Melody's Silence Pt. 03

From Part 2:

My gaze locked onto the thumb drive, lying just inches away on the stage floor.

I reached for it.

Then--

CRACK.

The third shot rang out, and everything went black.

Now Part Three

-------------------

Agent Dexter Marshall -- The Day Before Tanglewood:

I didn't like walking into people's grief, but it came with the job. Beth and Scott McCall's house was the kind of place that had once been warm--a home, not just a house. But six years of unanswered questions had hollowed it out. The living room was neat, too neat, like a place where no one actually lived anymore. Pictures of Melody were everywhere--her college graduation, smiling at the beach, one of those Christmas portraits where everyone wears matching sweaters. But no pictures of Alex. He had been erased from their past, the way grief rewrites history to make sense of loss.

Beth sat stiffly in an armchair, her hands clasped in her lap, eyes wary. Scott leaned forward on the couch, his jaw tight, the kind of man who had spent years holding his emotions in check. I didn't waste time with pleasantries. "I need to know about Melody's last weeks at the firm. Did she say anything about her work? Anyone she was worried about?" They exchanged glances. Beth's lips pressed together, her grip tightening around her own fingers like she was trying to hold something in.

"She was stressed," Beth admitted finally, her voice quieter than I expected. "Not just normal work stress. She was... off." She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "She wouldn't talk about it much. Just said she was dealing with difficult cases. I told her to take a break, but she brushed it off." Scott shifted beside her, arms crossed. "And she and Alex were fighting more." His tone was sharp, but there was something underneath it--something more complicated than just blame. "She didn't tell us why, but it was getting bad. He says he didn't do anything, but she sounded... upset. Distant."

I nodded, absorbing the information. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Did she mention any names? Any specific case?" Beth hesitated, then shook her head. "No. But she kept saying she had to be careful. That she didn't want to 'mess things up.' I thought she meant her job, but now..." She swallowed hard, glancing at the framed photo of Melody on the mantel. "I don't know." Scott's jaw tightened. "If you're asking if someone at that firm had something to do with her disappearance, you're six years too late, Agent Marshall." His voice was sharp, bitter. "We asked. We begged. No one cared."

I let the silence settle for a moment before I spoke again. "We care now." It wasn't a promise. It wasn't enough. But it was the truth. Whatever Melody had stumbled into, whatever had made her pull away, it hadn't started with Alex. It had started here. I stood, slipping my notebook back into my coat. "Thank you for your time." Beth looked at me then, really looked at me, her grief bleeding into something closer to exhaustion. "Find out what happened to my daughter." I met her gaze and nodded. "That's the plan." Then I walked out, knowing I was already running out of time.

Beth hesitated when I asked if I could go through Melody's things, her fingers twitching against the armrest of her chair. Scott was the one who finally nodded. "They're in the garage," he said, standing up with a sigh. "Been sitting there for six years." The words hung heavy in the air. I followed them through the house, down a short hallway that led to a side door. The garage smelled of old cardboard and dust, dimly lit by a single bulb overhead. The storage racks along the walls were lined with neatly stacked boxes, all labeled with careful handwriting. Melody's Things. The sight of them made my stomach knot. This was someone's whole life, packed up and frozen in time.

I started going through the boxes, lifting lids, sifting through their contents. Clothes folded with care. Photo albums untouched. Trinkets and knickknacks carefully wrapped in tissue paper. But when I got to the boxes containing her work-related items, something was off. Instead of neat stacks, folders were stuffed in haphazardly, papers bent at odd angles, some of them barely fitting in the box at all. I frowned, shifting a few files aside, scanning quickly. No laptop. No laptop bag. Just scattered notes, some with scribbled annotations in the margins. It didn't match the way the other boxes were packed. Someone had gone through these.

I turned toward Beth and Scott, who stood quietly nearby, their eyes fixed on the boxes like they held ghosts. "Did either of you go through these?" I asked, gesturing toward the mess of papers. Scott rubbed the back of his neck. "I opened them," he admitted, his voice careful. "I was... looking for something. But I was careful. I didn't mess with anything." His answer was reasonable, but my gut told me otherwise. Someone had searched these boxes, and they hadn't been careful. They'd been in a hurry. If Melody's work laptop had been sent with the rest of her things, it wasn't here now. That meant someone had taken it.

Beth's voice broke the silence. "Is there something we should know?"

I shook my head. "Not yet." I could feel their eyes on me as I closed the last box, dusting my hands off. They wanted answers, but I wasn't going to give them ones I wasn't sure of yet. As I turned to leave, I paused at the door, glancing back at them. "I've worked a lot of cases over the years," I said, keeping my voice even. "And I can tell you this--my gut is telling me Alex Brooks might not have had anything to do with Melody's disappearance." Beth inhaled sharply. Scott tensed, but he didn't argue. I didn't wait for a response. I just walked out, knowing I had just shaken the foundation of everything they had believed for six years.

The weight of their stares lingered as I stepped outside, the crisp Boston air doing little to clear my head. As I climbed into my car, I exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. This case had been tangled from the start, but now? Now, it felt like I had just pulled a thread that could unravel everything.

The weight of everything pressed down on me like a slow-moving storm. I should've gone home, gotten some rest. But rest wasn't an option--not with Melody's case clawing at the back of my mind. So instead, I found myself back at the FBI's Boston field office, settling into my desk, cracking my knuckles before pulling up my system. If Melody had found something, I needed to know what it was--before it was too late. I didn't like loose ends, and something about Melody McCall's law firm didn't sit right with me. If she had been digging into something before she disappeared, I needed to figure out what it was. I ran a broad search first--any legal cases tied to the firm in the past six years. Most were routine for a law firm of its size. But one case stood out: a drunk driver, arrested a week after Melody's reported disappearance, who had been accused of killing a superior court judge in a hit-and-run.

The defense strategy was standard at first--plead out, try to get the sentence reduced. But then something odd happened. The law firm didn't file a motion for a change of venue, despite the high-profile nature of the case. Instead, they kept it right here in Suffolk County, where it was overseen by a fellow judge from the same circuit. Even stranger? That judge had ruled in the firm's favor, dismissing the charges after the police failed to read the suspect his Miranda rights. Convenient. Almost too convenient. My gut told me this wasn't just about one case, so I pulled up Westlaw, cross-referencing the cases this judge had presided over in the last decade.

The deeper I dug, the more patterns emerged. This particular judge--Justice Martin Caldwell--had a long history of cases tied to the same law firm. And not just a few, but a lot. In the years leading up to his death, he had ruled favorably in their direction an alarming number of times. Business disputes, corporate fraud cases, even a few high-profile criminal defenses--time and time again, he had sided with them, often in ways that seemed... unnatural. Judges weren't supposed to show favoritism. They weren't supposed to tip the scales. But Caldwell had. And now he was dead.

A judge who consistently ruled in favor of the firm gets killed by a drunk driver. The case gets dismissed under questionable circumstances. And Melody--who had started her job at the firm just weeks before--vanishes without a trace. I rubbed a hand down my face, staring at the screen, my instincts humming. Either this was one hell of a coincidence, or I had just found the first real thread tying Melody's disappearance to something bigger.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. If Melody had found something she wasn't supposed to, something that connected her firm to the judge's death, it would explain a lot. It would explain the stress her parents noticed. It would explain the fights with Alex.

_________________________________

Agent Marisha Baxter - Tanglewood Ambush:

I could still hear the gunshots echoing in my head. The phantom sound of splintering wood, the sharp crack of a round slamming into the stage--it was all there, imprinted on my nerves like a second heartbeat.

But right now, I didn't have time for ghosts.

I crouched behind the overturned drum case, Alex's weight pressing against me. He was slipping--his head lolling forward, breath shallow, his skin too pale. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky against my fingers as I pressed down harder to slow the bleeding.

"Come on, Brooks," I muttered, keeping my voice steady. "Don't check out on me now."

His lips barely moved. "Not... going anywhere..."

Liar.

Another shot whizzed overhead, splintering a wooden beam behind me. The orchestra pit wasn't the worst cover, but it wasn't going to hold for long. They weren't just shooting blindly anymore. They were adjusting. Testing angles. Trying to get a line of sight.

I needed to move.

Fast.

I tightened my grip on my gun, scanning the darkened space around us. The exit was still too far. The only reason we were alive was because they weren't being reckless. They wanted something.

No--they wanted someone. A rustle above. A creak of shifting wood. They were repositioning.

I had seconds.

I took a slow breath and reached into my belt, grabbing my backup mag. With a flick of my wrist, I sent it clattering across the stage.

The sound snapped through the empty theater like a gunshot.

Footsteps shifted. Movement. A pause. A perfect moment. I lunged.

One arm wrapped around Alex's torso, dragging his weight with me as I rolled to the side. Another shot hit the ground where we had been seconds ago, splinters raining down into the pit.

We hit the side of the stage hard. Alex grunted weakly, his fingers twitching, but he was still with me.

For now.

I forced my breath to steady, adjusting my grip on my gun. The emergency exit was still a risk, but it was my only option. My brain ran the numbers fast--six-second dash, minimal cover, but if I moved now--

Then--

Silence.

No more shots. No movement. Just the faint sound of footsteps retreating.

I pressed myself lower against the wood, waiting.

One second. Two.

Then, in the distance, a car engine turned over. A murmur crackled through an unseen earpiece.

"Brooks is down. He's been hit."

A pause. Then, the voice on the other end--cold. Detached. Unmistakably in control.

"Then leave. We need him alive."

I froze. That was it. That was their goal.

They weren't here to kill Alex. They were here to take him. And I had just ruined their plan.

I didn't dare move until I heard the tires screech out of the parking lot. And then, just like that, it was over.

I exhaled sharply, the adrenaline still singing in my veins. My fingers trembled slightly as I finally let go of my gun and turned my full attention to Alex.

He was fading. Fast.

"Hey." I pressed a hand to his uninjured shoulder, shaking him gently. "You with me?"

His head lolled, his eyes barely cracking open. "Bax..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. This sucks. But you gotta hang on."

His lips twitched--something almost like a smirk. "You... like me..."

I huffed out a breath, somewhere between frustration and relief. "Shut up, Brooks."

His fingers weakly curled around my wrist. His grip was almost nonexistent.

Panic crawled up my spine. I had to move. Now.

I adjusted my hold on him and half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs, ignoring the burning in my muscles. My ribs ached from where I'd hit the ground, my side bruised from the impact--but none of it mattered.

I had to get him out of here.

By the time I reached the side entrance, the air outside was too quiet. No sirens. No backup. The only sound was my own ragged breathing and Alex's struggling gasps.

I hauled him toward the nearest bench, my hands slick with his blood. I grabbed my phone. Dialed 911.

Ring. "Come on," I muttered. Ring.

Alex coughed, the sound wet and weak.

I pressed harder against his wound, trying to slow the bleeding. "Stay with me."

Ring. The line cut. I stared at my phone. No bars. No service.

What the hell?

A cold chill ran through me. This wasn't a random dead zone. This was deliberate. A signal jam. They weren't just trying to kill us. They were cutting us off.

Alex groaned softly. His breathing was too shallow, his skin too cold.

Screw it.

I reached for my gun, debating firing a round into the air--someone, anyone, had to hear that.

But that would also tell the wrong people where we were.

I swallowed my frustration and turned back to Alex. His lips parted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Did I at least... look cool?"

A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. "You're an idiot."

His eyes fluttered shut.

No.

No, no, no.

I shook him. "Alex."

No response.

I clenched my jaw. Think. I dropped my phone into my jacket, then pulled out my own backup radio. Static buzzed in my ear, the frequency barely holding.

"Agent Baxter to any available unit," I said, my voice sharper than I felt. "FBI agent requesting immediate medical assistance. Gunshot wound, Tanglewood Music Center. No cell service--repeat, no service. Need EMTs now."

For a second, nothing. Then--

"Copy that, Agent Baxter. Units inbound."

Relief flooded through me. Alex was still slumped against me, his breath shallow. But he was breathing.

I pressed my forehead against his, just for a second.

"Hold on, Brooks," I murmured. "Help's coming."

And this time, I wasn't letting go.

I tightened my grip on Alex's hand, his blood still warm against my fingers, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on my chest like a vice. The night felt too still, too quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Then, in the distance, a sound broke through the silence--a wail, faint at first but growing louder, urgent.

The wail of sirens split the night air, flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the empty stage and the darkened amphitheater walls. The EMTs rushed in first, their voices calm but firm as they surrounded Alex, assessing his condition. One of them pressed gauze firmly against his shoulder wound, while another prepared an IV, hooking him up to fluids. "BP's low," one of them muttered. "Pulse weak but holding." Alex groaned softly as they shifted him onto the stretcher, his face pale, his breath short. My hands were still clamped over his wound, sticky with blood, when one of the EMTs touched my arm. "We've got him," she said, her voice gentle. But I didn't move until they physically peeled my hands away, replacing my pressure with fresh bandages and expert care.

The Lenox PD officers arrived right behind them, one of them--Sergeant Harris--approaching with a no-nonsense expression. "Agent Baxter, we got reports of gunshots. What the hell happened here?" I exhaled sharply, my pulse still pounding, my brain still running through every detail in sharp, fragmented flashes. "Two shooters, maybe more," I said, keeping my voice steady. "They were professionals. Elevated positions. Controlled angles. They weren't just trying to kill us--they were trying to contain us." Harris narrowed his eyes, jotting notes down. "You return fire?" I shook my head. "Didn't have a clear shot. By the time we got out of the pit, they were already pulling back." He glanced toward Alex, still unconscious on the stretcher. "And him?" His tone wasn't accusatory, but I heard the unspoken question anyway. Is he worth all this trouble?

I didn't answer. Instead, I pulled out my phone and dialed Dexter. He picked up on the second ring. "Talk to me," he said immediately. The moment I heard his voice, my shoulders slumped slightly, tension bleeding out in a way I hadn't expected. "We got hit," I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "Alex took a bullet to the shoulder. No exit wound. He's lost a lot of blood, but he's stable--for now." There was a pause. A hesitation. "Are you okay?" Dexter asked, his voice measured, but there was something else there. Something careful. He knew me well enough to hear what I wasn't saying. I swallowed hard, forcing my voice back into its usual controlled rhythm. "I'm fine." Another beat of silence. "Bax," Dexter said, softer now. "I'm on my way. Don't let him out of your sight."

I clenched my jaw and turned back to the EMTs. "I'm going with him." One of them, a younger guy with dark curls, hesitated. "Ma'am, we usually only allow--" I cut him off with a sharp look. "I'm FBI. I go with him." The EMT nodded quickly, motioning for me to climb into the ambulance as they loaded Alex in. The doors slammed shut behind us, and as the vehicle sped toward the hospital, I sat rigidly beside him, watching the thin rise and fall of his chest. The moment we arrived, they wheeled him straight toward X-ray, nurses and doctors barking instructions as they rushed him through the ER. I moved to follow, but a nurse held up a hand. "He's going into the OR," she said. "No visitors beyond this point."

And then, just like that, I was left standing in the waiting area, covered in his blood. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile, too indifferent. The sounds of the ER hummed around me--monitors beeping, nurses moving, voices murmuring. But all I could focus on was the weight of everything that had just happened. My hands were shaking. My clothes were stained. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I hadn't let myself feel in years. Powerless. I exhaled slowly, forcing my fingers to unclench, forcing the weight down. Alex was still alive. And as long as that was true, I wasn't done fighting.

Three hours. That's how long I'd been sitting in this damn waiting room, replaying the shooting in my head like a scene stuck on repeat. The gunfire. The blood. The way Alex's body had gone limp for just a second before I dragged him to cover. I had kept pressure on the wound, kept talking to him, kept him conscious--but for a moment, I had thought I was losing him. And now, here I was, stuck in this sterile limbo, waiting for some overworked surgeon to come through those doors and tell me if he was still breathing. My fingers tapped against my knee, restless, tense. I needed something to do, something to distract myself, but all I had were my own thoughts. And they weren't helping.

I inhaled sharply, shifting in my chair. That's when I felt it--the tightness in my chest, the stinging behind my eyes. I cursed under my breath, reaching for a nearby tissue and dabbing at the corner of my eye before anything actually fell. Get a grip, Baxter. This wasn't me. I wasn't the type to sit here falling apart, wasn't the type to--damn it. I tossed the tissue aside, running a hand through my hair. Why was I reacting like this? It wasn't the first time I'd seen someone get shot. It wasn't the first time I'd been in a firefight. But something about this--about Alex--had lodged itself under my skin.

Before I could sink any deeper into that thought, Dexter's voice snapped me out of it. "Baxter." I blinked, looking up as he strode toward me, his sharp blue eyes scanning me like he was assessing damage. "What's the latest?" I exhaled slowly, pushing the emotions down where they belonged. "Still in surgery," I said, keeping my voice even. Dexter nodded, but his gaze didn't move past me just yet. His eyes flicked over my bloodstained shirt, my ruined jacket, the way my shoulders were still tense. "You got a change of clothes?" he asked. I sighed. "Yeah. Back at the rental. Tanglewood." His lips pressed into a thin line, and without another word, he turned and walked off.

I barely had time to process it before he came back a few minutes later, holding a folded pair of hospital scrubs. He tossed them onto the chair beside me. "Get changed." I opened my mouth to argue--old habits--but stopped myself. Dexter wasn't asking. And, honestly? He was right. Sitting here covered in blood wasn't doing me any favors. I grabbed the scrubs, stood, and made my way to the nearest restroom. The moment I was alone, I let out a slow breath. The scrubs were loose, a little big, but they were clean. And as I peeled off my blood-soaked clothes and changed, I could feel the weight in my chest ease--just a little.

When I stepped back into the waiting room, Dexter was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the hallway leading to the OR. He turned his head slightly when he saw me, giving a small nod of approval. I sat back down, feeling more like myself--more focused. The waiting wasn't over. But at least now, I was ready for whatever came next.

I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, trying to shake the exhaustion from my bones.

"It all went south the second we found the drive," I said, my voice lower than usual. "We were at Tanglewood. Alex recognized something, a song--his song, the one he played when he proposed to Melody. And tucked inside the piano, we found a thumb drive."

Dexter didn't react, didn't so much as blink, just listened, arms crossed, waiting for me to finish.

"The second we had it, shots started flying. Two shooters, minimum. High ground, controlled angles. They weren't just firing to kill; they were working angles, cutting off our exits." I exhaled sharply, my fingers pressing against my temples. "They could've finished us. But they didn't. They pulled back instead."

Dexter tilted his head, his sharp blue eyes studying me like I was another piece of evidence. "Did you follow?"

I shook my head. "No time. Alex was bleeding out. I had to get him out of there first."

Dexter sighed, running a hand over his face. "Damn," he muttered. He didn't blame me--he wouldn't--but I could tell he didn't like missing the opportunity to track the shooters either. He tapped his fingers against his arm, thinking.

"That drive," he said after a pause. "It's gotta be the key to all of this." His jaw tightened. "And if someone was willing to shoot up a concert hall to stop you from taking it, we're dealing with something big."

He shifted, leaning back in his chair. "That fits with what I found in Boston."

I glanced up at him. "What do you mean?"

Dexter exhaled, his expression darkening. "Melody's law firm? They were involved in a case right after she disappeared. A drunk driver who killed a superior court judge. But here's the kicker--her firm didn't request a venue change, even though they should've. The case stayed in Suffolk County, and the presiding judge?" He paused, letting it sink in. "He was a close associate of the judge who got killed."

I frowned, my mind running through the implications. "Wait--are you saying that law firm had a judge in their pocket? And that judge gets taken out in a so-called accident?"

Dexter nodded grimly. "And the case gets dismissed because the police failed to read the Miranda rights. Convenient, right?" He leaned forward. "Melody was working at that firm when she vanished. What if she found something she wasn't supposed to? Something tying her firm to that judge?"

A chill ran down my spine. I had spent years untangling complicated cases, but this one was starting to feel different. Not just a missing person. Not just a conspiracy.

Something deeper. Something dangerous.

I met Dexter's gaze. "If that's true," I said slowly, "then whoever killed that judge might be the same people who wanted Melody gone."

Dexter nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yeah. And judging by what happened tonight?" His eyes flicked toward the OR doors, where Alex was still fighting to stay alive. "They aren't done yet."

I swallowed hard, my mind flashing back to the attack at Tanglewood--the way the shooters had moved, the way their comms crackled just before they pulled back.

"Brooks is down. He's been hit."

A voice on the other end. Calm. Cold.

"Then leave. We need him alive."

I clenched my jaw, my fingers curling into fists.

They had been there to eliminate me and capture Alex. And when that plan went sideways, they had pulled back, waiting for another opportunity.

They weren't just after Melody's secrets. They were after us. And if they had already tried once, they would try again.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers closing around the small, cold metal of the thumb drive. It felt heavier than it should, like I was holding something more than just data--like I was holding evidence. Proof. A piece of whatever the hell Melody had been running from. Without a word, I handed it over to Dexter. He gave a short nod, his expression unreadable, and without hesitation, turned on his heel. "I'll grab my laptop," he said, already moving toward the exit of the waiting room. "Don't go anywhere." I huffed a quiet breath. Not planning on it. I watched him go, my fingers twitching against my knee, restless.

For a moment, I was alone again. And my mind went straight to Alex.

I didn't want to think about him--about the way he'd been fading fast in that ambulance, about the way his fingers had curled weakly around my wrist as if he was holding on to something more than just consciousness. But the thought lodged itself there, stubborn. He wasn't the first person I'd seen shot. Wasn't the first victim I'd tried to keep alive. But something about him--about the way he smiled even through the pain, about the way he trusted me, despite everything--stuck with me. I clenched my jaw, forcing the thought aside as Dexter strode back into the room, his laptop tucked under his arm.

"Alright," he muttered, setting it down on the small waiting room table and flipping it open. The screen glowed faintly in the dim light as he inserted the drive. A single folder appeared on the screen. No file names, no immediate details--just a single, clickable icon. Dexter's lips pressed into a thin line. "Let's see what was worth shooting at you for." He clicked.

The screen shifted, and a black window popped up, sterile and impersonal. ENTER ACCESS CODE.

Sixteen characters. That was all that stood between us and whatever Melody had buried. I exhaled, my pulse steady but my mind racing. "Of course," I muttered. "Because nothing in this case can be simple." Dexter leaned back slightly, staring at the screen, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Sixteen characters," he repeated. "Melody was smart. She wouldn't have picked something random." He turned his head toward me, raising an eyebrow. "Any ideas?"

I swallowed hard, glancing toward the hallway where Alex was still fighting to wake up. A thought flickered in the back of my mind. If anyone knew what Melody would have picked... it was him.

The hour after Dexter arrived had stretched endlessly. We had both fallen into a familiar rhythm--analyzing the thumb drive, running scenarios, trying to piece together what Melody had known. But no matter how hard I tried to stay focused, my eyes kept drifting toward the hallway leading to the OR. Every time a doctor or nurse passed through, my pulse kicked up, my breath catching for just a second. When the doors finally swung open and a doctor in scrubs stepped out, I was on my feet before he even spoke.

"Alexander Brooks?" the doctor asked, glancing between Dexter and me.

"Yeah," I said quickly. "What's the status?"

The doctor let out a slow breath, his face neutral, professional. "We were able to remove the bullet successfully. It nicked an artery, but we managed to repair it before any major damage occurred. There was some muscle tearing, but nothing that won't heal with time and physical therapy. He'll need to be monitored for a few days, but he's going to make a full recovery."

Relief hit me so hard that I actually felt my knees go weak for a second. I exhaled, pressing a hand against my temple, forcing my body to stay still. My chest felt lighter, my breath less strained. I hadn't realized how much tension I'd been carrying until that moment.

Dexter noticed.

"Jesus, Baxter," he muttered, crossing his arms, his sharp gaze locking onto me. "You wanna maybe try to pretend you're not completely invested in this guy?"

I rolled my eyes, shoving my hands into my pockets. "It's called professionalism, Dexter. You should try it sometime."

His smiled was immediate. "Oh, that's rich, coming from you." He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "I've known you for years. You keep a cool head under pressure, you don't get attached, and you sure as hell don't let personal feelings get in the way." His smile faded just slightly, his expression shifting into something more knowing. "But this?" He gestured at me. "This is new."

I scoffed, but it was weaker than I wanted it to be. "Come on, it's just--"

"It's not just," Dexter cut in, his voice calm but firm. "You were ready to fight the entire hospital staff to stay in that OR. You sat here for hours looking like you were about to combust. And now, the second you hear he's gonna be okay, you look like you can actually breathe again." His eyes narrowed slightly. "You sure you want to keep pretending this doesn't mean something?"

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, I turned toward the hallway, toward where Alex was still unconscious, still breathing.

Dexter chuckled under his breath. "That's what I thought."

The doctor gave a polite but firm nod. "Alex is in recovery now. He's stable, but he won't be awake for a while. If you want to come back tomorrow, visiting hours start at--"

"I'm staying," I cut in, crossing my arms.

The doctor hesitated, then looked at Dexter for backup. Dexter, of course, was already shaking his head before the doctor even spoke. "No, you're not." His voice left no room for argument. "Bax, you've been up for nearly twenty-four hours straight. You're running on fumes, and I'm not gonna sit here and watch you pass out in the waiting room." He pulled the keys to the Bureau's car from his pocket and tossed them to me. "Go. Get a hotel. Get some fresh clothes. Sleep."

I caught the keys, my grip tightening around them, my jaw clenching. "Dex--"

"No arguments," he cut me off. "I'll stay and keep an eye on him. If anything changes, I'll call."

Reluctantly, I sighed, nodding once. He was right. I hated that he was right, but exhaustion was pressing down on me like a weight I couldn't shake. "Fine," I muttered, shoving the keys into my jacket pocket. "But if I find out you left him alone--"

"You'll kick my ass. Yeah, yeah. Noted," Dexter said with a smirk.

I didn't bother saying goodbye, just turned on my heel and headed for the parking garage. The Bureau car was parked a few rows down, right where Dexter had said it would be. The fluorescent lights flickered above, casting long shadows against the cold concrete.

That's when I saw it.

A black SUV.

It was parked near the exit, engine running, headlights off. The driver's silhouette was barely visible, just a faint outline against the dashboard glow. My pulse ticked up a notch, my instincts sharpening like a blade.

But was it anything?

I kept walking, keeping my pace normal, my movements casual. Could've been nothing. Just another late-night driver waiting for someone. A hospital parking garage wasn't exactly empty at this hour. But still...

I slid into the Bureau car, started the engine, and pulled out as smoothly as possible, not daring to glance back at the SUV. Once I was out of the garage, I reached for my phone and dialed Dexter.

He answered on the first ring. "Already miss me?"

"Shut up," I muttered. "Just giving you a heads-up. Saw a black SUV parked near the exit. Single driver, lights off, engine running. Could be nothing, but... it gave me a bad feeling."

Dexter didn't immediately respond. When he did, his tone had shifted--sharper, more focused. "You think you were followed?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Could just be paranoia. But figured you should know, just in case."

"Good call," Dexter said. "I'll keep an eye out. You just focus on getting some sleep."

I exhaled, nodding even though he couldn't see me. "Yeah. I'll check in later."

As I drove toward the hotel, my grip on the wheel remained tight. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I was just on edge.

I forced myself to push the thought aside, but it clung to me like a shadow. The black SUV. The way it had just sat there. Watching. Waiting. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was paranoia. But after everything that had happened, I wasn't willing to take that chance.

I drove in silence, the city lights blurring past the windshield. Sleep had been a joke--brief and restless, my mind caught in an endless loop of gunfire, Melody's warning, and the weight of Alex's hand squeezing mine before he lost consciousness. I had spent too many years training myself to compartmentalize, to separate emotion from the job. But this wasn't just a job anymore.

And that was the problem.

By the time I stepped back into the hospital, freshly showered and dressed in clean clothes, I felt marginally better--at least physically. Sleep had been a joke, full of restless tossing and half-formed nightmares that left me more drained than refreshed. But I couldn't afford to let exhaustion slow me down. There was too much at stake. Too many loose threads that still didn't add up. My mind kept circling back to Melody's disappearance, the ambush at Tanglewood, and, inexplicably, Alex. The way he'd looked up at me, half-conscious, still managing that damn smirk. I shook the thought away as I approached his room. The black SUV was gone, which should have made me feel better, but somehow, it didn't.

I spotted Dexter at the nurse's station just outside Alex's door, leaning casually against the counter. And, of course, he was flirting. The nurse--mid-forties, auburn hair, bright eyes--was smiling, twirling a pen between her fingers as she laughed at whatever dumb joke he'd just made. I sighed, marching over and giving him a sharp look. "Really, Dexter?" I said, arms crossed. "We're in the middle of a federal case, and you're over here playing Grey's Anatomy?" The nurse smothered a grin as Dexter turned to me, completely unfazed. "Gotta keep morale up, Bax," he said with a smile. "Besides, stress relief is important." I rolled my eyes. "Unbelievable."

"Relax," Dexter said, pushing away from the counter. "Your boy's fine. He's still sleeping." His tone was casual, but I caught the way his eyes flicked to me, reading me the way he always did. I ignored it, forcing my voice into something strictly professional. "The SUV's gone." He nodded. "Yeah, I know. I had hospital security keep an eye on it. It left near dawn." That was... interesting. They hadn't made a move. Just sat there, watching, and then disappeared. I didn't like it.

Dexter glanced around the hall, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Figured out how they tracked us." My pulse ticked up. "And?" He crossed his arms. "Traffic cameras." At my raised brow, he continued, "Called in a favor with a friend in counterintelligence. He's got a buddy at MassDOT. Turns out, there was a request from Boston PD for footage from the airport the night we split up." My stomach sank. Boston PD. That meant someone back there was still gunning for Alex.

Dexter wasn't done. "Tell me the rental you took had GPS." I frowned, thinking. "Yeah, I think so." His smile was grim. "Then I'd bet money there's a request in at the rental agency to track it." I let out a slow breath, nodding. "So, they're watching traffic cameras and trying to track the car." Dexter nodded. "Which means they're not done with us yet." My fingers curled into fists at my sides. We weren't just up against a missing person case anymore. We were playing a game where the other side was always one step ahead. But not for long. "Then we find another way to move," I said firmly. Dexter grinned. "Now you're thinking like a fed."

Dexter let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Once Sleeping Beauty wakes up, we'll see what he has to say about that code," he muttered. "If anyone knows what Melody would've picked, it's him." He was right. But there was no telling when Alex would wake up, and standing around waiting wasn't going to do us any good. I crossed my arms and gave Dexter a pointed look. "You need sleep," I told him. He started to argue, but I cut him off, shoving the Bureau car keys and the hotel key into his hand. "Go. Take a few hours. Come back when you can actually form complete sentences."

Dexter studied me for a moment, like he was about to push back, but then he sighed, shaking his head with a smirk. "Fine. But if he wakes up and starts spilling state secrets, make sure you record it for me." I rolled my eyes as he turned and walked off down the hall, his usual swagger muted by exhaustion. Once he disappeared from view, I let out a breath and turned toward Alex's room. My hand hesitated on the doorknob for just a second before I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room was dim, the faint glow of the heart monitor casting soft green light against the sterile walls. Alex lay still, his left shoulder wrapped tightly in fresh bandages. His breathing was slow but steady. Seeing him like this--quiet, vulnerable--felt strange. He wasn't cracking jokes, wasn't throwing out that damn smirk. Just stillness. Without thinking, I moved a chair closer to the bed and sat down, my fingers ghosting over the edge of the blanket. Then, before I could even process what I was doing, I reached for his hand and gave it a small squeeze.

A moment later, I felt it--a weak but distinct squeeze back.

My breath caught. My heart did something stupid in my chest, something light and unsteady. I forced myself to shake it off, tried to rationalize it. It was just the adrenaline, the stress of almost getting killed, the bond of two people who had survived a foxhole together. That was all. Just comrades in arms. But the moment I closed my eyes, all I could see was him--his body crashing into mine, the sheer force of it knocking me to the ground as the bullet meant for me tore into him instead. He had risked his life for me. Me. Someone he barely even knew. And now, sitting here, feeling the warmth of his hand in mine, I felt something I couldn't shake. A lump formed in my throat, and before I could stop myself, my vision blurred. Damn it. I turned my face away, blinking rapidly. But the truth had already settled deep in my bones. No matter how much I tried to fight it, one undeniable fact remained.

I cared.

I hated that I cared.

It made me reckless. Made me hesitate when I should be thinking like an agent, not like... whatever the hell this was.

I exhaled slowly, running a hand over my face, trying to shove the weight of it down, lock it away where it couldn't mess with my judgment. But it clung to me, heavy and suffocating, refusing to be ignored.

I needed a distraction. Something to focus on.

So I turned to the laptop, letting the cool glow of the screen pull me back to the case, back to Melody, back to the one thing that still made sense.

I sat in the dim hospital room, the glow of my laptop screen casting a faint light across my face as I watched the video from the URL. Something about it wasn't sitting right with me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something off. The footage was simple--Alex on stage, the night he proposed to Melody. The moment should have been full of music, but the sound was gone, the video silent. I replayed it again, trying to find a clue, anything Melody might have hidden. But after the third time, I sighed and leaned back in my chair. I needed a fresh angle.

I opened a new tab and typed Alexander Brooks Trombone into YouTube. His channel popped up, and I scrolled through the videos. Before his life imploded, before he became a ghost, he had built a following, sharing breakdowns of classical works, jazz influences, and big band history. I clicked on one at random--Alex explaining Glenn Miller's contributions to music and how his work became the soundtrack of World War II. The video loaded, and suddenly, there he was--a different Alex. His younger self, confident, vibrant, alive in a way I hadn't seen since meeting him. His eyes sparkled as he talked, explaining the significance of swing music in war-time morale, how Glenn Miller's style had evolved. Then, without missing a beat, he lifted his trombone and launched into In the Mood.

I was mesmerized.

The Alex I had met--the one lying in the hospital bed, half-broken and carrying six years of weight on his shoulders--was nothing like the one on my screen. The man in the video was electric, passionate, his playing effortless, completely lost in the music. He had loved this. It was written in every note, every shift in expression. And now? Now he was a man who played out of necessity, not joy. My chest tightened, realizing just how much had been stolen from him.

A voice broke the silence.

"I haven't listened to Glenn Miller since I left for Paris."

I whipped my head toward the bed, my heart skipping a beat. Alex was awake, his blue eyes groggy but aware, watching me with an unreadable expression. For a second, I forgot what I was doing, forgot the damn case, forgot everything except the fact that he was here, awake, talking. I sat up, my pulse kicking up. "Alex," I breathed. "You're awake." A slow, tired smile tugged at his lips. "What gave it away?" he murmured.

I let out a sharp breath, part relief, part exasperation, and for the first time in hours, something in me unclenched.

Alex's gaze lingered on me, and despite the grogginess still dulling his expression, there was something sharp in his eyes--something real. "You okay?" he asked, his voice rough but steady. The question caught me off guard. He was the one in the hospital bed, fresh out of surgery, and yet, he was asking about me. I nodded quickly. "Yeah," I said, too fast. "I'm fine." The answer felt thin, flimsy, but he didn't push. Instead, his lips curved into a faint smile. "Good," he murmured. "I'm glad." And just like that, his eyes softened, that familiar spark flickering behind them as he held my gaze.

My chest tightened.

That stupid flutter returned, warm and unwelcome, creeping through me before I could shove it away. I cursed myself internally. No, Baxter. This is just adrenaline. Just a foxhole bond. Just... But I knew better. That look--the way he saw me, the way it made my pulse kick up--this wasn't just camaraderie. This wasn't just relief that he was alive. I swallowed hard, trying to shake it off, forcing my heartbeat to steady. I could not afford to let this become anything more.

Alex frowned slightly, noticing my hesitation. "Everything okay?" His voice was gentler now, like he could tell I was battling something inside my own head. I forced myself to snap back to reality. Focus, Baxter. Stay on task. "Yeah," I said again, this time with more control. I cleared my throat and pushed forward. "You took a bullet to the shoulder. They got it out, but you lost a lot of blood. You're going to need some recovery time." I kept my tone businesslike, professional. Facts. I could handle facts. "Dexter's here, too. He's been keeping an eye on things while I got some rest."

Alex absorbed that, nodding slightly, his expression unreadable. "Sounds like he was probably charming the nurses while he was at it." His smile was faint, but it was there, and something in my chest loosened just a little. Same old Alex.

I exhaled, leaning forward slightly. "We need your help," I said, bringing the conversation back to the reason we were here. "The thumb drive we found at Tanglewood--it's locked with a sixteen-character password. We think Melody left it for you." His expression shifted instantly, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something far more serious. "A password," he repeated, his voice quieter now. I nodded. "Yeah. And if we want answers, we need to figure out what it is." He was silent for a moment, thinking. And for the first time since this whole mess started, I felt something different in the air between us. Not just tension. Not just lingering uncertainty.

Hope.

The door swung open, and a nurse entered, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Brooks, I just need to check your vitals." Alex gave her a tired nod, already shifting slightly in the bed as she moved to his side. I took that as my cue to step out, giving him a quick glance before slipping into the hallway. Once outside, I pulled out my phone and dialed Dexter. It rang a few times before I got a groggy, "This better be important, Bax."

I smirked. "Wake up, sunshine. Alex is up."

That got his attention. "He's talking?"

"Yeah," I confirmed. "Coherent, too. I told him about the thumb drive."

Dexter let out a low exhale. "Good. I'll be there soon."

I hung up and tucked my phone back into my pocket before stepping back inside. The nurse was wrapping up, giving Alex a few instructions about rest and pain management before heading out. He watched me as I returned to my seat, his expression still tired but more alert than before. "Dexter's heading back," I told him. "Should be here soon."

Alex nodded but didn't say anything right away. I wasn't sure what to say either. The heavy conversation could wait--he had barely woken up from surgery. But silence wasn't my thing, and apparently, it wasn't his either.

"So," he said, shifting slightly against the pillows. "Are you always this intense, or do you have actual hobbies?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I have hobbies."

He smirked. "Let me guess. Kickboxing? Competitive interrogations?"

"Wow," I deadpanned. "Hilarious." I crossed my arms. "I like music."

That got a spark of interest. "Yeah? What kind?"

"Good music," I said vaguely.

Alex rolled his eyes. "That's a cop-out."

"No, polka is a cop-out," I countered. "Good music means music that actually meant something. Music that shaped culture."

Alex huffed. "So what, you think music peaked in the '70s? '80s?"

"Closer to '90s," I said with a smug grin. "Alternative rock, grunge--actual music."

Alex scoffed. "Please. You think Nirvana and Pearl Jam could hold a candle to jazz or big band?" He leaned forward slightly, despite the strain in his shoulder. "Music had soul in the '30s and '40s. It mattered then. It wasn't just people brooding into microphones."

"Oh, so you think your little jazz bands can outdo an entire generation of rock legends?" I teased.

Before Alex could fire back, the door opened, and Dexter strode in, looking far too awake for someone who had been half-asleep thirty minutes ago. Without a word, he held out a cup of coffee and pressed it into my hands. I took it automatically, throwing him a questioning look.

"Figured you'd need it," he said simply, before turning his attention to Alex. "What are we arguing about?"

"Best era of music," Alex said, smirking slightly.

Dexter didn't miss a beat. "Jazz. No question."

I groaned. "Of course you two would gang up on me."

Dexter shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. "Sorry, Bax. You're outnumbered."

Alex grinned, clearly enjoying my frustration. "Told you. You can't argue with good taste."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. For the first time in days, things almost felt normal. Almost.

Dexter didn't waste any time. "Alright, let's talk about this password," he said, setting his coffee down and pulling his laptop from his bag. He moved with the same efficiency he always did, like his brain was already three steps ahead of where the conversation was going. Alex shifted slightly in the hospital bed, watching as Dexter plugged in the thumb drive. The moment the screen lit up with the Enter Access Code prompt, Alex's expression sobered. Whatever grogginess was left from the painkillers was gone now.

Dexter leaned forward. "Melody left this for you," he said, tapping the screen. "That means she expected you to know the password."

Alex frowned, his fingers absently picking at the edge of the blanket. "She wasn't very careful with passwords," he admitted. "Always used something she could remember. Something personal." His blue eyes narrowed slightly as he thought. "I know she used the same password for her email and Facebook. It was MelandAlex4ver19."

Dexter didn't hesitate--his fingers flew across the keyboard, entering the password before I could even brace for the possibility that it was wrong. The screen refreshed, and for a second, I thought we had it. But then--

Incorrect Password: 2 Tries Remaining.

A heavy silence settled over the room. My stomach tightened as I exchanged a glance with Dexter. Alex cursed under his breath. "Damn it." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "I really thought that was it."

Dexter exhaled, closing the laptop for now. "Alright," he said, voice steady. "That means Melody changed her habits before she disappeared. Which means whatever this password is, it mattered."

I nodded, my brain already running through possibilities. "We have two more tries. We need to get this right."

Alex clenched his jaw, determination flickering in his tired eyes. "Then let's figure it out."

We sat there, turning over ideas, tossing out possible passwords, but nothing stuck. Alex was visibly frustrated, running a hand through his hair every few minutes, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

"This doesn't make sense," he muttered. "Melody only left a note, a URL to a video, and the thumb drive. That's it. How the hell am I supposed to figure out some sixteen-character password from that?"

He shook his head, exhaling sharply. I could tell it wasn't just frustration--it was the weight of six years pressing down on him. Melody had left him a message, a final puzzle, and he couldn't solve it.

Dexter, ever the pragmatist, leaned back in his chair. "Maybe the video is the answer."

He opened the laptop again, pulling up the URL, and we all sat in silence as the screen played the same silent footage of Alex's proposal at Tanglewood. Alex watched with a tense expression, his jaw tight.

We ran it again. And again.

Each time, nothing jumped out.

"This isn't getting us any closer," Alex said finally, dragging a hand down his face. "I don't see anything in this video that even remotely looks like a password."

Dexter sighed, drumming his fingers on the table. "Well, for starters, there's no sound. That's weird, right?"

I turned my head toward Alex, just in time to notice something odd. His fingers were moving against the blanket, absentmindedly tapping against his leg in a steady rhythm. At first, I thought nothing of it, but then I frowned.

"Alex," I said, my voice sharp with realization. "What are you doing?"

He blinked, snapping out of whatever trance he had fallen into. "What?"

I pointed at his hand. "You're tapping something."

He looked down and flexed his fingers. "I--" He hesitated, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I must have done that without thinking." A pause, then, "It's the song."

I stared at him. "What song?"

His fingers twitched again, like they were chasing something invisible.

Then he looked up at me, and for the first time since we met, there was no guarded sarcasm. No walls. Just a raw, unfiltered realization settling into place.

"The song I wrote for Melody," he said slowly. "I played it that day. The day I proposed."

The moment the words left his mouth, I saw him.

Not the ex-fiancé. Not the suspect. Not the man accused of a crime he never committed.

The musician.

The man whose entire life had been built around something no one could take from him--music.

He had spent six years running from the world, but in this moment, he wasn't running.

He was remembering.

Dexter and I exchanged glances. That wasn't just some random connection--that was the answer.

I leaned in. "Alex. What are the notes?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. "B, F, G, A, F, B, D, E, F, G, F, E, D, B, A, B."

Dexter didn't hesitate. His fingers flew over the keyboard, inputting the sequence before any of us could second-guess it.

For a split second, nothing happened.

Then--the screen flickered.

The passcode screen disappeared. A new window opened. A long list of files appeared on the screen.

I exhaled sharply. "We're in."

Alex let out a breath that sounded half like relief, half like disbelief. "She hid the password in our song," he murmured.

Dexter leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the file names. "And now we find out what she was trying to tell us."

I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. Whatever was in these files--whatever Melody had discovered--it had been worth running for.

And people had been willing to kill to keep it hidden.

Dexter scrolled through the files, his eyes narrowing as he scanned their contents. The first few were standard legal documents--motions for different cases, case notes, and what looked like a judicial calendar. But then he paused, clicking on another file. A list of evidence tag numbers appeared on the screen, neatly cataloged.

"This isn't just legal work," Dexter muttered. "These are case files--ones she must have been tracking."

He clicked to another document, and I leaned in, my pulse quickening. A spreadsheet appeared, full of routing numbers linked to offshore accounts.

"What the hell is this?" I murmured, reading over his shoulder. The spreadsheet listed multiple transactions, all leading to a single destination. At the bottom of the screen, in bold letters, was a name: Harmony Wells.

Dexter whistled low. "That's a shell name if I've ever seen one."

Before either of us could process it fully, he clicked on another file, and a video window opened.

Melody appeared on the screen.

Alex sucked in a sharp breath.

None of us spoke for a moment. Melody's face was frozen mid-frame, her expression serious but calm. She had recorded this before she disappeared. My chest tightened. This wasn't just some forgotten legal document--this was a message. And judging by the look on Alex's face, he knew it, too.

Dexter hesitated, then looked at me, lowering the volume before the video could play.

"I think this is for him," he said quietly.

I nodded. "Yeah. We should give him space."

Alex hadn't moved, his eyes fixed on the screen, unreadable.

Dexter and I exchanged a glance before standing.

"We'll be outside," I told Alex gently, but he didn't react, didn't even blink.

Dexter closed the laptop slightly and patted the bed frame once before we both stepped out into the hallway, leaving Alex alone with whatever Melody had left behind.

_________________________________

Alex -- Melody's Final Words:

The screen flickered, and then there she was--Melody. Alive, speaking, staring straight at the camera like she was looking right at me. My stomach twisted. She looked tired, her usually bright blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but there was still a fire behind them--a determination that hadn't been snuffed out yet.

She took a slow breath, then spoke.

|"If you're watching this, then I'm most likely dead."|

I stiffened. The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Melody swallowed hard, her breath shaky. I watched as she forced herself to keep going, but then her composure cracked. Her face crumpled, and tears spilled down her cheeks. My hands clenched into fists as the screen flickered, cutting for a brief second before resuming. She must have stopped recording, pulled herself together, then started again.

Her voice was quieter when she spoke again, more deliberate.

|"I don't know how to explain this in a way that makes sense,"| she said, rubbing at her temple. |"But it started with something small. A discrepancy in a case file. A mistake, I thought. But the more I looked, the more I found. Missing evidence. Rulings that didn't make sense. Judge Caldwell was making decisions that weren't just questionable--they weren't legal."|

She inhaled sharply, shaking her head. |"I went to Walter Hobbs. I told him I found inconsistencies. He said he would look into it. But I kept digging. I found accounts--money moving where it shouldn't. Then, I started noticing people following me. The threats started soon after."|

She looked away from the camera, her jaw tightening, as if she was reliving something too painful to say aloud.

|"They threatened my family. They threatened you, Alex."|

My breath caught.

Melody let out a shaky laugh, one that didn't reach her eyes. |"You always thought I was fearless. You called me 'your little storm,' remember? That night in the rain when I dragged you out of rehearsal and made you dance with me in the street? You said I was reckless, and I told you life was too short to wait for the right moment. That if we didn't take the moment, the moment would take us."|

She closed her eyes for a second, the weight of her words pressing down. When she opened them again, they were shining with unshed tears.

|"I should have listened to my own advice. I waited too long, and now I'm out of time."|

The screen flickered slightly as she sat up straighter, her hands folding in her lap. |"I didn't know what to do," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. |"So I did the only thing I could think of. I routed some of their money into an account--Harmony Wells. If anything happened to me, I needed proof that I tried to stop them. But the threats got worse, and I was terrified. I had to hide the evidence somewhere safe. Somewhere that meant something to me. To us."|

Tanglewood.

She exhaled, long and slow, as if she could feel the end of her own story closing in around her.

|"Alex, if you're watching this... I need you to know something."|

She hesitated, her eyes locking onto the camera, like she was speaking directly to me across time.

|"I love you. I always will. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I never got to tell you that enough. I never got to tell you that it wasn't your fault. None of it. No matter what they said, no matter what they made you believe--you didn't lose me."|

She sucked in a breath, her lips trembling.

|"They took me." |

The words sent ice through my veins.

Melody let out a breath, slow and deliberate. |"I hope you never see this, because that would mean I made it. That I got away, that I found a way back to you. But if you are... if you're watching this, then you need to run, Alex. You need to run and never look back."|

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn't wipe it away.

|"I love you. I'm so sorry."|

The screen went dark.

I sat there, staring at the blank monitor, my pulse hammering in my ears. The silence in the hospital room was suffocating, thick with the weight of Melody's final words. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the laptop, my fingers hovering over the trackpad like I could somehow bring her back with just one more click.

But she was gone.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to breathe. She had known. All those years, I had tortured myself with questions--Had she run? Had she been taken?--but now, I had the answer. They had taken her. And I had spent six years drowning in guilt while the real monsters had walked free. My stomach twisted at the thought. The people she had been running from, the ones who had threatened her, were still out there. And now, they knew that I had found the truth.

A sharp knock at the door made me jerk.

I turned my head just as Marisha stepped back into the room, her eyes flicking to the laptop, then to my face. She didn't have to ask. She could see it written all over me.

"Alex," she said carefully, her voice softer than usual.

I shook my head, shoving a hand through my hair. "She didn't run," I rasped. "They took her."

Marisha didn't blink. She just nodded, stepping closer, her expression unreadable. "We figured as much."

A bitter laugh scraped its way out of my throat. "You figured." I let my head fall back against the pillow. "I spent six years believing I had lost her because of something I did--because I wasn't enough. And the whole time, she was out there, knowing this would happen."

Marisha hesitated, then sat down in the chair beside me, her gaze steady. "She didn't want you to blame yourself."

I clenched my jaw, my fingers curling into fists. "Yeah, well. Too late for that."

Silence stretched between us.

Then, she shifted slightly, glancing toward the hallway. "Dexter's looking into the offshore accounts. We're trying to trace the money. If we can find out who was paying into those accounts, we might be able to track the people responsible."

I exhaled sharply, trying to push the crushing weight off my chest. I wanted to do something--anything--but here I was, stuck in a hospital bed while the world burned around me.

Marisha studied me for a moment, then leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. "You need to rest, Alex. You're no good to Melody--or to yourself--if you don't get your strength back."

I forced a smirk, though it felt weak. "Since when do FBI agents give pep talks?"

She huffed a quiet breath. "Since they end up with musicians who won't stay out of trouble."

I let my head roll to the side, meeting her gaze. There was something in her eyes--something firm, steady. I didn't know if it was reassurance or just the fact that she wasn't letting me spiral, but either way, I was grateful.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, finally, I nodded. "Okay."

Marisha gave a small nod of approval and stood. "Dexter will be back soon. Try to get some sleep."

She turned toward the door, but just before she stepped out, I found myself saying, "Marisha."

She paused, glancing back.

I swallowed hard. "Thank you."

She held my gaze for a second longer before giving a small nod. Then, without another word, she walked out, leaving me alone with Melody's final message still ringing in my ears.

I let out a slow, shuddering breath and closed my eyes.

This wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

_________________________________

Dexter Marshall -- Unraveling the Truth:

Marisha stepped out of Alex's hospital room, her face unreadable, but I caught the tension in her shoulders. She had been in there longer than I expected. I straightened, crossing my arms as I met her gaze.

"We need to call Rourke," I said. "This case just crossed into federal territory."

She nodded, pulling out her phone. Neither of us wasted time on small talk. The situation had escalated beyond what we initially thought--this wasn't just about a missing woman anymore. It was about corruption, offshore accounts, and a woman who had been silenced before she could expose the truth.

We called Special Agent in Charge Thomas Rourke in Boston, updating him on everything--Melody's note, the offshore accounts under Harmony Wells, the video confession, and the attempted hit at Tanglewood. I could hear Rourke swearing under his breath as I laid it all out.

"Bribery tied to offshore accounts?" he muttered. "Jesus Christ. This isn't just some missing person case. This is organized corruption." There was a pause. "Alright. I'll get the DOJ involved. We'll escalate this officially. But you two--stay put and keep digging. And keep Brooks under watch. If these people went after him once, they'll try again."

I exchanged a glance with Marisha. "What about Boston PD?"

Rourke let out a slow exhale. "For now, we keep them at arm's length. Someone over there put in a request for airport footage the night you arrived, which means someone on the inside is feeding information. We don't know who we can trust yet."

That didn't sit well with me, but I understood the logic.

Rourke ended the call with a final warning: "Watch your backs."

I slid my phone back into my pocket and turned to Marisha. "We need to copy everything on the drive. Secure it."

She nodded, already moving. "Agreed. We can't afford to lose it."

We both knew the truth--whoever killed Melody hadn't just been covering up one crime. They had been covering up all of them.

And now, we had their paper trail.

Marisha and I stepped into Alex's hospital room. Alex was sitting up, but his expression was heavy--somber in a way that had nothing to do with the bullet wound in his shoulder. He barely glanced up as we entered, his fingers tapping absently against the hospital blanket. I had seen that look before--someone processing something they weren't ready to say out loud.

I cleared my throat, keeping my tone even. "How you holding up, Brooks?"

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's one thing to suspect Melody didn't just disappear--it's another to hear her say it herself." His voice was tight, the weight of Melody's final message still pressing down on him. "But yeah," he continued, finally looking up. "There's something in her message that can help."

I nodded, stepping forward and grabbing the laptop. "Then let's make sure this doesn't disappear." I plugged in a secured Bureau drive and started uploading everything to an encrypted FBI cloud storage. It took a few minutes, the progress bar creeping forward at an agonizing pace. Marisha stood near the bed, arms crossed. "The FBI is working to take over the case officially," she told him. "Our boss, Rourke, is bringing in the DOJ. With what we found, this is bigger than just Melody--it's organized corruption, and we're going to make sure the people behind it don't get away."

Alex just nodded, the exhaustion evident in his face. He didn't need reassurances right now. He needed time. Marisha and I left him to rest, closing the door quietly behind us. As we walked down the hall, she turned to me, her expression sharp. "Alright, what are you thinking?"

I exhaled, rubbing a hand down my face. "Coming after Alex over a cold case makes no sense," I muttered. "If they left him alone in Paris, it's likely whoever's behind this would have never been caught, and the crime would have never seen the light of day." I shook my head. "No, this isn't about silencing him--it's about something else. And I'm willing to bet it's about the money Melody took from them." Marisha's brow furrowed. "You think they're after the money?"

"It adds up," I said. "She diverted funds into the Harmony Wells account. Based on what we pulled, it looks like she moved close to ten million dollars." I met Marisha's gaze, my jaw tightening. "People don't just let that kind of money go. They want it back."

She let out a slow breath, absorbing the thought. "So we're not just dealing with a cover-up. We're dealing with a group that's still bleeding from what Melody did."

I nodded. "And if they think Alex can lead them to it, they won't stop coming."

Marisha didn't say anything right away, but the way her hands curled into fists told me she was thinking the same thing I was. This wasn't just a hunt for the truth anymore.

It was a race.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over my face. "We need to pay Walter Hobbs a visit."

To be continued.