The Detective I Loved and Tried to Kill

Scarlett

Three years.

I sat on the bench in Lincoln Park, my fingers unconsciously tracing the surface of my phone screen. The autumn sun filtered through the sycamore leaves onto my lap, warm, just like that day when Tommy was still by my side.

No, don't think about him. Today isn't the time for memories.

My gaze locked onto the playground in the distance. According to the intel I'd gathered, Detective Nate Blackwood brought his five-year-old brother Oliver here every Wednesday afternoon. Regular as clockwork. Three years of surveillance had given me intimate knowledge of his life—what brand of coffee he drank, which dry cleaner he used, even that he had a scar on his left shoulder.

That scar was the last memento my parents had left him.

"Nate! Nate, where are you!"

A clear voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked toward the source and my heart skipped a beat.

It was Oliver.

The little boy stood about thirty feet away, his face flushed red, tears already welling up in his eyes. He wore a blue hoodie, and his jeans had fresh grass stains on the knees from today's play.

Perfect timing.

I took a deep breath, temporarily tucking away the ice in my heart and putting on my most gentle expression.

"Hey there, sweetie, what's wrong?" I hurried toward him, crouching down to meet his eye level. "Did you lose your family?"

Oliver wiped his nose with his sleeve, nodding through his sniffles: "I can't find my brother. He said to wait by the benches, but I looked at so many benches and he's not there..."

"Don't worry, baby." I gently touched his shoulder, my voice carrying the tenderness I'd practiced countless times. "How about I call your brother for you? Do you know his phone number?"

Perfect. The little guy is my ticket in.

Oliver obediently recited a string of digits.

Of course, I'd memorized this number long ago. But I still carefully entered it into my phone, pretending to hear it for the first time.

My finger hovered over the call button for a few seconds.

Three years. I was finally going to hear that voice again—the voice that had sworn in court that my parents were "resisting arrest and assaulting an officer."

The call connected.

"Hello?" A deep male voice came through the speaker, clearly wary.

I cleared my throat, deliberately making my voice sound somewhat nervous: "Hi, I have your brother."

The other end went silent for a second, then erupted in fury: "What? Who is this? What did you do to him? If you hurt him, I swear—"

"Oh my God, I said that wrong!" I quickly interrupted, my tone carrying just the right amount of panic. "I mean I helped him find your number! He got lost at Lincoln Park and he's with me now—he's safe!"

Hook, line, and sinker.

"What? Oliver's there? Is he okay?" Nate's voice immediately shifted from anger to concern. "I'm coming right now! Where in the park are you?"

"Near the main entrance by the benches. He's fine, just a little scared." I glanced at Oliver in my arms, who had stopped crying. "You'd better hurry—the little guy really misses you."

"Five minutes, I'll be there in five minutes!"

The call ended. I put away my phone and looked at the little boy in my arms. He was staring at me with those clear eyes, just like... just like Tommy when he was little.

"My brother's coming soon, right?" Oliver asked, his small hand gripping my sleeve tightly.

"Yes, he'll be here very soon." I stroked his head, feeling an unexpected pang in my chest.

Why does this kid have to look so much like Tommy? Why does his smile have to be so innocent?

In less than five minutes, a police cruiser pulled up at the park entrance. I saw a tall figure get out and stride quickly toward us.

Nate Blackwood.

The killer of my parents.

Even from this distance, I could clearly make out his features.

Six-foot-two, broad shoulders, brown hair that gleamed golden in the sunlight. His navy blue uniform made him look handsome and authoritative.

If I didn't know his true nature, maybe I'd be fooled by that appearance too.

"Oliver!" he called out, practically running toward us.

"Nate!" Oliver immediately let go of my hand and rushed toward his brother.

I stood up, adjusting my expression, preparing for this moment I'd dreamed of.

Nate scooped Oliver up, holding him tight, then turned to me: "I'm Detective Nate Blackwood. Thank you so much for looking after my brother."

His voice was deeper and more magnetic than it had sounded over the phone, his brown eyes filled with gratitude. This close, I could even smell his faint cologne.

"You're welcome," I said with a smile. "He's adorable—reminds me of my... brother."

That wasn't acting. Oliver really did remind me of Tommy.

"You're incredibly kind." Nate's gaze grew even warmer. "If you don't mind, I'd love to buy you coffee to say thank you. I know a great place nearby."

"I'd like that." The answer came out almost automatically.

We exchanged contact information.

When he entered "Nate" into my phone, I almost lost control of my expression. Three years, and this name was finally in my contacts.

"So I'll call you tomorrow?" he asked, holding Oliver as they prepared to leave.

"Sounds good. I'll be waiting for your call."

I watched them walk toward the police car. Oliver waved goodbye from Nate's shoulder, his innocent smile making my heart suddenly clench.

The car started up, its taillights gradually fading in the sunset.

I stood alone, watching the police cruiser disappear into traffic.

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to remember that night three years ago—the image of my parents lying in pools of blood, Nate's cold testimony in court, and Tommy growing more haggard after losing our parents, until finally...

No. I can't go soft. I can't forget my mission because of a five-year-old's smile.

I opened my eyes again, my expression returning to its usual hardness.

"Game on, Nate Blackwood," I said quietly, my voice eerily clear in the empty park.

Revenge starts tonight.