Olivia Evans clenched her fist, the wineglass shattering in her grip. Shards skittered across the table, glinting among droplets of her blood.
Vincent Lowell was slumped over, drunk and useless. Watching Olivia tremble, I pushed back my chair.
"Don’t mind him—he’s wasted. I’ll drag him to his room."
"I’ve got this." Her voice was steel as she stepped in front of me.
Before I could argue, she hauled Vincent up like a sack of potatoes and marched him toward the rented room.
I stared at the wreckage of our table, sighed, and tossed cash on the counter before heading out.
But something about Olivia’s expression—raw, unguarded—itched at me. Uneasy, I doubled back toward Vincent’s room.
The guy had always been sketchy. And now? Drunk, volatile. Who knew what he’d try?
"You frigid little tease! Playing hard to get now?"
Vincent’s slurred yelling hit me before I even reached the door. The motel walls might as well have been tissue paper.
Then—thuds. A crash. My pulse jackhammered.
I kicked the door open, bracing for the worst.
Instead, I found Olivia kneeling on Vincent’s back, twisting his arm into a submission hold. He writhed, spitting curses, but she moved with lethal precision—like she’d done this a hundred times before.
I gaped from the doorway.
Olivia yanked out zip ties, cinching his wrists tight. Tears glistened in her eyes as she dialed her phone.
"Suspect secured. Move in."
It clicked then. Undercover.
As cops swarmed in, she flashed me a tired smirk.
"World’s a dangerous place. Watch your back."
My own words, thrown right back at me.
Later, at the station, the full story unraveled.
A year ago, Olivia’s sister, Jessica, took a temp job at a construction site. Vanished after a week.
Olivia scoured security footage, followed trails until she found her—broken, discarded in the wilderness.
From that moment, justice wasn’t just a job. It was an obsession.
She signed on as an auxiliary officer, burrowing into the underbelly of site crimes. One arrest bled into another—until finally, she cornered Jessica’s killer.
Hearing it left me gutted. What kind of hell had she walked through to get here?
After my statement, I spotted Olivia outside, sunlight glinting off her badge.
"You’re something else," I said, raising a thumb.
She touched her bracelet—JL etched into the metal—and smiled. "So are you, Ethan. Thanks for having my back."
Justice was served. And me? I’d stayed clear of the edge—this time.