She caught my eye for a fleeting second, a silent nod of acknowledgment passing between us.
She wasn't just a partner anymore; she was a witness, and perhaps, the final judge in this little play we were performing.
Rourke continued to pace the room, boasting about how he had finally cleared the case, completely oblivious to the fact that his career was vaporizing in real-time.
I watched him, the irony thick enough to choke on.
He was so busy trying to bury me that he had dug his own grave, six feet deep, with every derogatory word he spewed.
My heart hammered against my ribs, not from fear, but from the adrenaline of the endgame.
The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the hum of the overhead lights and the distant, rhythmic clicking of his heels against the linoleum.
Soon, the entire precinct would be swarming with investigators, and his reign of terror would be reduced to a footnote in a scandal.
I, on the other hand, was ready to walk out of these doors, not as a victim, but as the architect of his demise.
The game was far from over; it had only just begun.
The woman in the sharp suit stepped forward, her heels clicking with a precision that cut through Rourke's bluster like a razor blade.
She didn't look at him, but she stopped him in his tracks by placing a steadying hand on his shoulder as he started to reach for his holster.
I knew that movement.
It was a sign.
She was checking for the backup weapon he liked to keep hidden, the one he used when the cameras were off and the witnesses were conveniently dead.
Her eyes met mine once more, and this time, the fear was gone, replaced by a cold, clinical determination that matched my own.