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Prologue
Two years earlier
"And Katie Jackson's cooking wins again!" Natalie Manning announces, taking a big bite of pasta. Her eyes dramatically roll back as she chews, and laughter fills the room.
"Where's Kieran?" Jesse, my older brother, asks where my husband is as he was supposed to be home an hour ago.
"Oh, he just got caught up at work. I'm sure he'll be home soon," I tell everyone, waving it off.
I've invited Jesse, and our friends, to join me for dinner tonight, to celebrate a new beginning. Jesse works as a trauma surgeon at Chicago Med, and I quickly became friends with the staff through him. Currently, Natalie Manning, Connor Rhodes, Maggie Lockwood, April Sexton, Will Halstead, Daniel Charles, and Ethan Choi are sitting with me in my house, enjoying tagliatelle.
When they all arrived, I shared my exciting news about applying to the police academy. I'll be starting there next week.
"Well, once you come out of the academy, you'll be the best cop there is," Daniel raises his glass to me with a sweet and proud smile.
"Cop?" I turn, and there's Kieran, standing at the dining room door. My heart begins to pound. He looks annoyed, his eyebrows knitted together, and his muscles twitching under his light blue CPD-issued shirt. "What's all this?" He points around the table at my friends. I'm worried that his slightly raised voice will wake up our son who is sleeping upstairs.
"I signed up for the Chicago police academy," I tell him timidly, starting to wring my hands together.
"What?" He breathes out sharply. Everyone stops eating, and the air becomes silent and awkward. "I thought we agreed that was a bad idea. You wouldn't make a good cop."
I flush red, feeling embarrassed that he's making a scene in front of my friends. I stand up, walk around the table, so I'm closer to him, and lower our voices so my friends can hear less. "No, you said you didn't think it was right. I've spent all my time at home looking after our son, and I think it's time I got back to providing for the family, helping out a little. If I get through the academy—"
"Which you will," Connor winks at me, and I smile at him gratefully.
"Then I can do two years of probation in uniform and petition to get moved up to a detective level. That's always been my dream. You know that," I tell him, and he walks forward.
He has an angry look in his eye that scares me. I take a step away, but he stops and gives me a strange smile. "Well, if that's what you want," he says and hugs me.
I wasn't expecting that.
I lightly put my arms around him, feeling awkward, and he places a sloppy kiss on my cheek. I tell him I'll plate him up some pasta and go into the kitchen. Placing both my hands onto the counter, I lean over to breathe by myself for a moment. I'm scared that when my friends leave, the anger Kieran is feeling over this situation is going to come bursting out, and I'm going to take the brunt of it, just like I always do.
The kitchen door creaks open, and I quickly snap back up straight, holding my breath and flinching backward. But when I look, it's just Connor. I feel my entire body relax, and I begin to breathe again. "Hey, you okay?" He says softly and moves to my side.
I look up at him and give him a small nod. He moves his hand to the top of mine and holds it supportively. I instantly feel safer, but I know that it isn't going to last. I haven't told anyone about what Kieran is really like behind closed doors, but I know that a few people have figured it out. I know for sure that Natalie and Connor have, but I'm not so sure about the others.
The evening soon comes to an end, and I see all our friends out of the door, each congratulating me on my place in the academy.
Nat and Con hang back for a moment, looking at Kieran suspiciously, who is standing further back in the hall, waiting for me to close the door.
"Is everything okay?" Natalie whispers to me.
"Yeah," I nod with a frown, "everything's great. Thank you for coming." I hug her, and she walks out the door with a little wave.
Connor seems much less convinced, and he take my hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. Normally I would welcome his act of kindness but I know that him taking my hand is going to piss Kieran off even more. "Proud of you," he says, and I smile at him warmly. He looks back at Kieran and gives him a friendly nod before leaving like the rest of the others.
I shut the door and turn around, coming into contact with a slap across my cheek. "You went behind my back to do this," Kieran snarls at me.
"Shh, you'll wake up—" he cuts me off by pushing me back into the door, causing a loud bang.
"Don't ever go behind my back again," he threatens me, with his hand still pushing hard on my chest, keeping me pinned up against the door.
"You're being ridiculous," I roll my eyes at him and try to move away.
"Ridiculous?" He repeats and grabs my wrist tightly, twisting it to the side, causing a sharp pain to shoot up my arm.
"Let go while you still can," I warn him.
___________________________
Chapter 1: Pilot
Two years later
Having completed my police training nearly two years ago and working as a beat cop since then, today marks the culmination of my journey – I've just finished my detective exams. These include a written qualifying test, measuring my job knowledge, and an investigative logic test, evaluating my application of knowledge, skills, abilities, and personal characteristics.
Following these exams, I underwent a physical assessment involving various exercises like sit-ups, bench presses, and a long-distance run – a challenge I managed to finish in half the time of everyone else.
Throughout the day, selected Sergeants from different Chicago districts have been wandering around, assessing individuals and identifying potential recruits from both the police academy and those taking the detective exams.
Now, I find myself in an interview room, facing a group of detectives sitting at a long table, accompanied by my personal coach, who has presumably briefed them on my training in the past few months and my overall performance.
"Twenty-seven-year-old Katie Jackson?" Omar, the head of the facility, asks, though he knows me well.
"That's me, sir." I smile warmly at the guests along the table.
"Okay. We're going to begin with word association," he instructs. "For example, I might say crime, and you would say—"
"Investigation," I offer, and he nods.
"Gun," he counters.
"Precaution," I reply.
"Partner," he fires.
"Protect."
We continue like this, and then he delves into questions about my past, insecurities, ambitions, family, and more, while potential unit supervisors scribble notes as I talk and answer the questions.
Most of the Sergeants are dressed smartly in suits, while I stand being scrutinized in my standard police uniform. One exception is Sergeant Hank Voight, who is wearing jeans and a leather jacket. If given the choice to work with anyone in the room, it would be him. Despite his questionable reputation, he's known to be a great cop, working in the best district in Chicago. He's the epitome of an anti-hero, with a stern expression and an unwavering demeanor, never showing emotion or approval.
It is unusual for Sergeant Voight to attend events such as this, as his unit boasts the most experienced and intelligent cops in Chicago – exactly where I aspire to be.
I avoid lingering on anyone too long, giving fair coverage around the room. "Thank you, Jackson. You may leave the room now. Any offers from particular districts will be sent here within the next few weeks, and then we will take it from there," says Omar.
Exiting the room, I nod at the two remaining candidates. It's close to the end of the day, and I envy the person going last – being remembered the most is a double-edged sword, depending on performance.
Heading to my locker, I retrieve the academy's official navy duffel bag filled with my things. The first thing I do is take a giant slurp of water from the navy bottle and sit on the bench, legs on either side, taking a deep breath to replenish the energy I've lost through the day.
It's been an exhausting experience, but that's the price I'll have to pay to excel in this field.
The last two sessions fly by, and as people collect their things and leave, I can't bring myself to move. My aching muscles desperately need a massage.
"Jackson?" A deep, gruff voice calls out through the locker room. Standing up, I wander towards the entrance to see who's calling my name.
To my surprise, Sergeant Voight is there. "Sir, what an honor it is to meet you." I advance to shake his hand. He grasps it warmly with both of his. He must have checked with the reception secretary to see if I'd left yet.
"The pleasure's all mine. You outperformed everyone else today, and I can guarantee you'll get offers from almost every Sergeant in that room."
"Thank you, sir." I reply with a nod. Inside, I'm ecstatic at the compliment.
"No need for formalities, call me Voight. Now, I know it's not standard procedure, but I wanted to get to you first and offer you a place in my Intelligence Unit at District 21." He informs me, and my heart races at the prospect of working with the best unit in Chicago.
"Wow, uh, thank you. That'd be great, I'd love to." I exclaim, almost lost for words. He smiles, patting my shoulder firmly.
"Great. You start tomorrow. I want you in early so you can catch up on the case we're working on." He replies and exits, leaving me standing in the locker room. I grab the bag, sign out of the academy, and head to Molly's where my friends await my results.
"So?" asks Maggie expectantly, almost jumping on the stool she's sitting on.
"Detective Jackson of the Intelligence Unit, District 21 at your service." I laugh, receiving a hug from each of them.
My husband... well, ex-husband now, and I filed for a divorce around 6 months ago due to his ongoing abuse and behaviour. Connor and I have been dating for about four months now. It's not too serious, but we both like each other a lot. He seems genuinely happy for me. When I told him about the opportunity today, he insisted on putting together a nutrition and fitness plan to help me prepare, given his background as a doctor.
"I would stay, but I have an early start tomorrow." I tell them.
"No! We were counting on you for drinks." Will's face drops, and I pat him on the shoulder.
"Drinks are still on me." I hand him a little wad of money. "Don't go too crazy; remember, you lot have to work tomorrow as well." I point around the circle, and they all laugh.
"See you later, Detective." They chorus, and then I head back to my apartment where I don't hesitate to get straight in the shower and wash away the sweat from today's exercises.
The hot water soothes my muscles as I gently rub my shoulders, trying to loosen the knots that have formed.
What was supposed to be a short shower turns into a long one as I mull over the encounter with Voight and realize the amazing position I'm in.
The thought of my early start tomorrow forces me to roll into the cool grey bedsheets. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I fall straight to sleep.
*
"It's imperative that you work with my unit as a team. We are long-standing, with a mutual respect for each other. If you disturb that, you'll be out before you can say 'sergeant,' understood?" Hank says to me the next day in the empty lobby of the District 21 station.
"Yes, sir," I reply, and he smiles weakly at my insistence on a formal address—that's just the way I was brought up. The station floor is squeaky clean, and the place smells like a mixture of medical centers and coffee. I assume that a lot of coffee is consumed in this place from the extreme measures to bring justice to Chicago.
"Come on," he jerks his head towards the stairwell and leads me up to a gate. "Here, this is the code, and let's get your handprint recognized." He gestures for me to slide my hand beneath the keypad, and I do so. "There you go." He finishes the process and then leads me to a group of six desks. He takes me into his private office at the back of the room, and I sit in front of him to finalize my enrolment.
He pulls a contract from his desk and signs on allocated lines, "I just need you to fill the contract out, making you an official Chicago Detective. It's just to ensure that you understand the possibility of your own or another officer's injury, or, in an extreme case, death during a pursuit."
He slides the paper over to me, and I read through it all, making sure that I understand what I'm getting into. Although I already know, it's just to make sure no other things have accidentally slipped into the contract. I sign the appropriate lines and then place the pen back down, handing him the papers. "Welcome to the unit." He smiles, shaking my hand again.
He stands up, walking out of the office, and I follow him, "this is your desk," he points at the one in the center of the room, "you can make it your own, get comfortable, but right now, we're going to talk about this case." He pulls out a manila file marked with a red 'TOP SECRET' marker on the front.
He opens the file, and the first thing that's in there is a close-up photo of a girl, her eyes wide and glassy, lying on the floor surrounded by dry blood.
"This is Phoebe May. She was taken around two months ago from her home here in Chicago, Illinois. She was alone in her house, and her parents called the police as soon as they realized she was gone. Three days ago, she was found like this in a storage warehouse by a man named Gerald White," Voight informs me. "Two days ago, Phoebe's parents called again, to alert us that their second daughter, Christina May, has gone missing as well."
"I can't even begin to imagine what those parents are going through," I muse, glancing at the gruesome picture only fleetingly. "Have you got a photo of Christina, so we know who we are looking for?" Hank moves the photo of Phoebe to reveal a pretty blonde girl standing in front of a bush of flowers in a floral top.
"She was out with a group of friends the day this photo was snapped; it was also the day she went missing. We are presuming she was taken by the same man who took her sister."
"How do you know it was a man?" I ask curiously.
"The position Phoebe's body was found in. She was raped, then murdered," he points at the bloodied body in the photograph. "We've interviewed the friends, and they gave us the group pictures taken that day to see if anyone was in the background of them. It was a dead end, and that's not all." He pushes those photos aside to reveal a new group of four pictures. Each one is a picture of a pretty girl smiling at the camera. "These four girls have also been taken from near their homes in the last month or so. Our job is to find the man who's doing this and stop him before anyone else dies."
"Have you got any patterns, in the type of areas or the type of girls being abducted? Any leads?" I continue to ask questions, trying to understand the case as best as I can so I can prove that I deserve this spot.
"All the girls taken are between fourteen and sixteen, all from the same school but seemingly not close to one another, apart from the May sisters," he says. "You can keep this file, examine the faces of the girls; all the other information you'll need is up on the board." He points at a wipeable board at the front of the room filled with photos of the girls, the scenes where they were taken, the warehouse, family names, and so on.
A pinboard close by has an enlarged map of Chicago placed centrally, and a single pin is placed at each spot where a girl was taken. "The team should be arriving soon, and we can do introductions then, but now I need to give you your official CPD detective badge," he hands me a silver, metal star attached to a black, leather circle, "your new gun," he hands me a 9mm black gun, "your radio and finally the classic Motorola." He laughs, handing me the flip phone.
"Definitely a downgrade from my iPhone," I reply, laughing with him.
"True, but the flips are longer-lasting, and it's better to keep your work life and personal life separate when working in the field," Hank says, leading me to the locker room. He slides the name 'Jackson' into one of the locker tags and informs me that this will be my locker for the duration of my career. "I got your police vest personalized for you," he opens the locker, revealing the black vest embroidered with my name, "and over here, you can pick your holster for the gun and a set of bracelets." He points at the silver handcuffs hanging from the wall.
"You'll meet your partner, Dawson, when everyone arrives," Voight says. "He's second in command here, after me, so you'll be in good hands." Then he leaves the room.
I weigh a black holster in my hands before attaching it around my small waist and pushing my gun inside of it. Clipping the CPD badge onto the belt of my tight-fitting blue skinny jeans, I walk back out to my desk and take a seat.
A buzzer sounds, and laughter fills the air as I begin to sift through the file Voight gave me. Four men and one woman walk up the stairs and to their desks, each giving me a confused glance but getting over it quickly, apart from one. The man at the back stops in his tracks and looks me right in the eye before glancing over the table I'm working at, slightly angrily.
"Great, you're all here," Voight's gruff voice sounds. "This is Detective Jackson." He informs them all and points in my direction. "She's part of the unit now, so welcome her, introduce yourself, and get used to it." He glares warningly at the man who's still stopped at the top of the stairs in a daze.
"Hi, I'm Erin Lindsay," the lady greets me first with a smile, "it's nice to have another woman on the team, again." She then sits at the desk nearest the wipe-board. Erin is a pretty and petite woman with shoulder-length mousy-colored hair and a sexy, gravelly voice.
"Alvin Olinsky." The seemingly oldest man of the team shakes my hand; he wears a tweed cap covering his thinning grey hair and has a goatee. "Ruzek's not the newbie no more." He jokes, poking his thumb towards a young man, Adam Ruzek, behind him and then sitting at the desk in the corner.
"Hi Ad." I hug him lightly; we've met before while I was still a beat cop over at the 32nd district.
"Jay Halstead." I smile at Will's tall and muscular brother, and he gives me a quick hug before sitting at the desk beside me in the center.
That leaves the last man who must be my partner. He has dark, thick hair that sits pushed back into a small quiff, and he also has a muscular build. I assume that I must be replacing his last partner from what Erin said, and I've come to the quick conclusion that, that's why he's acting so cold when first meeting me.
"Antonio Dawson." He says not looking up, just sitting at his desk logging onto his computer.