“You think you’re funny?” he said, but the edge in his voice had dulled.
“No,” I replied. “I think you’re done.”
For a fraction of a second, something passed through his eyes—calculation. Then instinct took over.
He shoved me backward.
Hard.
“Resisting,” he snapped loudly, already rewriting the moment. “Subject is resisting.”
Carter flinched.
Lopez hesitated.
The jogger stepped closer now. “Hey—he’s not—”
“Back up!” Walsh barked, turning just enough to block the line of sight. “This is police business.”
I let myself fall onto my side, breathing shallow, playing it exactly how I had for six days: smaller, weaker, forgettable.
But this time, I wasn’t waiting to see who he was.
I already knew.
This time, I was waiting to end it.
Walsh reached for his cuffs.
“Get your hands behind your back,” he ordered.
I didn’t move.
“Now.”
Still nothing.
He leaned in, voice low again. “You don’t get to talk your way out of this.”
“I’m not trying to,” I said.
And then, very slowly, I reached inside my coat.
Walsh tensed instantly.
“Hands where I can—”
I pulled out the badge.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough.
Gold caught the morning light.
His voice stopped.
Carter’s eyes widened.
Lopez stepped back.
“Captain Jonathan Rivers,” I said, holding the badge where all three of them could see it. “Internal Affairs Division.”
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that makes every sound around it louder—the wind through the trees, the distant traffic, the jogger’s breathing.
Walsh stared at the badge.
Then at my face.
Then back at the badge.
He let go of the cuffs.
“This… this is a joke,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “It’s an investigation.”
He shook his head once, sharp. “You can’t—”
“I can,” I cut in. “And I did.”
