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Real silence.
The kind that makes every sound around it louder—the wind through the trees, the distant traffic, the jogger’s breathing.
Walsh stared at the badge.
Then at my face.
Then back at the badge.
He let go of the cuffs.
“This… this is a joke,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “It’s an investigation.”
He shook his head once, sharp. “You can’t—”
“I can,” I cut in. “And I did.”
I tapped the blanket.
“Six days.”
His eyes followed the movement.
For the first time, he noticed it.
The seam.
The lens.
Small. Almost invisible.
Almost.
“What is that?” Carter whispered.
“A camera,” I said. “One of three.”
Lopez inhaled sharply.
Walsh’s face changed.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Fear.
“Turn it off,” he said.
“No.”
“That’s evidence handling—”
“You’re not in charge of evidence,” I said calmly. “You’re in it.”
The jogger was filming openly now.
Good.
Multiple angles.
Multiple records.
Multiple witnesses.
Walsh took a step back.
Then another.
“I didn’t—” he started.
“You did,” I said. “On camera.”
He looked at Carter. “You saw—he was—”
Carter didn’t answer.
Lopez looked away again.
That told me everything I needed.
“You’ve had chances,” I said quietly. “Every day. Every interaction.”
Walsh’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand how this works out here.”
“I understand exactly how it works,” I replied. “That’s why I’m here.”
He laughed once, short and hollow. “You sit behind a desk and—”
“I slept on that bench,” I cut in. “I ate out of that cup. I watched you.”