One of them was Sergeant Thomas Reed.
Internal Affairs investigators arrived at Sergeant Reed's house at 6:30 the following morning.
Reed wasn't there.
His police cruiser had been found abandoned behind a grocery store.
His department phone sat inside.
His personal phone was gone.
So was his passport.
Monica stood beside the abandoned cruiser.
"He's running."
Bell shook his head.
"Or somebody wants it to look that way."
Monica looked at him.
"You think Grant removed him?"
"Reed knows too much."
"Which makes him useful."
"Until he isn't."
They checked traffic cameras.
At 3:04 the previous afternoon—less than an hour after the gas-station incident—Reed's personal vehicle had left town.
At 4:17, it entered a private warehouse owned by Grant Logistics.
It never came out.
FBI agents raided the warehouse.
They found the car.
No Reed.
But they found blood.
Not much.
Enough.
The investigation escalated.
Elias Grant was brought in for questioning.
He denied everything.
"Sergeant Reed?" Grant asked.
"I know him."
"How?"
"Small town."
"Did he work for you?"
"No."
"Did you pay him?"
"No."
"Did you ask him to stop Naomi and Danielle Brooks?"
"No."
"Did you know Arthur Brooks?"
Grant smiled.
"That name sounds familiar."
Monica placed the notebook on the table.
His smile disappeared for half a second.
Enough.
"You remember now?"
Grant leaned back.
"Old communications guy."
"Why did he document your vehicles?"
"No idea."
"Why did Sergeant Reed authorize your access to county radio equipment?"
"I don't remember."
"Why did someone burglarize Arthur's home records yesterday?"
"No idea."
"Where's Sergeant Reed?"
Grant smiled again.
"You should ask the police."
"We are."
Monica closed the notebook.
Grant had lawyers.
Money.
Political connections.
They needed more.
Naomi wanted nothing further to do with the investigation.
At least, that was what she told herself.
She returned home.
Went back to the hospital.
Tried to resume normal life.
But normal life had changed.
A week after the gas-station arrest, a patient recognized her.
"You're that woman."
Naomi paused.
"What woman?"
"From the video."
Her stomach dropped.
Someone had uploaded footage of the arrest.
The clip showed Naomi and Danielle in handcuffs.
Cash on the hood.
Documents.
Police surrounding them.
The caption read:
TWO WOMEN CAUGHT WITH CASH AND FEDERAL FILES
It had millions of views.
The later FBI intervention wasn't shown.
Neither was their release.
Naomi's employer received calls.
Danielle's company did too.
Strangers accused them of fraud.
Drug trafficking.
Espionage.
Naomi couldn't believe how quickly an incomplete image became a complete story.
Danielle reacted differently.
She made a video.
"Hi. I'm one of the dangerous criminals from the gas station."
Naomi called immediately.
"Take it down."
"No."
"Danielle."
"They're lying about us."
"Federal investigators told us not to discuss the case."
"I'm not discussing the investigation."
"You're literally discussing it."
"I'm discussing being handcuffed while buying strawberries."
Naomi closed her eyes.
"Please be careful."
Danielle's voice softened.
"I am."
The video spread.
Public attention shifted.
Reporters began asking why the sisters had been detained.
The police department issued a vague statement.
That made things worse.
Then an anonymous package arrived at Danielle's apartment.
Inside was a photograph.
Naomi and Danielle leaving the FBI office.
On the back:
STOP TALKING.
Danielle called Naomi.
Then Monica.
Within an hour, federal agents were at the apartment.
Monica examined the photograph.
"This changes things."
Danielle folded her arms.
"Things were already pretty changed."
"We're placing protection on both of you."
Naomi objected.
"I have children."
"Exactly."
Naomi's face went pale.
Monica realized how that sounded.
"We have no evidence anyone intends to harm your children."
"But someone is watching us."
"Yes."
Danielle sat.
For the first time since the gas station, she stopped joking.
"Is this because of Dad?"
Monica nodded.
"Partly."
Danielle looked at Naomi.
"Dad died without knowing any of this?"
"Probably."
Monica sat across from them.
"Your father wrote down something powerful people wanted forgotten."
Naomi looked toward the photograph.
"And now?"
"Now they know it wasn't."
Sergeant Thomas Reed was found nine days later.
Alive.
A truck driver discovered him walking along a rural highway seventy miles north.
He was dehydrated, bruised, and missing one shoe.
At the hospital, he asked for the FBI.
Monica arrived that evening.
Reed looked twenty years older.
"What happened?" she asked.
He stared at the ceiling.
"I made mistakes."
"That's not an answer."
"I took money."
"From Grant?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
Reed swallowed.
"Twenty-one years."
Monica remained silent.
It had started small.
Information about patrol schedules.
Then access to radio frequencies.
Then warnings about inspections.
Later, Reed became a police officer.
His value increased.
Grant paid for information about investigations.
Search warrants.
Undercover operations.
Witnesses.
The relationship became corruption.
Then dependency.
"What happened at the gas station?" Monica asked.
Reed closed his eyes.
"Grant called."
"Personally?"
"No. One of his people."
"What did they tell you?"
"Silver sedan. Two women. Green bag."
"Why?"
"They said the women had stolen documents and cash."
"You believed them?"
Reed laughed bitterly.
"No."
"Then why did you stop them?"