The atmosphere in Ridgecliff PD was thick—not just with noise, but with pressure. Something unseen loomed in the air like a brewing storm, unspoken but deeply felt.
Brendon walked through the familiar corridors with steady steps, nodding to a few officers who recognized him. Some offered tired smiles, others avoided eye contact. He knew that look. Suspicion, confusion, perhaps even resentment.
He didn't blame them. He'd been gone for days. During a crisis.
But there was no turning back now.
He walked up to the Chief's office and gave two firm knocks on the door before opening it.
Chief Tyson looked up from behind his desk, his square jaw tight and his brow furrowed. His fists were clenched, resting on a mountain of paper files. His usually neat desk was a battlefield of evidence reports, photos, coffee-stained notes, and half-eaten takeout boxes.
When Tyson saw Brendon, his eyes flared with instant anger.
"Well, look who finally decided to show up," he barked, rising from his chair. "Did you enjoy your little vacation while Ridgecliff practically caught on fire?"
Brendon shut the door behind him and walked in with a calm but cautious stride. "I needed the time off, Chief. You approved it, remember?"
"I did," Tyson snapped. "But not for you to vanish off the face of the goddamn earth while Lord Alaric Trenshaw got kidnapped under our nose. Do you know the kind of storm we're in now?"
Brendon didn't flinch. "I heard. I came back as soon as I could."
"You came back," Tyson growled, sarcasm lacing his voice, "at the worst possible time, Wolfe. The press is crawling up my ass, the Parliament is breathing down our necks, and that woman—whoever the hell she is—might just be the spark that ignites a full-blown international incident."
Brendon stepped closer. "If you want to blame someone, go ahead. But I'm here now. Use me."
Tyson glared at him for a few seconds, his chest heaving with restrained fury. "Don't get noble with me, detective. You think this is some noir film where the rogue hero shows up in the third act and everything magically works out? We've got jack-all leads, nothing from the surveillance footage, and Lord Trenshaw's too scared or too stupid to be of any help."
He reached into a drawer and slammed a folder on the desk. "But you want to help? Fine. Start by seeing Robert. He's heading the board. He'll tell you how to make yourself useful."
Brendon took the folder without a word and nodded. As he turned to leave, Tyson called after him.
"And Wolfe?"
He paused.
"If you pull another disappearing act, don't bother coming back."
Brendon said nothing.
He just left.
---
The Sheriff's office was less chaotic than Tyson's but no less intense.
Robert was standing at a whiteboard layered in hand-scribbled notes, string maps, and printed photos of security footage from the night of the kidnapping. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair a mess, and a half-drained mug of coffee sat precariously on the edge of the table behind him.
When he saw Brendon enter, a genuine smile broke through the exhaustion on his face.
"Well, look who finally returned from paradise," he said with a smirk. "I was starting to think you found a beach and a girl and ghosted us."
Brendon gave a tired smile. "Something like that."
Robert came around and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's good to see you, man. Honestly."
"You too."
There was a pause. One of those weighted silences between old friends that held more meaning than the words themselves. Robert motioned to the whiteboard.
"I suppose Tyson already bit your head off?"
Brendon shrugged. "He tried."
Robert laughed dryly and picked up a marker. "Alright, let's catch you up."
He motioned toward the whiteboard. "This woman—whoever she is—had everything planned. She didn't leave fingerprints, DNA, or anything we could trace. But here's what's strange—she wasn't after ransom. She wasn't after leverage. She wanted information."
Brendon's brows furrowed. "So we're looking at an independent operator?"
Robert nodded. "Possibly. Someone with resources and training. But not a professional spy. There's something else going on—some kind of personal motivation we can't see yet."
Brendon studied the board quietly, taking it all in.
"And Lord Trenshaw?" he asked.
"Alive, angry, and halfway back to London," Robert said with a sigh. "Forensics cleared him. No poisons. No trackers. She left him untouched… except maybe emotionally."
Brendon nodded slowly, his mind working.
"Before we do anything else," he said, "I want to visit the crime scene. I need to see it for myself."
Robert hesitated for a moment, and then… he tilted his head slightly.
His tone changed. Became softer.
More careful.
"Hey, Brendon… can I ask you something?"
Brendon glanced up, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
"Sure."
Robert looked around to make sure they were alone, then leaned in slightly. "You got… any kind of mental trauma? PTSD or… something like that?"
Brendon froze.
For a second, it was as if the entire world quieted. The station, the whiteboard, the noise beyond the door—it all blurred into a hum.
He stared at Robert. His voice was quiet.
"…Why are you asking me that?"
Brendon's posture stiffened. The room didn't fall silent, not exactly—but the sounds of Ridgecliff PD seemed to fade into the background, like distant echoes through thick glass. His eyes locked onto Robert's.
"…Why would you ask me that?"
Robert's expression twitched, just slightly. He masked it well—but not well enough. "I've just… noticed a few things. You've been acting different. Since a couple months back. I figured maybe something's been eating at you."
Brendon tilted his head. "You figured?"
Robert looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah. I mean, you've been through a lot. It's not hard to guess."
There was a tight pause. Brendon's voice dropped low.
"Robert… did you go into my apartment?"
Robert blinked. "What? No, man—"
Brendon didn't even flinch. "Don't lie."
Robert's breath hitched just enough to confirm what Brendon already suspected. A slight widening of the eyes, a momentary shift in weight, the flicker of guilt in the corner of his mouth.
"You went in while I was at Lagooncrest Isle," Brendon said, not as an accusation, but as a statement of fact. "Looking for something. You were fishing."
Robert hesitated. "Look, I didn't—"
"Tyson didn't send you," Brendon continued, stepping in closer now, his voice still calm but with a sharpness behind it. "He didn't even know I was gone until I was already waist-deep in that island mess. You went because you were curious. About the package."
Robert dropped his gaze. "It wasn't like that."
Brendon's stare didn't soften. "Then how was it?"
Robert stayed quiet for a moment too long.
"That notebook… the one in the side drawer," Brendon said. "You read it."
Robert finally exhaled, low and ashamed. "I saw your notes. About the headaches. The dreams. The panic."
Brendon turned away, jaw tight, his pulse loud in his ears.
"Damn it, Robert."
"I didn't mean to… I was just—" Robert paused, then sighed. "I thought you were hiding something dangerous. The package stuff, the way you've been distant. I didn't expect to find all that. I'm sorry."
Brendon stood still, his shoulders rigid.
For the first time in years, the walls he'd built around himself felt cracked.
He turned slowly to look at Robert, and there was something colder in his voice now.
"Don't ever go through my life like that again. If you were worried, you should've come to me."
Robert gave a solemn nod. "Yeah. You're right. But you always distanced yourself from us. Always a mystery. What am I supposed to do huh?"
Another beat passed between them. But something unspoken had shifted. Brendon doesn't answered Robert.
Brendon walked to the whiteboard and looked over the case files again—but his thoughts aren't on the suspect anymore.
They are on the one person in this station who now knew the truth.