Chapter 25: The Valdez Connection (Lauren POV)

Chapter 25: The Valdez Connection (Lauren POV)
The engine roars to life and the Chrysler peels away before I can even process movement.
I stand in the middle of the street, watching red taillights disappear around a corner. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. The medication does nothing to slow my pulse, fear is apparently immune to antipsychotics.
I don't move for several seconds. Just stand there, trying to process what just happened. Someone was watching me. Someone in a car that's probably been tracking my movements since this morning. Someone who knew exactly where I'd be on Sarah's quiet residential street at seven o'clock on a Saturday evening.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
It's a text from Alex: "Please call me. I'm worried."
Seventeen more texts from him, all variations on the same theme. Concern. Desperation. Love. I still can't decide which it is.
I don't respond. Instead, I turn and walk back toward Sarah's house, my legs moving on autopilot while my mind spins through possibilities. Someone is following me. Someone connected to this case. Someone who knows where my sister lives.
I can't tell them. I can't walk in there and say "Hey, a mysterious car has been tailing me and parked outside your house." Sarah would panic. Tom would use it as another excuse to play protector, to get close to me under the guise of keeping me safe. The girls would sense the fear and catch it like a virus.
I'm halfway back to the house when my phone rings.
Captain Rodriguez's name appears on the screen.
I almost don't answer. Almost let it go to voicemail. But something in me—maybe it's the part that's still a detective, still looking for answers—makes me swipe the screen.
"Hello?" My voice sounds strange. Thin.
"James." His voice is low, careful. "Are you somewhere you can talk?"
"I'm on a walk. I can talk."
"Not over the phone. Meet me at Rosie's Diner on Western. Do you know it?"
Rosie's. I've been there once, years ago. 
"When?" I ask.
"Twenty minutes. Come alone."
The line goes dead.
I stand on Sarah's quiet street, phone still pressed to my ear, and try to make sense of what just happened. Rodriguez never calls me directly anymore. He's been avoiding me since the suspension. And now he wants to meet me at an old diner in twenty minutes?
I text Sarah: "Walking longer than I thought. Back in an hour."
She responds immediately: "No problem! Be safe!"
Tom. Of course he is.
I change direction and head toward Western Avenue.

Rosie's Diner is exactly as I remember it. The lunch crowd is long gone, and the dinner crowd hasn't arrived yet. Only two other tables are occupied, and neither of them is paying attention to anyone else.
Rodriguez is sitting in a back booth, a cup of black coffee in front of him. He looks smaller than he does at the station. He's wearing a baseball cap and a windbreaker, dressed down in a way that makes him almost unrecognizable.
I slide into the booth across from him.
"Don't order anything," he says before I can even open my mouth. "We need to make this quick."
"What's going on?" I keep my voice low, matching his tone.
He takes a long sip of coffee and stares at something over my shoulder for a moment before looking at me directly. His eyes are tired. Scared.
"Valdez is untouchable," he says quietly.
"What do you mean untouchable?"
"I mean he has protection. High-level protection. The kind that makes judges dismiss cases and makes evidence disappear." He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping even lower. "The kind that makes captains of police departments very nervous about certain detectives asking too many questions."
My mouth goes dry. "Who's protecting him?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here." He glances around the diner, checking the other tables. The waitress is behind the counter, not paying attention. "But my best guess? Government-linked. Federal."
I lean back in the booth, trying to process this. "You're saying the federal government is protecting a murderer?"
"I'm saying there are things happening in this city that go beyond standard police work. Things that involve people with resources and reach that I don't understand." He reaches into his jacket slowly and pulls out a sealed envelope. He sets it on the table between us but doesn't let go of it. "And I'm saying I'm tired of watching good detectives get destroyed trying to fight them."
"Captain..."
"Listen to me." His grip tightens on the envelope. "Don't open this here. Don't open this at your sister's house. Find somewhere private. Read what's inside. And then you decide what you do with it."
He slides the envelope across the table toward me. It's thin but weighted, like it contains more than just paper.
"If anyone asks, you never saw me," he continues. "This conversation didn't happen. You don't know where this came from. You understand?"
I pick up the envelope. It's warm from his hands. "What's in it?"
"Evidence that shouldn't exist. Names that shouldn't matter. And a list of cases that fell apart the same way yours did." He stands up abruptly, his booth seat scraping against the floor. "I suggest you figure it out."
He's already moving toward the door before I can respond.
"Captain, wait..."
But he's gone. Just walking out into the Chicago evening like a man who's delivered a bomb and wants to be as far away as possible when it detonates.
I sit in the booth, hands shaking slightly, the envelope in front of me. My brain is moving slowly, the medication making everything feel slightly dreamlike even as adrenaline surges through my system. Someone is following me. Valdez is protected by federal forces. And I'm sitting in a diner holding evidence that shouldn't exist.
The waitress approaches with a fresh pot of coffee.
"Can I get you anything, hon?"
"No," I say automatically. "I'm leaving."
I stand up, putting the envelope carefully into my jacket pocket. The weight of it feels heavier than it should be. I pay for Rodriguez's untouched coffee at the register and walk back out into the Chicago night, hyper-aware of every car that passes, every shadow that moves.
The medication is supposed to make me feel less. Less afraid. Less paranoid. Less capable of believing in conspiracies.
It's not working anymore.
By the time I get back to Sarah's house, it's nearly eight-thirty. The lights in the windows glow warm and domestic. Through the front window, I can see Sarah. Emma and Sophie are arguing about something in the background. Tom is nowhere visible, which means he's probably in the kitchen.
I stand outside the house for a moment, hand on the gate, and feel the weight of the envelope against my ribs.
Whatever is in Rodriguez's envelope, I can't open it here. Can't let Sarah or Tom see it. Can't let anyone know that the captain of police is handing me evidence off the books.
I take a breath and push open the gate.