There were very few situations in which Becca didn’t have something to say. Right now, she was speechless. Becca thought about pleading her case, defending herself and fighting her suspension. Nina clearly expected this, anxiously awaiting Becca’s reaction. She expected her friend to put up a fight. It was part of Becca’s DNA. The thing was, Becca simply didn’t care. Not right now.

“Tell them I’m grateful for this this time to be with my family, and I appreciate their continued support in bringing her attackers to justice,” Becca said, adopting the tone of the department press releases.

“Becca…”

Nina was preparing to double down on the why of it all, insisting that she loved Becca and this was in her best interests. The same bullshit speeches Becca herself had delivered a hundred times before.

Thankfully the door swung open, Christian entering with his usual blistering intensity.

“Becca, Wishard needs to see you,” he said. He paused, suddenly assessing the obvious tension in the room. “Unless you need a few minutes?”

“We’re good. Nina was just leaving. Don’t want her to be late for her shift,” Becca said pointedly. Nina reluctantly stood. She leaned down and gave Becca a kiss on the cheek. “I’m just looking out for you. Like I always have.”

She headed out, offering Christian a pat on the shoulder and what could almost count as a smile. How quickly tragedies transformed people, bringing them back together, erasing years of grudges in a matter of seconds.

“You okay?” Christian said.

“I’m fine. Where is Wishard?” she said.

“Interview room. Let’s go,” he said, turning and leading Becca down a long gray corridor, fluorescent lights flickering on and off. He headed through the bull pen at a clipped pace. Becca trailed behind, trying to shake off her anger at Nina, at the department, at the whole damn world.

As she headed across the bull pen, Becca’s gaze landed on the bright tie-dyed colors of a scarf. She blinked, gasping as she took in Mo. The woman was tucked away in a corner, sitting at a desk, her hands cuffed behind her back, chatting with a middle-aged man. There was a hawkish, almost predatory look about him, and judging from his suit, he was an attorney. They were always easy to spot, in their custom-made Brioni suits and Ferragamo wing tips. The hawkish man said something to Mo, and she laughed, throwing her head back. Becca couldn’t believe it. Ash was lying in that hospital bed, fighting for every last breath, and this woman was acting like she was on a goddamn Tinder date.

“You’re a monster. You’re a fucking monster,” Becca shouted, rushing toward her, spittle flying. “She’s just a child. Why would you do that to Ash? Why?”

“I’m terribly sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mo said softly.