand calculus, she'd sit with me for hours and she never got mad or anything." Her words splinter. "She was just... she was nice. Really, really nice." The phrases tumble out inadequate and true, the way grief always sounds when we try to capture a whole person in sentences.
The silence stretches after Mia sits down, heavy as desert heat. Then a woman in navy blue rises from the middle section. Someone from Sonora Investments, her movements measured and professional until she reaches the podium. Her knuckles go bone-white against the wood. "Eliza would stay until everyone else had gone home," she begins, then stops. A baby whimpers somewhere in the back. Someone shifts restlessly. She tries again. "She said numbers didn't lie, and she wouldn't either." Her composure disintegrates on the final words, all that professional control cracking like dried earth.
She returns to her seat, and the pastor looks outover the congregation. "Would anyone else like to share?"
The silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable. People shift in their pews, glancing around to see if someone will stand. A few seconds stretch into eternity. Mrs. Moreno's shoulders remain rigid. Mr. Moreno stares at his hands.
Caleb nudges my foot with his boot. My heart pounds against my ribs. I could speak. I could tell them about Eliza's courage, about what she died trying to reveal.
I glance sidelong at Sam and she gives me a subtle nod. My stomach backflips, but I rise to my feet. Swallowing hard, I shuffle to the front and climb the steps, legs shaking with every movement.
At the podium, I clear my throat, frantically praying for the Lord to give me the words her family so desperately need to hear.
