Page 91 of Never Forget
"Yes."
Brooks watched my face for a moment. Then nodded.
"Thank you, Miss Donovan. This has been helpful."
They stood. Morrison lingered at the door.
"If anything comes to mind—anyone who's said something that struck you as out of the ordinary, anyone who's pushed back on your work in a way that felt personal—please call me directly."
"I will."
I closed the door behind them and stood in the hallway for a long moment.
SLED was investigating the fire department. And I was the reason they were looking, and whatever they turned up was going to land somewhere.
On someone.
Maybe on Tyler, who had put his name on the proposal even though his father was Captain Sutton. Maybe on Cap himself, for what he had and hadn't said over the years. Maybe on men Sam had served beside for years and loved like brothers.
And Sam was going to have to decide what to do with that.
He was a firefighter. He believed in the brotherhood. He had told me himself that the men at Station 33 were the closest thing to family he'd had for most of his adult life. If SLED started pulling on threads, if Morrison came to him and asked him questions about the men he worked with, Sam was going to have to choose.
Between the department. And me.
I didn't want him to have to choose.
I didn't know which way he'd break, and I didn't want to find out. I didn't want to be the thing that made him sit across a table from a detective and decide whether to protect the brotherhood or tell the truth. Either answer would cost him something he couldn't get back.
I wrapped my hands around myself.
I wasn't going to tell him.
Not yet. Maybe not at all. SLED might clear the department in a week. Morrison might never need to talk to Sam. This might be a conversation I was carrying for nothing.
And if it wasn't—if they kept pulling—I'd figure out what to do when I had to.
Sam had been out the whole day helping Sean with an errand. He came in after I'd put Rosie down. I pulled him into the bedroom and closed the door.
I kissed him before he could say anything.
He laughed against my mouth. "Hi."
His hands found my waist and I pressed closer, kissing him harder than I usually did, pulling at the hem of his shirt. He went with it for a second, then pulled back just enough to look at me.
"You okay?"
"Are you complaining?"
His mouth quirked. "No."
"Good."
I kissed him again and he took it from there.
His hands slid up my back under my shirt, and he walked me backward toward the bed with the slow deliberate pace I knew by heart. My shirt came off. His followed. He kissed the curve of my jaw, the hollow of my throat, the place where my pulsewas pounding hard enough for him to feel it, and he made a low sound against my skin that meant he'd noticed.
He lifted me onto the bed.
