Word traveled fast when Kayla recited that fucked-up statement on the courthouse steps. We all watched at the station, hovering around a live-stream on Peterson’s computer, then watching the highlight reel from the news. Everyone was horrified. I was naive enough to assume we were horrified for the same reasons. “This is sick,” someone said, and I nodded. Sure was. Someone else said, “She needs help,” and I agreed, thinking trauma counseling, but apparently they were thinking Bedlam, because when Peterson said, “Kids these days will do anything to get on television,” the other guys nodded again.

Not me. I didn’t nod. I asked calmly, “What the hell are you talking about?” When Peterson turned the question back on me, emphasizing you, I said, “This is bullshit.”

When they asked if I was deaf or didn’t watch the video clip, I said no, I’m not deaf or blind, and fortunately, I’m not dumb, either, because, “I know how this shit works.”

They said, “Enlighten us.”

I said, “Guys like J.R. Voss do what they do knowing nobody wants to be in that girl’s shoes. This performance he cornered her into is a public threat to every other Kayla out there who might consider ratting out pervy old men.”

“Voss isn’t old,” was Peterson’s rebuttal.

Lincoln asked a fair question about how I pick and choose what to believe, but before I could answer, Dennis said, “Oh, give it up. That girl wants money and ten minutes of fame.”

And I said, maybe loudly, “No one wants to be famous for this shit.”

And Dennis had to add, “She’s a fame whore,” emphasis on whore, and people laughed.

So I said, maybe yelled, maybe shouted in his face, “You are exactly why most of us keep our mouths shut.”

Boom, splat, screech to a halt. Everyone stuck on my word-choice. You, meaning “guys like you.” Us, meaning “I’ve got skin in the game.” Translation: Alexis Diaz has trouble separating the personal from the professional. Translation: Keep an eye on her mood.

Mood, like the symptom of a deadly disease.

Then it was quiet and awkward.

Chief called me into his office the next day. Said I needed to check myself. Also said the Voss case was complicated, he understood that, but I had to let it go. “J.R. Voss has done a lot for this department,” he told me, but it meant something else. It meant, J.R. Voss buys a shit-ton of pancakes at our annual pancake breakfast, so back off.

The modus operandi around here seems to be optics first, but they don’t care about how bad it looks tiptoeing around fancy people’s feelings. So I guess Robert Hart is somebody around here—Citizen of the Year, whatever that’s worth or isn’t—so I guess we’re expected to bow down, back off, play it safe.