Stolen Shadows

8 - Darth Vader

The moment Addison got home, she ripped off the turtleneck. She bent over the sink and wet a dishcloth. She pressed it to her burn and let out a sigh. Once she deemed it safe enough, she pulled away the cloth and inspected the burn in the bathroom mirror.

It didn't look great. The skin around it was red and puffy; the burn itself had become a mixture of itchy rash and painful blisters. It would take a week to heal, at least. Addison would need a better solution than the two turtlenecks she owned. She sighed, bending over to retrieve the first aid kit from beneath the sink. She coated some gauze in neosporin and gingerly applied it to her neck. She clenched her teeth at the sting and secured the gauze with paper tape.

She examined her patch job. It'd do for now. It was Friday, so hopefully by Monday it'd be faded enough to hide with her hair. It was tucked away against her carotid artery, spanning the small gap between her collarbone and the spot you touch to feel for a pulse. She pressed her fingers there now, waiting for the steady thump of her heartbeat. It was reassuring, feeling that beat. It meant something was still working right.

Distantly, she thought of Sophie—she didn't know why. After returning to the station she hid the envelope in her desk, but now it was in her blazer again. She felt bad for lying, but she didn't have much choice. Sophie couldn't find out the truth. Either she would turn Addison in, or she would lie for her. Which couldn't happen. Enough was already in jeopardy because of Addison's actions—she didn't want to ruin Sophie's chances at a higher position in the PD, or wrap her up in a fight with the cartels. But before today, it wasn't exactly lying. It was avoiding, deflecting, making Sophie doubt herself. But today, Addison flat out lied to her face. Had laughed at her, actually. She couldn't go back from that now.

Pushing aside her messy, jumbled thoughts, Addison headed back to the living room. She sat with her legs criss-cross, a pillow in her lap, and pulled out the envelope. It seemed ancient; the paper was a pale yellow, creased with wrinkles, dirty in places. It was a standard letter size, long and thin. The back of it was blank. She flipped it over and opened it.

There was a folded piece of paper inside. As Addison pulled it out she noticed it was equally as old and dirty as the envelope. She unfolded it to find messy, faded handwriting. She read the first line, and her eyes went wide.

Philippe Axel, Los Santos Muertos. Crimes: gang leader, drug trafficking, domestic and sexual assault and abuse, weapons trafficking, murder.

The word "murder" was underlined three times.

Addison held her breath and scanned the rest of the page. All of it was evidence; hideout locations, trafficking hot spots, names on top of names from Axel's partners to his bodyguards. It was enough to put Axel away for three lifetimes.

And it was just what she needed.

---

Charlie was at the warehouse, waiting for her, as if he had sensed that Addison would be up to no good.

She made it two steps through the back door before he thrust his hand out in front of her. "Stop right there."

Addison raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me." She tried to step past him but Charlie held firm.

"No." He shook his head. "You're not going anywhere tonight."

"Charlie—"

"You almost died!" he shouted. "And, God, look at your neck! You're covered in bruises and gauze and you look exhausted—"

"Thanks for noticing," she mumbled, finally maneuvering around him. She dropped her backpack on a chair. "I have something I need to do."

Charlie looked like he wanted to scream again as Addison approached the case that held her suit. "Addison."