My day began with the usual black coffee and the grim headlines detailing the latest developments in the Eastbrook scandal. Another administrator indicted. More victims coming forward after seeing the news coverage. The official system was, slowly and painfully, delivering consequences. It wasn't the swift, personal justice I preferred, but it was necessary work, exposing the rot beneath the surface of respectability.
An email notification popped up on my precinct account. Charlotte Coleman. Subject: Following Up.
*Detective Blackwood,* the email read. *I hope you don't mind me contacting you again. I haven't been able to stop thinking about David and that night. I've been doing some looking on my own, trying to understand. I visited the Westlake Hotel again and spoke to some staff. One of the bartenders remembers the woman David was with. He said she had striking eyes, even with a wig.*
My heart gave a slight, unwelcome jolt. Striking eyes. It was a detail I hadn't considered. My physical features, stripped of disguise. I prided myself on my transformations, the way "Vivian" and "Katherine Pierce" were visually distinct from Detective Blackwood. Hair, makeup, clothing altered appearance drastically. But eyes... eyes were harder to change.
*He also said she paid for her drinks and the room in cash,* the email continued. *And that she asked about the security camera layout before David even arrived. He thought it was strange at the time.*
The bartender. I had been careful, but clearly not careful enough. A casual question, seemingly innocuous in conversation, noted and remembered. A small detail, a single loose thread in a carefully woven disguise.
*I've attached the photo I showed you again,* Charlotte wrote. *I'm working with a digital forensics friend to see if we can enhance it. I just... I need to know who she is.*
Working with a digital forensics friend. This was no longer just a grieving widow looking for answers; this was an active, potentially dangerous side investigation. A digital forensics expert could potentially do what my preliminary assessment deemed impossible – enhance the image, perhaps even run facial recognition, however imperfectly, against databases. Could they access police databases? Unlikely, unless the friend was also law enforcement, or had contacts.
I needed to respond carefully. A dismissive reply might only fuel her suspicion and determination. A too-interested reply might suggest I knew more than I let on.
I drafted a response, keeping it professional and sympathetic, reiterating that identifying the woman might not bring the closure she sought, but promising to look into the details she provided. I subtly steered her away from pursuing it herself, emphasizing the difficulty and the low likelihood of success.
After sending the email, I immediately pulled up the initial Westlake Hotel file. I needed to know who the bartender on duty that night was, cross-reference his statement in the initial report. If he had mentioned the questions about cameras then, it hadn't raised enough red flags for the responding officers or myself at the time.
He was listed: Mark Jenkins, evening shift bartender. His statement in the file made no mention of questions about security cameras or her paying in cash, only confirming that Coleman had met a woman and they'd gone upstairs. Had he remembered it later? Or had he deliberately omitted it from his initial statement, perhaps finding it less significant until after the death and the subsequent police presence?
This was a problem. A living witness with specific, potentially identifying details. Combined with the photo, and Charlotte's determination... the risk of exposure had just significantly increased. I needed to address Mark Jenkins.
I couldn't approach him as Detective Blackwood; that would be far too suspicious, given my peripheral involvement in the Coleman case. Nor could I approach him as "Vivian." A third party? Someone who could quietly assess what else he remembered, perhaps guide his memory away from the more problematic details.
My mind raced through possibilities, contacts, favors I could call in. It needed to be someone outside the department, trustworthy, and capable of subtlety.
The internal affairs investigation continued to loom. Miller was making his rounds, asking questions about my whereabouts and actions on the night Freeman was tipped off (the night *before* I went after Walsh, but close enough to the overall timeframe of heightened activity). My official alibi for that night was simple and true – I was at home, off-duty, reviewing case files (the Eastbrook assault files and researching Walsh). But simple truths could be twisted, especially when suspicion was in the air.
I found myself constantly on guard, watching colleagues, measuring my words. The dual life felt less like a carefully controlled balancing act and more like walking a tightrope over an abyss. Every interaction, every detail, could be the one that sent me crashing down.
That afternoon, Alvarez approached my desk, her expression serious.
"IA wants to talk to you again, Blackwood," she said softly, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. "Miller. Said it's routine follow-up, but his tone was... pointed."
"About what?" I asked, my body tensing.
"He didn't say. Just that he wants to clarify some timelines from the Eastbrook case file. Specifically, your movements on the night of the third assault."
The night of the third assault – the night I had met and killed David Coleman. My official timeline for that night placed me off-duty, conducting personal business before heading home. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth. And Miller, with his reputation for thoroughness, might see the gaps.
The widow's pursuit on one side, the internal investigation on the other. The walls were closing in. I had to control both narratives, minimize the damage, ensure my two lives
remained separate, or risk losing everything.