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38 - No Saints on This Side of Hell.

Sawyer didn't say a word. Just gave a slight nod, the kind that meant he'd handle it, no questions asked.

Then he walked out, leaving me alone with the photo, my thoughts, and a bitter taste in my mouth.

──●◎●──

More than a week had crawled by, slipping through my fingers like fucking smoke. Each day bled into the next, a slow, suffocating grind between survival and whatever the hell passed for resilience in my world.

More than a week of this eerie fucking calm. The bastard lawyer had run his mouth, spewed his threats like he had a goddamn army behind him, but then? Nothing. Not a single move. We were ready for the storm, braced for the impact—but waiting was worse than any fight. The uncertainty, the tension coiling tighter by the day, frayed our nerves like a blade dragging slow across skin.

More than a week of Hector pretending I didn't fucking exist. No words, no glances, just walking out the second I walked in, leaving silence in his wake like a slap to the face. I had tried—tried to bridge the gap, tried to talk—but he wasn't having it. And that silence was starting to gnaw at something deep inside me.

The only thing that wasn't fucked was Madison's recovery. Papa had told me this morning that she was getting better. A weight off my chest, but also a fucking warning sign—because now Hector was going hunting. And when Hector hunted, he didn't stop until there was blood.

Outside, the storm tore through the sky, a perfect mirror of the unease settling deep in my bones. Rain lashed against the windows, thunder cracked like a gunshot, but I barely noticed. My office was a fucking mess—case files stacked like tombstones, papers scattered, and my mind buried somewhere between exhaustion and ruthless determination.

I didn't even hear my phone ring at first. But when I did, and the name flashed across the screen, my gut twisted.

Mike.

One of my guys. One of the men I had on Jamie.

I answered immediately. "Talk."

"Boss," Mike's voice was tight, laced with something sharp and urgent. "It's about Detective Jamie... there's been an incident. We just got word—he's been stripped of his badge and gun."

The words slammed into me, cold and unforgiving. My fingers clenched around the phone, and for a second, all I heard was the roaring storm outside.

Then I moved.

I grabbed my keys, didn't even bother with my coat, and was out the fucking door before the next crack of thunder.

By the time I reached Jamie's house, the storm outside was nothing compared to the one waiting for me inside. I stood at the doorstep for a second, inhaling deep, bracing myself. Then I knocked.

The door swung open almost instantly.

Jamie stood there, rigid as stone, eyes dark with something volatile. He didn't say a word. Just stepped aside, letting me in like he had to physically stop himself from slamming the door in my face.

The living room was empty—no Nadia, no kids curled up in their usual spot in front of the big screen. The house felt hollow, stripped of warmth.

"I sent them to Nadia's parents," Jamie muttered, reading the unspoken question in my eyes.

I just nodded and let him lead me to the couch. He dropped into the armchair across from me, his fingers tapping against the armrest—restless, simmering.

His gaze swept the room, heavy with something that made my chest tighten.

"You see that big screen? The home cinema setup?" He gestured toward it, his voice eerily calm. "Bought that recently. Worked extra shifts to afford it."