She didn't answer. She couldn't.

Instead, she cried harder, her entire body wracked with sobs, her nails digging into my skin through the fabric of my shirt as if I were the only thing keeping her from drowning. Her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, her tears hot against my skin, her voice a broken litany of "No—" and "Please—" and "It's not fair—"

I held her tighter.

I let her scream.

I let her shatter.

Because right now, in this moment, she wasn't a cop. She wasn't a fighter. She wasn't the woman who never bent, who never broke.

She was just Sarah.

And she was falling apart in my arms.

I pressed my lips to the top of her head, my voice a dark, trembling promise. "I swear to you, Sarah…" My hands clenched into fists in her hair, my entire body vibrating with the force of my rage. "I will find out who did this. And when I do, I will make them beg for death before I let them have it."

Sarah's sobs slowly quieted, her body still shaking against mine, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The room was thick with the weight of her grief, the air heavy with the salt of her tears. After what felt like an eternity, she finally pulled back slightly, her red, swollen eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second before darting away.

Marina, who had been standing quietly by the door, stepped forward. She placed a gentle hand on Sarah's shoulder, her voice soft but firm. "Sarah…" She didn't say anything else, just stood there, a silent pillar of support.

Sarah didn't respond. She just sat there, her body slumped, her breath still hitching with the aftershocks of her sobs. Then, abruptly, she straightened, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her plastered arms trembled as she reached up with her fingers, trying to tear at the cast on her wrist.

I grabbed her hand, stopping her. "What are you doing?"

She yanked her hand away, her voice raw and furious. "Stay away from me."

The venom in her voice took me aback. "Sarah—"

"Don't." Her voice was a whip crack, her eyes burning with a mix of grief and suspicion. "I didn't think about it before… but don't let me find out you were behind this."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

Her voice rose, yelling now, her entire body trembling with rage. "You heard me! Stay the hell away from me!"

I was stunned. "You think… I had something to do with this?"

Sarah's eyes blazed. "Isn't it possible?" She let out a bitter, broken laugh. "You've been threatening me since we met! Telling me you'd kill my brother if I crossed you! And now he's dead!" Her voice cracked, but she didn't stop. "You're the prime suspect, Jack. Or did you forget that?"

Something dark and furious coiled in my chest. "You really think I'd do this?" My voice was low, dangerous.

Sarah didn't back down. "I don't know what you're capable of!"

Marina gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Officer Sarah! That's—that's too much!" She didn't call her Sarah—she used her title, her voice sharp with disapproval, with anger. "My husband has been nothing but—"

I cut her off, grabbing Marina's hand and giving it a gentle but firm squeeze. "Marina, stay with her." My voice was controlled, but the rage beneath it was a live wire. "I know she's angry. I'm going out."

Marina looked at me, her eyes wide with shock and concern, but she nodded. "Jack—"

"Just stay with her," I said, my voice final.

The door clicked shut behind me with a finality that reverberated through my chest like a gunshot. The hallway stretched before me, bathed in the sickly glow of fluorescent lights, their hum the only sound in the sterile silence.

But I barely registered it. All I could hear was the ringing in my ears, the pounding of my own heartbeat, the echo of Sarah's accusations still hanging in the air like a poison.

I leaned against the wall, my fingers pressing into the cold surface as if I could ground myself through sheer force. The irony of it all curled through me like smoke—bitter, sweet, and intoxicating.

She suspected me.

Of course she did.

And why shouldn't she? I had threatened her brother's life more times than I could count. I had played the villain so well that even now, when she was at her most broken, her mind still jumped to me as the culprit. It was almost flattering, in a twisted way.

But the truth?

The truth was so much better.

Peter was gone.

And not by my hand.

No, this was Javier's work. Now, Sarah had nothing left but me. Oh, she didn't realize it yet. She was too lost in her grief, too blinded by her rage. But she would.

And when she finally understood—when she pieced together that it wasn't me who took her brother from her, but it was someone else—oh, the guilt would eat her alive.

I could taste it already.

The way she would look at me then—not with suspicion, but with shame. With remorse. With the desperate need to cling to the one person who had been there when she fell apart.

And I would let her.

I would play the savior, the shoulder to cry on, the only one who understood her pain.

Because guilt was a powerful thing.

It twisted, it corroded, it carved out hollow spaces in a person's soul—and then it filled them with whatever you wanted.

In Sarah's case?

That would be me.

I chuckled darkly to myself, the sound low and private, a secret just for me. Oh, I could tell her the truth now. I could march back into that room, lay out every sordid detail, and watch the realization dawn on her face like the sun after a storm.

But where was the fun in that?

No, it was better this way.

Let her suspect me. Let her hate me for a little while. Let her stew in her grief, in her confusion, in the gnawing doubt that maybe—just maybe—she had misjudged me.

And then—

Then, she would find the truth herself.

And when she did?

Oh, the guilt would be exquisite.

It would break her.

And I would be there to put her back together.

I pushed off the wall, rolling my shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the moment. There was work to do. Plans to set in motion. A game to play.

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