Her words stirred the air around them as if a different kind of wind had passed through the dark lot, loosening the tension in Ali's shoulders.
By the time he returned to the station, night had fully swallowed the city. The hallway lights stretched into long, distorted streaks as he stepped inside, his footsteps soft but steady, as though he were trying to convince himself that everything was still normal. But as he rounded the corner and saw Hale standing in the doorway of his office, arms crossed, an unreadable smile tugging at his lips, the blood in Ali's body froze.
"Where were you at this hour?" Hale asked casually, though every hint of tone carried a blade sheathed beneath it.
Ali opened his mouth to answer, but fell silent the moment he noticed Hale's gloves: pale tan leather, small perforations along the knuckles, a faint scratch along the edge. Ali knew those gloves—they had once been covered in Brooks's blood.
Hale tilted his head, eyes cutting into Ali as though measuring each breath. "You seem busy," he said. "Anything you want to share with me?" He stepped closer, shrinking the space between them until Ali could smell the leather, could almost feel the weight of the blows those gloves had delivered. Inside them were the hands that had slammed Brooks's skull into the wall.
"Nothing, sir," Ali managed, his voice gravelly, his lips so dry he had to wet them with his tongue just to speak.
Hale studied him the way a man studies a crack in the ground, the kind he hasn't yet decided whether to smash open or ignore.
Another officer passed by, nodding quickly. "Sir." Then he hurried away.
The tiny moment shattered the tension like a glass dropped on stone. Hale watched the officer leave, then turned back to Ali. "If there's anything you need to tell me," he said, "you know where to find me." He tapped a gloved finger against Ali's shoulder—a light touch that sent a cold rush straight down his spine.