All Chapters of The Cross Family: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

The press arrived before the paperwork was finished.They always did.By mid-morning, the sidewalk outside the precinct was already thick with vans, cameras, and reporters speaking in hushed, excited tones. Microphones waited like bait. Headlines were being drafted before facts had even settled into place.Inside, the station hummed with a different kind of tension—the quiet awareness that the story had broken.Cross Heir Detained in Drug Sweep, one headline read on the muted television mounted above the bullpen.Youngest Cross Brother Linked to Downtown Raid, said another.Linked.Rowan hated that word. It lived in the gray space between truth and speculation, just vague enough to stick.She stood at her desk, finishing the last of the documentation, eyes skimming the report for the fifth time. The facts hadn’t changed. They never did. Only the narrative surrounding them did.Across the room, someone muttered, “They’re eating this up.”Rowan didn’t answer.She signed the last page, c

Rowan’s name hit the assignment list like a dare.She saw it on the whiteboard in the briefing room, written in sharp marker beneath a cluster of cases that had nothing to do with her usual workload—drug sweep follow-ups, witness re-interviews, evidence chain review. Paperwork-heavy. Bureaucracy-heavy. The kind of tasks captains handed out when they wanted something handled cleanly, quietly, and without surprises.Her stomach tightened when she read the line.Downtown Sweep — Secondary Follow-Up / Witness Coordination: Sgt. Rowan Vale.Loosely connected.A safe word for still connected.Rowan’s jaw clenched as she took a seat near the back of the room. Hollis stood at the front, clicking through a sterile PowerPoint, talking about evidence integrity and public scrutiny. His tone was calm, even—too even.He glanced at Rowan once. A look so quick it could’ve been nothing.But it wasn’t nothing.Rowan felt the weight of it settle between her shoulder blades.This wasn’t punishment. Not e

Rowan didn’t drink much.Not because she was morally superior, and not because she didn’t like the warmth in her bloodstream after a long shift. She just didn’t like feeling dulled. The job trained you to stay ready, even when you weren’t on the clock. Even when you told yourself you were.Tonight, though, she’d agreed to one beer.One.It was a Thursday, which meant the bar was half-full of exhausted office workers and people who hadn’t figured out their lives yet. Rowan sat at the far end of the counter in a corner stool—back to the wall, sightline to the door. Habit. Her hair was down, black waves brushing her shoulders, and the tattoos that usually stayed hidden under a uniform sleeve were on full display now—ink climbing over her forearms and peeking at the edge of her collar.She liked this version of herself. The one who belonged only to her.Her friend Lana was halfway through a story about a disastrous date when Rowan’s phone buzzed with a text.Lana: You’re not listening. Yo

Rowan had spent most of the week pretending the late-night phone call hadn’t changed anything.It had been easier when the city was loud and chaotic, when her shifts ran long and her thoughts were drowned out by sirens and paperwork and the endless rhythm of police work. It had been easier when she could tell herself the pull toward Casey Cross was just proximity, just adrenaline, just the strange intensity that sometimes came from shared vulnerability.But quiet had a way of peeling away lies.And tonight was quiet.Her shift ended just before midnight, the station thinning into the slow exhale of a city beginning to sleep. Rowan shrugged into her jacket, tugged her hair into a loose knot, and stepped out into the cool air. The streetlights painted everything amber and soft, turning the sidewalk into long ribbons of shadow and light.She should have gone straight home.Instead, she found herself walking slower than usual, her thoughts drifting back to his voice. The honesty in it. Th

Rowan knew the email was coming before she opened it.She’d felt it in the shift in tone that morning—the way conversations lowered a notch when she walked past. The way her lieutenant avoided direct eye contact. The way the captain’s office door had remained half-closed instead of open, like it usually was.Her phone buzzed at 8:12 a.m.Subject: Internal Review — Immediate Attendance Required.She didn’t let her face change.She finished her coffee.Then she walked upstairs.The Internal Affairs office was too bright. The kind of fluorescent lighting that made every expression look harsher, every hesitation more visible.Two officers sat at the table when she walked in.Sergeant Mills. Older, methodical. The type who believed in rules more than people.Detective Alvarez. Younger. Sharp eyes. Always evaluating.“Officer Vale,” Mills greeted evenly. “Have a seat.”Rowan sat.Back straight. Hands folded on the table. Calm.“What’s this about?” she asked, even though she already knew.Al