Risk

Captain Hobbs slides Javier Cruz’s photograph across his desk, and the first thing I notice is that someone has caught him smiling.

It is a small, distracted smile, directed at somebody outside the frame. His dark hair is touched with gray at the temples, his shirt collar is open, and one hand rests around a cup of coffee. Nothing about the photograph is threatening until I remember whose face I am looking at.

Seven years ago, my father died at Pier Nine. Somewhere between the unanswered questions and the people who stopped returning our calls, this man’s name became the one I could never forget.

I turn the photograph facedown.

Hobbs watches the movement without comment. Behind him, afternoon sunlight slips between the blinds and falls across his office. Lieutenant Naomi Reyes sits beside me, a folder balanced on her knees, her silence far less comfortable than the chair.

“You have authorization to meet Elena,” Hobbs says.

My fingers tighten around my coffee cup. For months, I have imagined hearing those words. I expected satisfaction, perhaps even relief, but instead I see Elena’s brightened face from our last video call, when she told me we had spent long enough being friends online and it was time to meet in person.

“In person?” I ask.

Reyes raises an eyebrow. “What other forms do you know of?”

“I’m checking before I get optimistic.”

Her mouth softens briefly before she opens the folder. “Your established contact continues under your existing cover. You are Grace Ellis, an automotive photographer who recently moved from Cape Town. You are meeting a friend.”

“I know.” I’ve heard this speech before.

Her gaze settles on mine, steady but serious. “Elena is not the target, Grace. She hasn’t been charged with anything. Her trust in you isn’t evidence against her father.”

I look down at my coffee. The cardboard has softened beneath my thumb, and a shallow dent marks where I have been pressing too hard against the cup. Elena has become such a constant in my daily routine that I'm starting to forget our friendship began as an undercover mission.

“I understand,” I say more quietly.

Hobbs leans back. “The objective is still Javier Cruz.”

I lift my eyes toward him.

There was a time when Adrian Hobbs sat at our kitchen table instead of behind a captain’s desk, arguing with my father about football while my mother threatened to confiscate their TV privileges. He remembers me with scraped knees and having an opinion about everything. Some days, his supervision feels reassuring. Today, with Javier’s photograph lying between us, I feel seventeen again.

“We have been waiting a long time for an opening like this,” he continues. “Elena already knows you. She likes you. Let that work naturally.”

“Friendships aren’t search warrants,” Reyes says.

Hobbs’s expression remains pleasant. “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”

Reyes runs her hands over the documents, then turns toward me, bringing the conversation back to boundaries, check-ins, and what happens if someone discovers who I really am.

“If you need immediate extraction,” Reyes says, “use the phrase ‘I left my blue camera bag at the studio’. Exact wording if possible.”

“I take it the department hasn’t approved accessories yet,” I joke lightly.

She gives me a bland look, but Hobbs chuckles, and for a moment the atmosphere feels lighter. Then he turns the photograph over again.

Javier’s still eyes appear trained on me.

I hate that my immediate thought is that he is handsome. Yet I follow the broad line of his shoulders before I force myself to look away.

“Don’t mistake charm for character,” Hobbs says. Heat rises beneath my collar. “Cruz is good at making people comfortable. You can spend an hour with him and forget what kind of man he is.”

My jaw tightens. “I haven’t forgotten what he did to my father.”

The words emerge sharper than I intend.

Reyes stills beside me, and Hobbs’s expression shifts from relaxed to something grim. “Neither have I, Grace.”

I swallow, suddenly aware of the clock behind my shoulder. Its ticking fills the space, adding just enough sound to keep the silence from becoming awkward.

Reyes pats the folder. “Your father deserves an investigation that follows rules and evidence, regardless of what that evidence might be.”

I nod, knowing she is right, and because Dad used to say almost the same thing.

Facts first, Gracie.

The memory hits me so suddenly that my throat tightens. I take a sip of coffee to distract myself, only to find it has gone cold during the fifteen minutes I’ve spent in this office.

My phone vibrates before Hobbs can speak again.

Elena’s name lights the screen.

I read the message and smile absentmindedly.

ELENA: Tomorrow. You and me. No excuses. I’m tired of being friends with a screen.

Another message arrives immediately.

ELENA: Lunch first. I have plans afterward. Wear something hot. Or don’t.

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing aloud.

Reyes holds out a hand for the phone, reads the messages, and gives it back. “Find out where you’re going. Keep me informed. An invitation is not a condition to say yes to everything.”

“You’ve clearly never tried saying no to Elena,” I mutter.

“I’ve tried saying no to you. I imagine the experience is similar.”

At home, I kick off my shoes and immediately start the coffee machine. My apartment is small enough that I can see the entire living room and kitchen without turning my head. But just down the short hallway, in the even smaller guest bedroom, everything that makes Grace Ellis real awaits. Photography equipment, pre-planned outfits, fake documents, my fake ID…

Tomorrow, Detective Grace Beckett becomes Grace Ellis, a car-obsessed photographer who moved here from Cape Town.

On the bookshelf, Dad smiles in a photograph taken before the investigation that killed him. His arm is around my shoulders, his hair windblown, his other hand resting on the roof of his old Mustang. I remember being annoyed that he made us stop working to take the picture. Now I would give almost anything to stand there again, insisting that we take another one.

“Facts first,” I say softly to Dad’s picture.

Of course, there is no answer. Only the coffee machine clicking off and the neighbor’s television murmuring through the wall.

I pour my coffee, then open the mission briefing on my secure device. Javier’s name sits above a list of businesses, associates, and disputed allegations. I read slowly, reminding myself what details have been corroborated.

My father’s case file is worse. Every page leaves me with the same ache, the same missing piece I have been trying to force into place for years.

Tomorrow is a step closer.

I want to believe that getting close to Javier Cruz will make the truth easier to find. But Elena will also be there, trusting every word I say, and I already dread the moment she learns that I used our friendship to get to my target.

Her father.

I close the file before I start doubting the mission. My phone buzzes, and I open it to another message from Elena. She has sent the restaurant address and asked what I was wearing to our first meeting. I reply with a photo of two outfits and get an immediate instruction to burn them both.

I snort, take my coffee to my room, and go choose another outfit that will meet her annoyingly high standards.

When I hang the new outfit over the closet door, my phone buzzes again.

ELENA: Oh, and don’t panic if my father stops by. He sometimes has lunch there. I told him we’re finally meeting.

My fingers freeze above the screen.

I read the message twice, feeling the apartment grow silent around me.

The man I have investigated for years — the man whom I believed murdered my father — may be sitting across a table from me tomorrow.