“His dad wanted to,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Came storming into the station, all fired up, ready to drag you to court himself.”

Blake’s fingers twitched at his sides.

Dad didn’t miss the shift in his posture, but he kept talking. “So I had a little talk with him. Put everything nice and simple. The attempted assault, the witness statements, the fact that Nathan instigated the whole damn thing.” I could see the faint hint of satisfaction in his expression before he continued. “Told him if he wanted to make a case out of this, he was more than welcome to try. But I made sure to mention that he might want to think twice before digging his own grave.”

Blake nodded once, but I could see it in his face—the way he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, convinced that this wasn’t over.

Dad sighed and shook his head. He leaned in ever so slightly as they reached the car. “As a police officer? I’m pissed at you, Blake.”

Blake’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting away as if he couldn’t bring himself to look Dad in the eye.

“As your father?” Dad’s voice softened. “I’m proud of you, Son. You did the right thing.”

For a second, I thought Blake might respond. But he only gave a stiff nod, his jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

I wasn’t sure if it was relief or regret. Maybe both.

I didn’t hear what Dad said after that, but I saw the way Blake’s fingers curled slightly—like he was holding onto those words with everything he had. Like they were something he hadn’t realized he’d needed. And in that moment, I swore his entire body relaxed—just enough for me to see it.

Tiffany elbowed me. “So…think he’ll let us stop for food?”

I turned to look at her, my face devoid of amusement.

“What?” She shrugged. “Trauma makes me hungry.”

Jamal snorted from behind us. “You’re always hungry.”

Tiffany didn’t miss a beat. “That’s called being prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

“For this exact moment,” she told him. “Where I’ve been through hell and need greasy fries to recover.”

“We’re not getting food, Tiff.”

“I bet I can convince your dad.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

Tiffany raised a single, perfectly manicured brow. “Oh, I can,” she said, already striding ahead and catching up to my dad with an exaggerated limp, as if the weight of her bad decisions had physically injured her. “Mr. Price?” she called sweetly.

“No.”

She blinked, placing a hand on her hip. “I didn’t even ask yet.”

“You were going to ask me to stop for food,” he said flatly, rubbing his temple as if he could already feel a headache forming.

Tiffany scoffed. “You don’t know that.”