Cop's Affair, Friend's Death

I stared at Ashley's Instagram story until my eyes burned, each new photo a fresh wound. Michael feeding her chocolate-covered strawberries. Their hands intertwined across the table. His jacket draped over her shoulders as they exited the restaurant. The evidence of his betrayal documented in perfect, filtered detail.

I barely slept that night, curled on the couch rather than our bed, replaying five years of memories through the distorted lens of this new reality. Had there been signs I'd ignored? How many "mandatory shifts" had actually been dates with Ashley?

The harsh ring of my phone jolted me awake. I fumbled for it, squinting at the screen: Chicago PD. My stomach knotted—was Michael finally calling to explain? Or had Ashley convinced him to end things over breakfast?

"Hello?" My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears.

"Ms. Martinez? This is Dispatch. We're trying to locate Detective Thompson. He's not answering his phone, and he missed roll call."

A bitter laugh almost escaped me. "I wouldn't know. He told me he was working last night, but—"

"Wait," the dispatcher interrupted, her tone shifting abruptly. "Hold on."

I heard muffled voices, then what sounded like a hand covering the receiver. When she returned, her voice had changed—softer, careful.

"Ms. Martinez, there's been a homicide. Sarah Thompson is missing."

The world tilted sideways. "Sarah? What do you mean missing? You said homicide—"

"We need you to come in. Now."

The drive to the precinct passed in a blur. My hands trembled so badly I had to pull over twice, Sarah's face floating before me. Just last week, she'd been on my couch, travel guides spread between us, planning our European escape. "Life's too short to wait for my brother to appreciate you," she'd said, squeezing my hand.

The precinct buzzed with a frantic energy I'd never seen before. Officers moved with urgent purpose, avoiding my eyes as I made my way to the conference room where Captain Davis had directed me. Through the glass walls, I could see a murder board already assembled. My legs nearly gave out when I spotted Sarah's driver's license photo pinned to it.

As I entered, the room fell silent. Michael was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Ashley.

"Rachel." Captain Davis's weathered face was grim. "Please, sit down."

"Where's Sarah?" I demanded, remaining standing. "What happened?"

He gestured to a clear evidence bag on the table. Inside was Sarah's leather jacket—the vintage one she'd found at that thrift store in Wicker Park. The one with the compass pin I'd given her for her birthday. Dark stains marred the buttery leather.

"Is that..." I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Blood," Davis confirmed quietly. "Sarah was found in an alley near her apartment at 2:37 this morning. Multiple stab wounds. We're still processing the scene."

The floor seemed to drop from beneath me. "No. No, that's not possible. I just saw her—we were planning—she can't be—"

"I'm sorry," Davis said, steadying me as I swayed. "We need you to make a formal identification."

The medical examiner's office was cold—a bone-deep cold no jacket could shield against. I followed the ME down a sterile hallway, my footsteps echoing hollowly against the tile. Everything felt distant, as if I were watching myself from the ceiling.

"Are you ready?" the ME asked, hand poised on the sheet.

I wasn't. I would never be ready.

The sheet pulled back, and there she was. Sarah. Her face pale and still, the vibrant light that had always animated her features extinguished. A strangled sound escaped me—half sob, half scream.

"Yes," I whispered. "That's Sarah Thompson."

As the ME covered her face again, I caught sight of the clipboard at the foot of the gurney. The autopsy form was partially visible, and three words leaped out at me:

"Eighteen stab wounds—defensive posturing consistent with abandoned security detail."

Eighteen. The number burned into my brain as the room began to spin. Abandoned security detail. What did that mean?

And then, with horrifying clarity, I understood. Ashley had been assigned to protect Sarah. Instead, she'd been at Maple & Ash, drinking champagne with Michael while his sister was being murdered.

The realization hit me with such force that I doubled over, bile rising in my throat. This wasn't just betrayal anymore. This was something far worse—something unforgivable.