CHAPTER 22 — The Things We Don't Say
Part II
For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed to the space between them.
Brownie did not blink.
She had trained herself not to.
Shock was a luxury. Reaction was a liability.
So instead of staring at the faded insignia beneath his ribs, she adjusted the edge of the bandage as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The symbol was unmistakable.
Three interlocking lines forming a triangular crest — almost military in symmetry. Clean. Intentional. The same crest that appeared in fragments of redacted files connected to a trafficking syndicate that law enforcement agencies had been chasing for nearly two decades.
ATL.
Not a street gang.
Not disorganized criminals.
A network.
Structured. Funded. Disciplined.
And secretive enough that most of its high-ranking members were ghosts.
Her pulse remained steady by force of habit.
"Does it still hurt?" she asked, her tone neutral.
Crystal's eyes hadn't left her face.
"Not as much."
He knew she had seen it.
She could feel that awareness in the way his shoulders subtly squared, in the way his breathing changed — not faster, but deeper. Braced.
She secured the bandage carefully and stepped back.
"We need to move," she said.
He studied her for a moment longer, searching her expression for accusation, for realization, for anything that might betray what she now knew.
But Brownie was the daughter of Moses Ayew Jerome.
Composure was in her blood — even if she didn't yet understand why.
"Where?" he asked.
"There's a service exit on the north side. Half of it's boarded up, but it connects to the old freight road."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You've been mapping this place too."
"It's my job."
A faint shadow of something unreadable crossed his features.
Together, they moved carefully through the unfinished corridor, their footsteps muted against dust and concrete. The wind slipped through broken panes, stirring loose plastic sheets that hung like ghosts from steel beams.
Crystal walked slightly ahead now, not by command but instinct. Every few seconds, he glanced back — not checking on himself.
Checking on her.
Brownie noticed.
She noticed everything.
As they reached the edge of the unfinished wing, she paused and turned toward him.
"Lift your arm," she said.
He obeyed.
She adjusted the bandage once more, deliberately ignoring the faded mark beneath. Her fingers brushed against warm skin.
"You should get stitches," she added.
"I'll manage."
"That's not how wounds work."
He gave her the smallest hint of a smile.
"I've handled worse."
There it was again.
Handled worse.
Not imagined.
Not feared.
Experienced.
She straightened slowly.
"Crystal… where did you learn to fight like that?"
His gaze drifted toward the darkened corridor behind them.
"Why does it matter?"
"Because I was down there too," she replied evenly.
"And the men chasing us weren't amateurs."
Neither were you.
The unspoken words hung between them.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You don't want the answer to that."
Her eyes hardened slightly.
"Try me."
For a moment, something almost vulnerable surfaced in his expression — like a man standing at the edge of confession.
Then it vanished.
"I learned young," he said simply. "Some neighborhoods don't give you a choice."
She watched him carefully.
His voice hadn't trembled.
But it hadn't been entirely steady either.
Before she could press further, a faint echo of movement drifted from deeper inside the factory — distant, controlled, methodical.
Not frantic searching.
Organized sweeping.
Crystal heard it too.
His posture shifted instantly.
"They're clearing the floors," he murmured.
"How can you tell?"
"The rhythm."
She held his gaze.
"You recognize their rhythm?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached for her wrist gently but firmly.
"We move now."
They slipped through the narrow service exit, ducking beneath warped metal sheets that scraped softly against concrete. Outside, the night air hit them cool and sharp. The factory's back lot stretched into shadow, abandoned trucks rusting in silence.
For a brief second, they stood there, breathing air.
Freedom.
But not safety.
Across the lot, headlights flickered on.
Not the police
.
Too quiet.
Too deliberate.
Crystal's jaw tightened.
"They're locking down the perimeter."
Brownie's instincts sharpened instantly.
"There's no way they mobilized that fast without authority."
"They have it."
Her gaze snapped to him.
"What does that mean?"
He hesitated.
Too long.
Then—"It means this isn't just a gang."
She stared at him.
"What do you know?"
"Enough to tell you this isn't your typical operation."
"You think I don't know that?"
His eyes softened briefly.
"No. I think you know more than you're saying."
The words struck closer than either of them intended.
Because they were both withholding now.
Both standing on opposite sides of the same invisible truth.
A car door slammed somewhere in the distance.
Voices.
Measured. Calm.
Brownie inhaled slowly.
"Freight road," she whispered.
He nodded.
They moved quickly but not recklessly, keeping low as they crossed the shadowed lot. Gravel crunched softly beneath their steps.
Halfway to the road, Crystal slowed.
She noticed immediately.
"What?"
He didn't respond.
His gaze was fixed ahead — on a black SUV parked near the road's entrance.
Engine running.
Windows tinted.
Waiting.
Her pulse thudded once.
"Do you recognize it?" she asked quietly
.
"Yes."
The answer was immediate.
Her stomach tightened.
"From where?"
"From somewhere we shouldn't be."
That was not enough.
"Crystal.".
But he was already calculating.
The SUV's headlights flickered off.
Then back on.
A signal.
Not random.
A message..
The driver's door opened slowly.
And Vio stepped out.
Even at a distance, his presence commanded the space.
Tall. Controlled. Impeccably composed.
He didn't rush.
Didn't shout.
He simply stood there, hands loosely clasped behind his back, as if waiting for guests to arrive.
Brownie's throat went dry.
"Does he know?" she whispered.
Crystal's voice was low, steady.
"Yes."
"Know what?"
"That I was down there."
Her heart pounded once — hard.
"And?".
"And that changes things."
Vio's gaze swept the lot and settled on them.
Even from this distance, Brownie felt it.
Recognition.
Not of her.
Of him.
Vio lifted one hand slightly — not waving.
Acknowledging.
Crystal stepped subtly in front of her.
Protective.
Instinctive.
"Don't," she murmured.
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
His eyes flicked back to hers briefly.
"You think he'll shoot?"
"No."
The answer came from both of them at once.
Because Vio wasn't the type to shoot in a parking lot.
He was the type to invite.
And then dismantle.
Vio began walking toward them.
Unhurried.
Measured.
The gravel didn't dare crunch loudly beneath his shoes.
Brownie's detective instincts warred with something else now — something personal, something deeper.
Because she recognized him too.
Not as a criminal.
Not as a suspect.
As a childhood presence.
A man who had once stood at the edge of birthday parties.
Who had brought gifts.
Who had called her "little star."
Her chest tightened.
"Why is he here?" she asked softly.
Crystal didn't answer.
Because he knew.
And the knowing sat heavy in his bones.
Vio stopped ten feet away.
Close enough to speak without raising his voice.
Close enough to see the blood staining Crystal's side.
His eyes flicked to it briefly.
Then back up.
"Rough evening," Vio said calmly.
Brownie felt the air change.
Crystal didn't step back.
"You could say that."
Vio's gaze lingered on him.
Longer than polite.
Longer than casual.
"Curiosity can be dangerous," Vio added.
"And secrecy invites it," Crystal replied evenly.
The tension between them was almost… intimate.
Familiar.
Brownie felt like an outsider in a conversation that had layers she couldn't yet see.
Vio's attention shifted to her at last.
"Detective," he said smoothly.
Her spine straightened automatically.
"Mr. Vio."
"You're far from your jurisdiction."
"So are you."
A faint smile curved his lips.
Touché.
His gaze drifted back to Crystal.
"Walk with me."
Not a request.
An instruction.
Brownie stepped forward immediately.
"He's injured."
"I can see that."
"He needs medical attention."
"And he'll receive it."
Something in Vio's tone made her pulse spike.
Crystal's hand brushed lightly against her arm.
"It's fine," he murmured.
It wasn't.
But she saw it then.
The decision in his eyes.
He wasn't afraid.
He wasn't surprised.
He was… expected.
Vio turned slightly, already beginning to walk back toward the SUV.
Crystal followed.
After two steps, he stopped and looked back at her.
For a moment, the world narrowed again.
"Go home," he said quietly.
Her eyes hardened.
"Don't tell me what to do."
A faint, almost sad smile touched his lips.
"I'm not."
He held her gaze a second longer.
Then turned away.
Brownie stood frozen as Crystal walked beside Vio toward the waiting vehicle.
Not dragged.
Not forced.
Voluntary.
The SUV door opened.
Crystal paused just before getting in.
Vio leaned slightly closer to him.
And though she couldn't hear the words, she saw Crystal's expression shift.
Just slightly.
Like something old had been spoken.
Like a name.
The door closed.
The engine purred.
And the SUV disappeared into the night.
Leaving Brownie alone in the quiet freight yard.
The wind moved again, colder now.
Her mind raced.
The symbol.
The movement.
The familiarity between them.
The way Vio had looked at Crystal — not as a threat.
As something claimed.
Her hand slowly curled into a fist.
For the first time since taking the ATL case, something inside her trembled.
Not from fear.
From proximity.
This wasn't just an investigation anymore.
It was personal.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a date surfaced.
June 22.
She didn't yet know why.
But she knew this:
That date was no longer just history.
It was coming.