Page 26 of Cross the Line
Chapter 11: Out, Without Meaning To
Luke
I stared at the screen, filtering out the cacophony of ringing phones and chatter filling the bullpen. Years of practice had taught me how to tune out the noise around me. Focus narrowed. Sharpened. Everything else fell away.
Security footage from PixelLab loaded at a painfully slow pace. There. Timestamp 22:47. Min hunched over a computer in the back corner. Hood pulled low. Backpack clutched against his chest like he was trying to vanish into it. His posture screamed vulnerability and vigilance. The way someone holds themselves when trying to disappear while watching every exit.
Notes flowed mechanically from my fingers. Documenting the time. His clothing. How he kept checking over his shoulder. The footage showed him staying nearly three hours before slipping out at 01:32. No one approached. No one seemed to notice him at all. Small blessings.
"Detective Carlson, I brought you coffee."
Reid's voice pierced my concentration. Carrying that particular inflection junior officers used when trying to curry favor with transfers from prestigious divisions.
My fingers paused over the keyboard for a fraction of a second before resuming their rhythm. Not my business. Irrelevant to what mattered.
"Ah, thank you, Reid. Saving lives one cup at a time."
The response carried practiced charm. Smooth but not too intimate. The exchange registered in my peripheral vision. Reid setting the steaming cup beside the keyboard. Hovering with nervous energy.
"It's really coming down out there, isn't it?"
The laugh came too quickly. Too eager. "I know! I got soaked just walking from my car to the door. Spring in Toronto, right?"
I gritted my teeth. Forced my attention back to the screen. Carlson was objectively attractive. Simply a fact, like noting the color of the sky or water temperature. People gravitated toward him naturally. The same gravitational pull that had drawn them to Wright.
A slight shake of my head banished the comparison. Focus on Min. On the data.
"These statements from Min's classmates are interesting. They all mention he became more withdrawn about a month ago. Right when the stepfather moved in."
"That's awful. Do you think he's okay?"
"We'll find him." The gentle finality signaled the end of their interaction.
The technique was recognizable. Deflect without rejecting. Engage without encouraging. Professional but not cold. Effective, admittedly. Reid straightened up, seemingly satisfied with the brief acknowledgment, and returned to work.
A small, irritating twist in my chest demanded to be ignored. Social skills were irrelevant to our investigation. The abilityto navigate human interaction without creating discomfort was simply another professional skill. Nothing more.
"You think you can charm your way through 51 like you did at 52, Poster Boy?" Sergeant Saunders's voice cut through the bullpen, deliberately loud enough to draw attention. He stood in the break room doorway, coffee mug in hand, gaze fixed across the room. "We know how that worked out for your team."
The space didn't quite fall silent. The ambient noise dampened as officers pretended not to listen while straining to hear every word. Carlson's shoulders tensed slightly before relaxing into deliberate casualness.
"Good day to you too, Sergeant Saunders. Nice to see your sunny disposition matches the weather."
The sergeant moved closer. "Just making sure our 52 transfer understands how things work in the real world. Pretty smiles don't solve cases here."
Stay out of it. This wasn't my fight. Let him handle himself.
But something about that smug expression. The familiar look of a man who derived pleasure from public humiliation. It made my jaw clench.
"Got two undercover officers exposed with that pretty mouth of yours, didn't you?" Saunders kept advancing. Pitch calculated to carry. "Couldn't keep quiet about that drug bust. Had to make sure everyone knew Detective Carlson got the collar."
Carlson's face stayed carefully composed. A slight twitch in the jaw. Fingers curling against his palm. The control required to hold himself together.
"Lucky for you, Carlson, the Bear likes pretty boys. Or so the rumors say." Saunders's sneer dropped to a theatrical whisper that somehow carried across the now-silent room. "Isn't that right, Hawley? That's why you haven't complained about babysitting duty? Stop keeping us on the edge of our seat and admit it already."
The station froze. Keyboards stopped clicking. Conversations halted mid-sentence. The words hung in the air like poison gas. Every stare shifted toward me, gauging my reaction. Waiting for confirmation or denial of rumors that had clearly circulated behind my back.
Heat crawled up my neck. Not from embarrassment. From cold, controlled fury that had been building since Wright's betrayal. The familiar sensation of being exposed. Private matters dragged into public view. It settled over me like ice water.
