Tori's boots hit the threshold with a purpose, her Glock leading the way as she and Javi stormed into the shadow-drenched house. The air was still, heavy with tension that clung to them like cobwebs. Instincts honed from years on the force had her sweeping the living room, her eyes sharp, dissecting the space for any sign of threat. Javi mirrored her movements, his own weapon an extension of his steady hand as he cleared the corners.
"Clear," Tori whispered, voice barely above a breath, yet it carried, filled with authority and focus. Her senses were on high alert, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
"Kitchen's clear," Javi reported from the adjacent room, the low timbre of his voice a grounding force. They communicated through short, concise confirmations, a language developed over countless similar situations that always seemed to find them shoulder to shoulder against the odds.
They moved in synchronized caution towards the hallway that led to the garage. The mystery that lay beyond was a siren call, each step they took was measured, ready to confront whatever—or whoever—was trying to stay hidden within the shadows.
Then, a sound—a shuffle, faint but distinct—echoed from the garage, slicing through the silence like a warning shot. Their gazes locked for a fraction of a second, a silent exchange passing between them. With their nerves stretched taut, they hastened their pace, bodies tensed for action.
Javi nodded, his expression hardening with resolve as they approached the door. The movement from the garage continued, sporadic and hushed, but undeniable. The door was a threat, though.
Last time they'd burst through a door in the Whitmore residence, they'd nearly been mauled by dogs. Cautions proceeded the brave.
Tori's hand signals cut through the dim interior like sharp blades, her instructions to Javi clear without a whisper. With a nod, she peeled away from their unified front, making for the back of the house where shadows clung to the walls like dark secrets. Her movements were a silent dance, each step calculated to avoid detection.
The backyard was shrouded in darkness, save for the scant moonlight that draped silver over the lawn.
Finding a window to the garage partially ajar, she paused, allowing her breath to slow, feeling the cool air kiss her fingertips. The gap beckoned, an invitation to infiltrate. With practiced ease, she worked the opening wider and hoisted herself up, wincing at the faint creak of the sill. Once inside, she dropped soundlessly onto the dusty floor, her gaze sweeping across this new vantage point.
Now, she spotted the source of the noises.
Glen and Cathy Whitmore scurried like trapped rats, heaving a cumbersome workbench against the garage door with the clatter of metal tools. Their breaths came out in desperate gasps, their movements frenzied, a stark contrast to the rhythmic thud of Javi's own pulse in her ears.
"Freeze!" Tori's command sliced through the commotion. She emerged from the shadows, gun leading the way, an ironclad extension of her will. The Whitmores jerked upright, their eyes wide with the kind of fear that spoke volumes of guilt.
"Hands where I can see them, now!" Her voice was the crash of a wave against a rocky cliff, relentless and commanding. With deliberate steps, she closed the distance. Their hands lifted in shaky compliance, the glint of sweat on their brows mirroring the steel in Tori's gaze.
The Whitmores obeyed, and they pressed back against the cold concrete.
The corners of Cathy Whitmore's mouth trembled as a sob clawed its way out, her body shaking like a leaf in a storm. "We thought you were thieves," she blubbered, the words spilling out amidst tears that streaked down her face.
Glen, his own hands still raised in begrudging surrender, shot a desperate glance toward Tori. "We didn't know who you were. The dogs... they were just to scare off burglars. We've been robbed before!"
But Tori saw through the veil of their fear to the deceit beneath. She couldn't afford to be swayed by crocodile tears or fabricated excuses. "Cut the crap, Glen!" she snapped. The blue-gray tempest in her eyes darkened, a reflection of the gathering storm within her. "I'm not buying your act."
"Please!" Cathy's plea was a broken record, marred by sobs.
"Enough!" The word was a gunshot in itself, sharp and commanding. Tori edged closer, her gun unwavering, every line of her body spelling danger. "I want answers, and I want them now."
Glen's knees buckled as he succumbed to the gravity of the scenario, and beside him, Cathy crumpled into a heap on the cold garage floor. There was an air of finality as they sat, a silent acknowledgment that their charade had reached its end. Tori stood over them, her gun still raised—a stark reminder of the consequences should they choose further violence.
"Start talking," Tori commanded, the icy edge in her voice slicing through the tension-charged air. "I want to know why you tampered with those reports. Now." She didn't clarify which reports. This was intentional. Better to allow them to jump to their own conclusions in this cahotic moment, so in the future, they couldn't recant.
Glen wrung his hands, his eyes darting from Tori to the door where Javi remained a silent sentinel. Cathy, looking smaller and more fragile than ever, wiped at her tears with the hem of her shirt, her sobbing subsiding into hiccups.
"Reports?" Glen echoed feebly, attempting to feign ignorance. "We don't know anything about any—"
"Cut it out!" Tori interjected, stepping closer, her posture rigid with impatience. The storm cloud color of her hair seemed almost electric in the dim light of the garage. "You think I'd storm in here guns blazing if I wasn't sure?"
Cathy's lips quivered as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, "We haven't done anything wrong. Please, you have to believe us."
"Believe you?" Tori scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her. "Every piece of evidence points to you two, and you expect me to turn a blind eye?"
Her finger tightened imperceptibly on the trigger, a silent threat that sent another wave of panic through Cathy's eyes. Glen swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to muster some semblance of dignity under Tori's penetrating gaze.
"Look, there must be some mistake," Glen began, the words tumbling out in a rush. "We're just... we're just scared is all."
Tori retorted, her skepticism evident. "Scared doesn't explain why you'd mess with official documents."
The back-and-forth volley of accusations and denials continued, neither side yielding, but the Whitmores' resolve was visibly crumbling. Tori knew it was only a matter of time before the dam broke and the flood of confessions began. She just needed to keep pressing, keep pushing—because somewhere beneath these layers of lies was the truth she vowed to unearth.
Tori paced the confined space of the garage, her boots scuffing against the concrete floor, each step echoing the rising pulse of the situation. The air was thick with tension, the scent of motor oil and fear intertwining in an acrid dance. She halted in front of the Whitmores, her shadow falling over them like an ominous cloud.
"Enough games," she declared, her voice low and steady, a dangerous undercurrent to her words. "You can either come clean now, or I'll make sure you spend the night in a cell, thinking about what honesty means."
Glen's face paled, his eyes darting between Tori and Cathy, seeking an escape that wasn't there. He licked his lips, a man starved for courage, and then, with a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumped.
"Alright! Alright," he yielded, his voice breaking. "It was Cathy. She... she said we had to do it. That no one would get hurt, that it was just... just bending the truth a little."
Cathy's face contorted with rage, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "You spineless worm!" she spat, lunging forward with a raw, primal energy.
Tori reacted instinctively, stepping between them as Cathy's hand swung out, aiming to connect with Glen's cowering form. The shove sent shockwaves through the taut atmosphere, the crack of betrayal resounding louder than any physical contact.
"Sit. Down." Tori's command was iron-clad, non-negotiable, and Cathy recoiled, the fire in her eyes dimming as she registered the unwavering authority before her.
"Go on," Tori urged Glen, her blue-gray eyes stormier than ever. "Tell me everything."
With the strained dynamics of their relationship laid bare, the Whitmores' facade crumbled, the weight of coercion and internal strife punctuating the silence that followed.
Glen, now at a safer distance from his wife's fury, straightened his spine—a broken man trying to piece himself back together under the weight of his confession. Cathy, her breaths coming in ragged heaves, glared at both men, the fight draining from her as reality set in.
"Talk," Javi said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And this time, no more lies."
There was a momentary silence, thick with unspoken truths, before Glen's voice filled the void, quieter now but laced with a reluctant acceptance.
"Someone...they offered us five thousand dollars," he admitted, his gaze falling to the oil-stained floor. "An anonymous source, through a burner phone. Said we just had to tweak some details, that it didn't matter because it happened in a small town—like nobody would care or notice."
Cathy, with her chin raised defiantly, added, "It was just money on the side, to keep quiet about certain inconsistencies. Nothing major, they said. We thought it was...insignificant."
Javi exchanged a look with Tori, whose stormy eyes reflected the gravity of the revelation.
Tori's jaw clenched as she trained her steely gaze on the Whitmores, who now sat side by side on a dusty toolbox, their shoulders sagging under the weight of exposure. The air was stale with the tang of motor oil and fear, the tension palpable. "Proof," she demanded curtly, her voice echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. "You say you have evidence? Show me. Now."
Glen fumbled in his pocket, producing a trembling hand that clutched an aging flip phone. His fingers, calloused from years of manual labor, struggled to navigate the device, betraying his anxiety. Beside him, Cathy dug into her purse with haste, her hands emerging with bank statements that crinkled at her touch.
"Here," Glen's voice wavered as he extended the phone towards Tori. "The text messages—they're all there."
"Bank deposit confirmation," Cathy said, thrusting the papers forward, her facade of defiance crumbling as her eyes darted between Tori and Javi. "Five grand, just like we told you."
Tori stepped closer, her weapon now lowered but her presence no less commanding. She snatched the items from their grasp, her eyes scanning the dimly lit screen first. Message after message scrolled by, each one incriminating with its cold, calculated instructions. Then her attention shifted to the sheets of paper, the bold figures a stark contrast to the lies they had been fed.
"Looks legitimate," she muttered, more to herself than to her captives or partner. Her mind raced, piecing together the puzzle that had led them to this dingy garage confrontation.
"Who sent these?" she pressed, her gaze lifting to lock onto Glen's defeated eyes.
"I—I don't know," he stammered, his face pale. "It was always through that burner phone."
"Never saw a face," Cathy added quickly, the fight gone from her voice. "They said anonymity was key."
"Anonymity won't protect them," Tori stated coldly, making a mental note of every detail for her report. "Why did you accept it, hmm?" she said. "Five grand? Why? You participated in a murder. Emily Torres... Remember her?" she scowled at Glen.
He stared back. "M-murder? What? No. No--there was an accident. An earthquake. There was no murder. What's the big deal? She changed a number about seismic activity," he said, pointing at his wife. "I... I barely did anything. I just was... vague in my report. That's all. It wasn't a big deal."
"When you showed up on on scene. Emily lying there, under the rubble... what sort of rubble was it?"
"I took pictures of everything!" he retorted.
"And what about the knife?"
"What knife?" he looked genuinely puzzled.
Tori studied him, but then reached for her phone, pulling out the device and cycling to the images she'd captured of the knife left at the crime scene. There it lay, rusted and motionless on the counter. She turned it towards him.
"I... that wasn't there when I arrived," he said slowly.
"Why should I believe you."
He shrugged. "I mean... it's a knife. She died in an earthquake. I fail to see the connection."
Glen looked genuinely confused, and Tori could feel her anger slipping away.
She studied Glen's bewildered expression, his confusion seeming genuine. A heavy silence settled in the garage, broken only by the distant hum of a passing car. Tori exchanged a glance with Javi, who stood like a guardian at her side, his presence grounding her in the midst of this tangled web of deceit and half-truths.
Her mind raced, connecting dots and unraveling the threads of this intricate mystery. Emily Torres' death had always been a puzzle tinged with suspicion, but now, with the revelation of tampered reports and hidden motives, the pieces seemed to be falling into place.
Tori's voice was measured as she addressed the Whitmores once more. "You claim it was all just a minor alteration in your reports, but every detail matters in an investigation. Every discrepancy leads to a trail of unanswered questions."
Glen and Cathy exchanged a nervous glance, their shoulders hunched in resignation. The weight of their actions bore down on them as Tori continued to piece together the fragments of truth.
"You were pawns in a larger game," Tori mused aloud, more to herself than to the couple before her. "But every pawn has its purpose."
She paced the length of the garage. Her eyes, once stormy and fierce, now held a glint of determination as she squared her shoulders and turned back to face the Whitmores.
"Whoever offered you that money knew exactly what they were doing," she stated with conviction. "And we need to find out who. Show me. Which number?"
Glen hesitated. "Er... the only number stored in that phone."
She flipped open the device, and scrolled through his contacts. There was no security feature on an old flip phone, and so the sole contact was available for her pillaging. She clicked the number and hit the dial button.
It rang twice. And then the call was cut off.
She frowned and tried again. The phone rang once more. She stood in the garage, tense, waiting.
And again, the line went dead. The third time she tried, there was no response at all. Just a robo-voice saying, I'm sorry, the line you're dialing has been disconnected.
She scowled. "Anything?" she asked Javi.
He was already typing on his own phone, peering over her shoulder at the number. He'd entered the digits into their shared federal database. After a few moments, he just shook his head, releasing a pent-up breath of frustration. "Phone is a burner. Like they said. No purchase record. No logged serial number. No additional outgoing calls. Just messages to these two." He nodded at the Whitmores.
Tori's jaw clenched in frustration as she processed the dead end before her. The burner phone, a tool of anonymity and deception, had seemingly reached the end of its usefulness in their investigation. She turned her gaze back to the Whitmores, her eyes narrowing with a glint of determination.
"Whoever orchestrated this knew how to cover their tracks well," Tori muttered to herself, her mind racing through the limited options available to them. She paced back and forth in the garage, her footsteps echoing in the enclosed space.
"We need more than just a disconnected phone," Tori finally spoke, breaking the silence that had settled over them. "There must be something else, some clue we're missing."
Cathy's voice quivered as she interjected, "I swear we didn't know anything beyond what that person told us. We were desperate for money... for our son's medical bills."
"Shut up. You don't have a son," Tori snapped.
Cathy lapsed into silence again, grimacing.
"The bank account," Tori said. She looked sharply at the Whitmores. "Was it wired to you? Domestic?"
"Y-yes..."
"Good. I'm going to need all your bank details. Everything. Give me what I need without a hassle, and I'll put a good word in for you with the judge."
Glen and Cathy stared at her. "Th..the judge? Wait. Hang on," Cathy said hurriedly. "We told you. This was all a mistake."
"You've derailed a federal investigation and helped cover a murder," Tori said sharply. "You think I'm letting you off with a slap on the hand?"
Cathy
sighed, defeated. "I... I didn't know about any of that. I swear. We were just told to fudge some numbers and reports. We didn't think it was a big deal at the time."
Tori's gaze softened slightly as she regarded the couple before her. She could see the fear and regret etched on their faces, mingling with desperation and confusion.
"Look," Tori began, her voice more composed now, "I understand that you were in a tough spot. But what you did has real consequences. Lives are at stake here."
Glen shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes flicking towards his wife briefly before returning to Tori's steady gaze.
"Tell me everything you know," Tori said firmly but not unkindly. "Every detail matters now."
Cathy hesitated, glancing at Glen for reassurance. It was evident that they were torn between protecting themselves and finally coming clean about their involvement in the tangled web of deceit that had led to Emily's death.
After a few moments of silent deliberation, Glen cleared his throat nervously and spoke up. "It was an anonymous text," he began, his voice trembling slightly. "They knew about our financial troubles... "
Tori raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued by this new piece of information. "So they knew you?"
"Umm... possibly."
"Alright. I need bank details. Everything you've got. Am I clear?"
Glen released a slow sigh, but then nodded a single time, his shoulders slumping in defeat.