The internal affairs investigation intensified. Captain Miller wasn't finding his leak, and his frustration was palpable. He began implementing stricter protocols – limited access to case files, mandatory polygraphs for personnel with high-level clearance, surveillance on department communications. The air in the precinct was thick with paranoia.
I was acutely aware of the increased scrutiny. Every late night at my desk, every question about my whereabouts, felt magnified. I continued to feed Miller the information he needed on the Eastbrook network investigation – carefully curated data that advanced the case against the administrators but revealed nothing about the *other* list I'd found, the one with my father's name.
The stress of the dual investigations was relentless. By day, navigating the political minefield of exposing powerful individuals and dodging Miller's suspicion. By night, continuing my research into the names on Freeman's ledger, particularly those connected to my father's "problem."
I discreetly looked into "Sterling," the lawyer mentioned next to my father's name. He was a senior partner at a prestigious law firm, specializing in "crisis management" for wealthy clients. His firm had a history of handling sensitive cases that were quietly settled. A key part of the network, operating within the legal system to subvert justice.
The threat from Charlotte Coleman also persisted. I had managed to deter her initial inquiries through my careful email responses and perhaps by quietly having someone speak to the bartender, Mark Jenkins, again. But her "digital forensics friend" remained a wildcard. I ran a search on anyone in digital forensics who had recently accessed police databases without a clear case-related reason. Nothing immediately suspicious, but the possibility of an outside threat, however small, gnawed at me.
Then, the subtle attacks began. Nothing overt, but enough to make me question if the leak investigation was starting to point in my direction, or if the network itself was testing me.
First, small things disappeared from my desk – a specific case file I was working on, a notebook with routine investigation notes (not my personal one). They would reappear later, often in plain sight, as if I had merely misplaced them. It was designed to make me doubt myself, question my own meticulousness.
Then, more concerning incidents. A maintenance request for my apartment, citing a "leaky faucet," that I had never made. A notification from my bank about a large transfer from my account that was flagged as suspicious (I immediately verified it was a genuine mistake by the bank, but the timing felt ominous).
Were these random occurrences, amplified by my paranoia? Or was someone, either within the department or outside, sending a message? Someone who knew I was looking into things they wanted kept buried.
The thought of being framed, of having my carefully constructed life crumble because of the very corruption I was fighting, was a terrifying prospect. If evidence was planted, if my actions were twisted, how could I defend myself without revealing my secret?
I began taking extra precautions. Varying my routes to and from work. Double-checking my apartment's security. Becoming even more guarded in my conversations, even with Alvarez, who, despite her loyalty, was still part of the system that might turn on me.
One evening, working late at the precinct, Captain Miller approached my desk.
"Blackwood," he said, his voice low. "Got a minute?"
I nodded, my hand subtly moving towards the small pouch on my belt containing emergency countermeasures.
He pulled up a chair, his expression unreadable. "We've been reviewing security footage from the precinct. Standard procedure for the leak investigation."
My breath caught in my throat. The precinct had cameras everywhere. They wouldn't show my night activities, but they would show my behavior, who I met, when I came and went.
"Something unusual," he continued, watching me closely. "About two weeks ago. Late at night. You were here, working on the Eastbrook files. Someone entered your office."
My "office" was just a section of the bullpen, but it was where I kept my files and spent most of my time. Had someone gone through my things? Had they found something?
"Who was it?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.
"That's the thing," Miller said. "The camera feed for that specific corner of the bullpen... it glitched out for about ten minutes. Just static."
A glitch. Just like the security cameras at the Westlake Hotel the night I met Coleman. Just like the recovery room cameras at Eastbrook the days Freeman committed his assaults. Too many glitches to be coincidental. Someone was actively interfering with surveillance, and they were targeting me.
"Did you see who it was before the glitch?" I pressed.
Miller shook his head. "Just a figure entering your area. Hood up. Couldn't make out anything else. But they knew where you were. And they knew how to disable the camera."
The real leak wasn't just about information; it was about operational security. Someone within the department, or someone with access to its systems, was watching me. And they had the means to cover their tracks.
Was it the leaker who warned Freeman? Were they connected to the Eastbrook network? Or was it someone else entirely, perhaps someone related to a past case, or even connected to my father and his appearance on Freeman's ledger?
I began growing suspicious, was it Alvarez? What if it's Miller and he's trying to use this to discover who I really am or is Charlotte behind this? I don't even know whom to trust.
The walls were closing in, not just on my vigilante life, but on my life as Detective Blackwood. The hunter was being hunted. And the line between my two worlds was about to be erased.