Chapter 31: THE QUIET AFTER
The paperwork is endless.
Three days since the battle. Three days of forms, statements, debriefings, and carefully constructed lies.
I sit at my desk, filling out yet another incident report. The words are a monument to creative fiction.
"At approximately 11:47 PM, multiple armed individuals entered Banshee city limits with apparent hostile intent. Sheriff Hood coordinated defensive response. Deputies Lotus, Kelly, and Webb engaged hostiles at multiple locations. Twenty-three hostile casualties. Minimal property damage. No civilian casualties."
Minimal property damage. Sugar's bar is still boarded up, windows shattered, walls riddled with bullets.
No civilian casualties. That part's true. The only thing we got right.
I sign the form. Deputy Marcus Webb. The signature is smooth. Practiced. Almost my own.
Siobhan appears at my desk. She's back in uniform, the head graze hidden under her hair. "State police want clarification on ammunition expenditure."
"Tell them we had a lot of targets."
"I did. They want numbers."
"Then make them up. Ballistics won't match anyway—we cleaned the scene."
She doesn't argue. Just returns to her desk. We've become good liars. Good criminals. Good survivors.
The station is quiet. Lucas is handling press—local news wants statements about the "gang war." Brock is still on medical leave. It's just me and Siobhan holding down normal operations.
Normal. What a concept.
My coffee is cold. I drink it anyway. Bitter. Room temperature. The perfect metaphor for post-combat bureaucracy.
The door opens. Brock enters, walking with a cane. His leg is still stiff from the tourniquet and wound. But he's here.
"Thought you had another week off," I say.
"Got bored." He limps to his desk. Sits carefully. "How's the paperwork?"
"Fiction masquerading as fact."
"Good. That's police work." He boots up his computer. Starts reading backlog. Like the last three days didn't happen. Like he didn't nearly die defending strangers.
I watch him work. No questions. No demands for explanations. Just silent acceptance.
This is what surviving together creates. Understanding without words.
Siobhan brings him coffee. Black, no sugar. Knows his preference. "Welcome back."
"Thanks." He takes the cup. Pauses. "How are you two holding up?"
"Fine," she says.
"Functional," I add.
"Good." He sips coffee. Makes a face. "God, I missed terrible station coffee."
I almost laugh. Almost.
The door opens again. A man I don't recognize enters. Well-dressed. Expensive suit. Proctor's style.
"Deputy Webb?" he asks.
"Speaking."
He hands me an envelope. Cream-colored. High-quality paper. "Mr. Proctor requests the pleasure of your company. Tomorrow evening. Seven PM. His residence."
Not a question. An invitation phrased as fait accompli.
"What if I'm busy?"
"Mr. Proctor is confident you'll make time." The messenger smiles. Polite. Professional. Dangerous. "He has matters of mutual interest to discuss."
He leaves before I can respond. The envelope sits on my desk like a small bomb.
Siobhan is watching. "Proctor?"
"Yeah."
"That's not good."
"No. It's not."
Brock doesn't look up from his computer. "Man's got a long memory. Helped you at that accident. Now he wants payback."
"Maybe."
"Definitely." Brock's voice is flat. "That's how Proctor works. Invests. Collects. Be careful."
I open the envelope. Inside, a handwritten note. Elegant script.
Deputy Webb,
I observed recent events with great interest. I believe we have much to discuss regarding your unique talents and their potential applications. Please join me for dinner tomorrow evening.
Respectfully, Kai Proctor
My Criminal Instinct pulses. Danger. Manipulation. Recruitment.
But also: opportunity. Information. Leverage.
Proctor watched the battle. From where? How much did he see?
"What does it say?" Siobhan asks.
"Dinner invitation."
"Are you going?"
I should refuse. Should maintain distance. Should avoid Proctor's gravitational pull.
But I'm curious. And curiosity is its own kind of hunger.
"Yeah. I'm going."
She doesn't approve. I can see it in her expression. But she doesn't argue. We're past that. Past pretending I always make safe choices.
My phone buzzes. Job: Rabbit's organization is quiet. No movement. No chatter. They're regrouping. Or planning.
I text back: Timeline?
Unknown. Could be days. Could be months. But they're coming.
Always another threat. Always another predator in the dark.
Brock closes a file. "I'm heading home. Leg needs rest." He stands, grabs his cane. Pauses at my desk. "Webb. About the other night. Whatever you are—thanks for being on our side."
It's the second time he's said that. The second time he's acknowledged the mystery without demanding answers.
"Just doing my job," I say.
"No. You were doing something else." He heads for the door. "But I'm grateful anyway."
He leaves. The station feels emptier.
Siobhan makes fresh coffee. Brings me a cup. Adds sugar without asking. Knows I take it now, after the battle. Small detail. Noticed.
We stand together, drinking bad coffee, saying nothing.
Some silences are more intimate than words.
"You really going to meet with Proctor?" she finally asks.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because he knows something. And I need to know what he knows."
"That's a dangerous game."
"Everything's dangerous." I drink coffee. It's still terrible. Somehow better with sugar. "At least this way, I'm playing instead of being played."
She accepts that. Doesn't like it. But accepts it.
My phone buzzes again. Lucas: Where are you?
Station. Paperwork.
Come to Sugar's when you're done. Need to talk.
I pocket the phone. Finish my coffee. The paperwork can wait.
"Heading out," I tell Siobhan.
"Say hi to Lucas."
"Will do."
I drive through Banshee. Three days post-battle, the town has returned to routine. People shopping. Working. Living. Unaware how close they came to chaos.
Better that way.
Sugar's bar is still damaged but operational. The front windows are boarded. The interior is being repaired. But the bar itself is serving drinks.
Lucas sits in the back booth. Carrie beside him. They look tired. Worn. But together.
I slide into the opposite seat. "How's the family reunion?"
Carrie managed a small smile. "Gordon thinks I had a nervous breakdown. Sent him and Deva to my sister's during my 'episode.' He's being very supportive. Very concerned."
"And Deva?"
"Suspicious. Asking questions. But she's fifteen. She asks questions about everything." Carrie's smile fades. "How long can I keep lying to them?"
"As long as necessary," Lucas says. But even he doesn't sound convinced.
I pull out Proctor's invitation. Slide it across the table.
Lucas reads it. His expression darkens. "You're not seriously considering this."
"I'm going to hear him out."
"Ben—"
"He watched the battle. From somewhere. He knows I'm... unusual. Better to meet him on his terms than wait for him to make it mine."
Lucas wants to argue. I can see it. But Carrie puts a hand on his arm.
"He's right," she says quietly. "Proctor's interest is inevitable. Better to manage it than ignore it."
Lucas doesn't like it. But he accepts it. For now.
Sugar appears with drinks. Bourbon. No asking. Just knowing.
"To survival," he says.
We drink. The bourbon burns. Good burn. Alive burn.
Tomorrow, I walk into Proctor's world. Tonight, I sit with my pack.
Tomorrow's problem can wait.
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