The Brilliant Pathologist And Her Stoic Cop

Three days later.

Kylee walked through the heavy steel doors of the Chase Bank vault in downtown Manhattan. She wore a tailored, pitch-black suit. Her face was pale, her expression locked away behind a wall of professional courtesy.

The bank manager, a nervous man in a tight collar, checked her ID and the court-ordered executor documents.

"Right this way, Dr. Mcdonald," he murmured, leading her deep into the subterranean vault.

He unlocked the highest-security safety deposit box and left her alone in the private viewing room.

Inside the metal box, there was no jewelry. No bonds. Just a black USB drive and a sealed envelope.

Kylee sat at the mahogany table. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the wax seal on the envelope.

The handwriting was elegant and familiar.

To my cold, brilliant, beautiful Kylee,

If you are reading this, my script worked. I know you are angry. I know you are tearing yourself apart wondering why I didn't ask you for help.

I couldn't. You are a creature of the light, Kylee. You have a brilliant career. If I pulled you into this, Damion would have destroyed you too. I had to do this in the dark.

Do not cry for me. I am not a victim anymore. I am going to find my quiet place. Live in the sun for me.

Kylee folded the letter. She plugged the USB drive into her tablet.

A video popped up. Dana was sitting on her white sofa. She had no bruises. Her makeup was flawless. She looked directly into the camera and smiled-a genuine, peaceful smile.

The video ended. The screen went black, reflecting Kylee's face.

A single tear escaped her left eye, tracing a hot path down her cheek. She wiped it away instantly, burying the emotion deep in her chest.

She put the letter and the drive in her breast pocket and walked out of the bank.

The midday sun hit her face, blindingly bright.

Parked at the curb was Justice's black Ford cruiser. Justice was leaning against the hood, holding two steaming paper cups of coffee.

He didn't ask what was in the box. He just held out a cup.

Kylee took it. The bitter heat of the black coffee grounded her, pulling her back to reality.

Justice looked at the dark circles under her eyes. "There's a joint FBI and NYPD alumni gala tonight at the Waldorf," he said casually, taking a sip of his coffee. "The brass is trying to set me up with the Commissioner's niece. I need a shield. Come with me."

Kylee stared at him. Her instinct was to retreat to the morgue, to the quiet company of the dead.

But she looked into Justice's eyes. Beneath the gruff cop exterior, she saw genuine worry. He was trying to pull her out of the abyss.

The word 'no' died in her throat.

She gave a slow, barely perceptible nod. Justice's jaw relaxed, and a small, relieved smile touched the corner of his mouth.

At 7:00 PM, Kylee sat in front of her vanity mirror.

She forced her brain into 'social camouflage' mode. She applied her makeup with surgical precision.

She slipped into a midnight-blue evening gown. The front was high-necked and conservative, but the back plunged dangerously low, leaving her spine completely bare. She let her dark hair fall in loose waves over her shoulders.

The doorbell rang.

Kylee grabbed her clutch and opened the door.

Justice stood on the porch, wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.

When he looked up and saw her, he literally stopped breathing. His chest froze. His eyes swept over her, flashing with an intense, unguarded heat.

He recovered quickly, clearing his throat and offering his arm.

Kylee slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The physical contact sent a jolt of electricity up her arm.

They got into his personal car. Soft jazz played from the speakers, creating a warm, insulated bubble against the cold city night.

The car glided toward Manhattan, the city lights reflecting off the windshield.

Kylee looked out the window. Her heart was beating a fraction too fast. The peace felt fragile. She had a sinking feeling in her gut that this quiet night was just the deep breath before a plunge.