Chapter 1: The Mind Reader

Tiffany's POV 

The second I stepped into the station, thoughts crashed into me from every direction. 

[Oh God, she's the mindreader girl!]

[Don't think weird stuff!]

[Can she hear this right now?]

[Why am I sweating?]

[This is how villains feel around Superman.] 

I paused and shut my eyes for a second, giving myself one moment to breathe before stepping further inside. 

Bad start already. 

A quiet laugh escaped me anyway, and the front desk officer instantly looked like he was about to pass out. 

"Relax," I said before he could panic harder. "I didn't hear anything bad." 

His shoulders dropped with obvious relief. 

I almost felt bad about finding it funny. 

Almost. 

The station smelled like old coffee and rain-soaked paper while detectives crossed the bullpen with files tucked under their arms and phones rang somewhere deeper inside the building. It looked like any normal police station. 

For me, it was louder than a siren. 

A woman hurried past me while aggressively thinking about grocery lists like her life depended on it. 

[Milk. Eggs. Bread. Apples. Milk. Eggs. Bread.] 

Yeah. Definitely louder. 

"Tiffany Wren?" 

I looked up. The man approaching me looked to be in his late fifties, broad-shouldered with a loosened tie and a coffee cup balanced in one hand. 

Captain Dean Mercer. 

Unlike everyone else, his thoughts were calm. Mostly because he wasn't trying to hide them. 

[Poor kid looks exhausted already.] 

That one almost got me. 

People usually treated me like some dangerous thing the second they found out. Mercer looked at me like I was human. 

I reached out to take his hand. "Captain." 

He gave it a warm shake. "Long flight?" 

"Long life," I replied. 

He laughed at that, the sound genuine and easy. "Oh, you're going to survive here just fine." 

I hoped so. 

Riverton had nearly destroyed me, not physically but mentally. There were only so many murder confessions, cheating spouses, dirty cops, and screaming thoughts a person could take before something started cracking inside them. 

I transferred because I needed distance, a new city, a new station, some kind of fresh start. 

At least that's what I told myself. 

Mercer motioned for me to follow him. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the team before they all pass out trying not to think around you." 

As we walked through the bullpen, the atmosphere shifted. The second heads started turning in my direction, the mental panic somehow got worse. 

[Don't think about that stripper!]

[Why is she prettier than I expected?]

[I wonder if she can hear fantasies.]

[Don't think dirty!]

[I should've called in sick today.] 

I pressed my lips together hard to keep from smiling. 

Mercer noticed immediately. "They're trying." 

"I appreciate the effort." 

One detective looked physically exhausted from attempting to empty his mind completely. Which was impossible, obviously. Humans thought constantly. Their brains never shut up. 

Most people just hated realizing someone else could hear it. 

Mercer stopped near the cluster of desks at the center of the room and raised his voice just enough to cut through the chaos. "Everyone, this is Detective Tiffany Wren. Transfer from Riverton." 

A few people tossed out awkward hellos without really looking at me. One detective nodded so hard I thought he might pull something in his neck. Another lifted a stiff thumbs-up like I was a rescue dog adjusting to a new home. 

But right in the middle of all those stuttering, nervous greetings, a completely different voice slammed into my head, cutting through the static of everyone else's panic with zero intention of hiding itself. 

[So this is the miracle recruit. Great. They sent us a Barbie pretending to be a cop.] 

My smile disappeared instantly. I turned toward the back corner desk, my eyes locking onto the source of that cold, irritated voice. 

The man standing there had his arms crossed, leaning against the edge of a desk with an air of total indifference. He was, unfortunately, the kind of handsome that usually came with a massive ego. Between the dark hair and the broad shoulders beneath a black Henley and an open jacket, he looked like he was permanently unimpressed by everything in his line of sight. 

Detective Lucas Hale. 

I felt the shift in the room as my gaze settled on him. Mercer sighed quietly beside me as if he had already expected this. 

"Hale," he warned. 

Lucas pushed off the desk slowly. His eyes stayed locked on mine the entire way over, showing no signs of nerves or intimidation. He was just irritated. 

"So you're Tiffany Wren." His gaze never left mine. "I'm Lucas Hale." 

He held his hand out like a challenge instead of a greeting. I took it anyway, and his grip tightened slightly as he tested me. It was a cute move. I simply squeezed back harder until his eyebrow lifted in surprise. 

Mercer looked like he was seconds away from developing a migraine. 

"Okay," he muttered. "Good start." 

Lucas finally let go first. "I read your file." 

I nodded once. "And?" 

"And Riverton seems happy you're gone." 

Some detectives nearby immediately pretended not to listen. 

I tilted my head. "That's interesting. Your file says three suspension notices and anger management evaluations." 

A few choked coughs sounded around us. 

Lucas stared at me without blinking. 

I held his gaze just as firmly, not moving, not backing down. 

Mercer pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long breath. “For the love of God.” 

Lucas ignored him and took a step closer, crowding my space. "Reading minds doesn't make you special, Barbie." 

I crossed my arms and held my ground. "Good thing I didn't ask for your approval." 

His jaw tightened, clearly hating that answer, but Mercer clapped his hands together to break the tension before he could respond. 

"Fantastic. I can already tell you two are going to make my life an absolute hell." 

Nobody disagreed. 

Mercer pointed toward his office. "Tiffany, come with me before Hale says something that gets written into HR reports." 

Lucas let out a low, cynical scoff before turning his back on us completely. 

I followed Mercer upstairs while the station noise slowly faded behind us. 

The second his office door closed, silence finally settled. I exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain out of my muscles. 

Mercer saw it. "Too much?" 

"Always," I admitted. 

His face softened, the professional mask slipping for a second. "You can still back out." 

I looked at him sharply. "No." 

"You haven't even heard what the assignment is yet," he reminded me. 

"It doesn't matter," I said. "I transferred for a reason." 

Mercer studied me in silence for a few seconds. He eventually nodded toward the chair across from his desk. I sat down and tried to find a comfortable position, though my muscles were still tense. 

He leaned back in his seat and looked at me with a serious expression. "Tell me honestly. How bad was Riverton?" 

The question hit something in me instantly. Images flashed through my mind before I could stop them. Cold interrogation rooms. Blood under fluorescent lights. The echo of screaming thoughts that weren’t mine. One memory surfaced harder than the rest. A suspect sitting across from me in tears while his mind replayed the murder over and over again. 

I swallowed hard and forced the images back down. "Bad enough." 

Mercer took one look at my face and didn’t ask for details. I was grateful for that because I really didn’t want to talk about it. 

Instead, he slid a thick folder across the desk. The name stamped across the front was written in bold letters: SCARS. 

I opened the folder and began to flip through the pages. It was full of crime scene photos and documented money trails. There were lists of dead witnesses and reports of missing evidence. I saw names of politicians connected to various shell companies. The deeper I flipped into the file, the uglier the details became. 

"Scars?" I asked without looking up. 

Mercer leaned back with a tired sigh. "Real name's Zane Knight." 

The photo clipped inside showed a man stepping out of a black SUV. He wore a dark suit that fit perfectly against a lean frame. His jawline was sharp and his expression remained entirely calm despite the cameras. He had the kind of face that looked dangerous even when he was standing completely still. 

"We've been trying to bring him down for years," Mercer continued. "Drugs, weapons, trafficking, judges on payroll, cops on payroll. Doesn't matter what we build. Cases disappear." 

"Nobody gets close?" I asked. 

Mercer let out a short, humorless laugh. "Nobody survives getting close." 

The room went quiet as I turned the pages. "And you actually believe I can get close enough to change that?" 

Mercer folded his hands on his desk, his gaze unwavering. "I believe you're the only one who can see the moves before they're made. We want you to go undercover." 

My stomach tightened. Undercover assignments were dangerous for any officer, but for me, they were a different kind of risk. One wrong moment drowned in a criminal's psyche could destroy me. 

"Relax," Mercer added, reading the tension in my shoulders. "You won't be doing it alone." 

I leaned back, already sensing I wasn’t going to like the answer. “With who exactly?” 

Mercer’s mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk appearing. "You already met him." 

I froze. I didn't even need to read his mind to see the image of the brooding man in the black Henley. The one who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but in my presence. 

"No," I said, my voice dropping an octave as I slammed the folder shut. "Absolutely not."