desertion

149

LYDIA

Mason and I worked like a well-oiled machine most of the time. We moved through cases as if we could read each other's minds, which was a huge relief in a job that demanded constant precision. We had this unspoken rhythm, like two pieces of a puzzle that just fit. But no matter how close we were-or maybe because of how close we were-we weren't immune to arguments.

Today was one of those days.

It started out as a normal day. We were reviewing the Daniel Carter case again, combing through our notes and cross-referencing evidence to make sure everything lined up. Mason was sitting across from me, tapping his pen on the table as he scrolled through his laptop.

"Okay, so where's the financial report from the victim's work?" he asked, his tone calm but focused.

I frowned, flipping through the stack of files on the table. "It should be right here."

"It's not," he replied, glancing up at me.

"Well, I don't know where it went," I said, my voice a little sharper than I intended. I was already on edge from how slow the case was moving.

Mason leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "We need it, Lydia. It's kind of important."

"I know it's important," I snapped, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "Do you think I don't know that?"

"I'm not saying that," he shot back. "But if it's missing, we have to figure out where it went. Did you move it somewhere? Or maybe misplace it?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Are you seriously blaming me for this?"

"I'm not blaming you," Mason said, his voice rising slightly. "I'm just saying we need to figure out what happened. If you moved it, just say so. It's not a big deal."

"I didn't move it!" I said, slamming my hand on the table. "Why do you automatically assume it's my fault?"

"I didn't say it's your fault," he replied, his tone now matching mine in intensity. "But you were the last one to go through these files, Lydia. So yeah, it's logical to ask if you know where it is!"

My blood was boiling now. "You're unbelievable, you know that? You're so quick to point fingers, but maybe you're the one who lost it. Ever think of that?"

Mason scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, sure, because I'm the one who always misplaces things, right? Oh wait, no-that's you!"

The jab hit harder than I expected. "Wow," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Real mature, Mason. Glad to know what you really think of me."

"You're blowing this out of proportion," he said, throwing his hands up. "It's a stupid report, Lydia. Why are you making it personal?"

"Because you're treating me like I'm incompetent!" I shouted, standing up.

Mason stood too, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm treating you like someone who needs to take responsibility for their mistakes!"

We were both yelling now, and I could feel my hands trembling with anger. The argument went back and forth for what felt like hours, each of us too stubborn to back down. Every time one of us tried to steer it back to the actual problem-the missing evidence-the other would fire off another snarky comment, dragging it further into personal territory.

Eventually, we both stormed off in opposite directions, refusing to look at each other. The silence that followed was deafening, and when we did speak, it was through sharp, cutting remarks.

"Maybe if you spent more time organizing and less time talking, we wouldn't be in this mess," Mason muttered under his breath later that day.

"Maybe if you weren't so perfect all the time, we wouldn't have to walk on eggshells around you," I snapped back.

By the time the day ended, I felt completely drained. The anger was still simmering under my skin, but a new emotion had started to creep in-guilt.

I lay awake that night, replaying the argument over and over in my head. Mason and I had been working so well together, and now this stupid fight was threatening to ruin everything. Was I really so stubborn that I couldn't admit when I was wrong?

The next morning, I walked into the office feeling like I hadn't slept at all. Mason was already there, his expression as tired and frustrated as I felt. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the tension thick in the air.

Finally, Mason sighed and stood up. "Look, Lydia," he started, his voice softer than I expected. "I shouldn't have snapped at you yesterday. I was frustrated, but that's not an excuse."

I blinked, caught off guard by his apology. "I shouldn't have yelled at you either," I admitted, my voice quiet. "I was just... stressed. And I took it out on you."

He nodded, his lips twitching into a small smile. "Truce?"

"Truce," I said, smiling back.

For the rest of the day, we worked in harmony again, the argument already fading into the background. Mason even found the missing report-it had been accidentally filed in the wrong folder. He gave me a sheepish look as he handed it over, and we both laughed.

It wasn't our finest moment, but it taught me something important: even when we clashed, Mason and I could always find our way back to each other. And that, more than anything, made me realize how much I valued our partnership.