Chapter 5: Ghosts In The System

By sunrise, I was sitting in the back corner of the precinct’s breakroom, cradling my third cup of bad coffee. I hadn’t slept. I couldn’t. My brain had been working overtime since I left King Street Station.

The USB drive burned a hole in my jacket pocket the entire ride home, but I didn’t plug it in. Not yet. If there was even a chance it was traced, I wasn’t stupid enough to insert it into my personal laptop. I needed something clean. Something off-grid. And most of all, I needed time.

But time wasn’t a luxury we often got in homicide. And pretending like I wasn’t spiraling inside took more energy than I thought it would.

“Rough night?”

I glanced up. Detective Lembo. Always too observant for his own good.

“Didn’t sleep. Just coffee and corpses.” I forced a smirk.

He chuckled and took the seat across from me, biting into a jam doughnut. “Word is you’ve been working too many double shifts. Jansen’s got you chasing shadows now?”

My fingers tightened around the paper cup. There it was again—his name. Jansen. I hadn’t even opened the files in that envelope yet, but I couldn’t stop hearing it. Seeing it. Feeling it crawl under my skin.

“I go where I’m needed,” I muttered.

Lembo gave me a long look, like he knew there was more. But thankfully, he let it go.

When I finally got to my desk, I shoved the USB deep into my bag and powered on my work terminal. I didn’t dare use it—not in this building. But I could at least start somewhere else.

Detective Inspector Nathan Jansen.

Public files. Internal commendations. Old press releases.

He looked like a poster boy for the force—sharp jawline, sharp suits, and sharper instincts. But if the clippings in that envelope were true, then the man running this department had a past dirtier than the alleyways we cleaned bodies out of.

I ran his name through every open-source database I had access to, looking for inconsistencies. I didn’t expect much. Corrupt cops don’t leave trails. But Kaden… Kaden had left me something. That locker wasn’t random.

It meant he was watching.

Or someone was watching for him.

Just before lunch, I finally opened the envelope again—this time in the privacy of a dark storage room, door locked, blinds shut.

One of the clippings caught my attention. It was about a case from six years ago—evidence tampering on a drug bust that mysteriously got buried. The photo attached showed Jansen with a younger officer shaking hands with a civilian in front of a warehouse.

The same warehouse from the photo with Kaden.

My heart thudded.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

This wasn’t just about me.

I snapped a picture of the article with my burner phone and slipped everything back into my bag. I’d have to find the warehouse. Tonight. Quietly.

As I walked out, I nearly collided with someone in the hallway. A junior officer—Hendricks, I think—nodded quickly and scurried past.

“Black,” a voice barked.

I froze.

Jansen.

He stood across the corridor, watching me with that perfectly rehearsed smile. The kind that doesn’t touch the eyes.

“Step into my office, will you?”

My blood turned to ice.

Had he seen me?

Did he know what I found?

I forced my face into neutral, walked toward him with steady feet, but inside—everything screamed.

This was no longer just a memory.

This was war.