Be My Redemption

Chapter 1

The thrill of the chase had always captivated you. Ever since watching your first police movie as a child—where the good guys always got the bad guys and the explosions were only outmatched by the witty banter—you knew exactly what you aspired to become. And after years of relentless studying, countless hours spent poring over behavioral patterns and case studies, here you were: Junior Profiler at a brand-new department in the FBI. Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly how you'd imagined it, but 3 years out of college and already working at the Bureau? Not too shabby.

If only you could call up Chris from high school and rub it in his face. Chris, who used to tower over you like some deranged oak tree, always giving you hell for being scrawny. Well, look at you now. Sure, you hadn't bulked up, you were still about as intimidating as a library book, but you had something better—brains and grit. The kind of smarts Chris could only dream of... or try to spell.

You sat tucked into your corner desk, which wasn't the most prestigious spot, but hey, it was yours. Your own little nook in the bustling FBI office. You glanced at your surroundings—agents walking briskly, phones ringing off the hook, coffee cups being drained like life depended on it. You were in the thick of it. Sort of.

"Sinclair! Over here." Agent Smith's voice, deep and gravelly, cut through the office noise like a chainsaw through butter. Smith, your boss, had been leading operations for a decade. A man of few words, fewer smiles, and a haircut that hadn't changed since the Reagan administration. He motioned for you to follow him into his office, the look on his face suggesting that this wasn't going to be a friendly catch-up chat.

You leapt out of your chair, knocking over a stack of paperwork in the process, but quickly righted it before hustling after him. You offered a salute for good measure—something you hoped made you look sharp rather than out of place. As you stepped into his office, Smith collapsed into his chair like a man who'd been personally wronged by every single case file on his desk.

"I'm at a loss with you, Sinclair," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop bothering Jones and Anderson?"

Bothering? Bothering? A wave of confusion and frustration hit you. What he called "bothering" was what you called "saving this investigation from certain failure." Jones and Anderson—seasoned agents, sure, but also as useful in the field as a pair of rusty shovels—were chasing dead ends while you had already cracked open a goldmine of clues. They just didn't want to admit it.

"I'm only trying to help," you said, keeping your voice steady. "Sitting behind that desk, there's only so much I can do. The file I handed you, it lays everything out. If they'd just take a look—"

Smith cut you off with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair like he was physically preparing to deliver some unpleasant truth. "Jones and Anderson have two decades of Bureau experience and four years in this department. You can't just waltz in here and expect to run the show."

Run the show? You almost laughed. You didn't want to run the show. You just wanted to steer it away from the iceberg it was headed straight toward.

"I'm not trying to take over," you said, holding up your hands defensively. "But they won't even listen. It's like I'm a ghost. I can't just sit back and wait for someone to ask me to join the fieldwork—if I do that, the case is going cold. We're losing time."

Smith's skeptical stare was legendary—he could melt a glacier with that look. And right now, you were the glacier. The silence stretched uncomfortably long, and you could feel your heartbeat thudding in your chest.

"Look," you said, lowering your voice in a last-ditch effort, "I know what you're thinking. But I'm not some rookie who stumbled into the Bureau. I've earned my place here. Just give me a chance. Let me show you what I can do."