86 Death took her

**Date = 1 August**
**Place = San Francisco (UCSF Medical Center)**

**POV - Aria**

I feel a headache coming on.
“Enough of this dismal mambo,” Logan mutters, his voice rough and gravel-edged as he gives his brother a pointed look. “Just tell the man what happened already so he can go catch the guy.”
He wipes his hand down his face, dragging weariness along with it.
“Girl,” River pipes up suddenly, muffled against Jackson’s chest. “The driver was a girl,” she repeats, so calm it sends a ripple through the room. As if she’s just announced her marriage.
And everything stops.
The room freezes. Stone-still. Like a pack of rock golems, mid-thought, trying to decide which of her limbs to gnaw off first.
“What?!” Logan blurts, voice cracking the silence like a dropped plate.
Her little cheek is mashed flat against Jackson’s chest like she’s trying to fuse with him. He peels her off gently and plops her on the bed beside Mel, his big hands staying anchored on her shoulders like she might try to float away.
Jackson’s voice drops into that steady, grounding tone he uses when he’s trying to build order out of chaos. “Are you sure?”
River tips her chin out like a queen delivering a decree. “Pretty sure.”
“I wasn’t looking at the car,” Jackson admits, low and rough, cracking at the edges. One can almost hear the guilt bleeding through him. It must be hard to be him. To feel repentant about every single little mistake you make.
Seriously, if this guy doesn’t find a way to loosen that grip on his own damn spine soon, he’s going to give himself a hernia before he even hits twenty-five. There’s only so long a person can carry the whole world on their back before something breaks.
David leans forward, notepad in hand, his pen already scratching like it’s trying to keep up with her tiny brain. “Why do you think it’s a woman?”
River purses her lips, her eyes narrowing like she’s flipping through mental evidence files. Then she blurts, “The bangles.”
The room exhales — an odd, collective release.
“They were replacting,” she declares. “And only girls wear shiny bangles.”
David pauses mid-scribble, head cocked, eyebrows pinching together like he’s just witnessed the birth of a new word. “Replacting?”
River rolls her eyes like he’s the slowest student in class and turns to Jackson with expectation — like she’s appealing to the one adult in the room who might have functional brain cells.
“You know — when the sun shines on something and it hurts your eyes?”
Jackson’s mouth tugs, barely, into something that might be mistaken for a smile if you didn’t know him. He bends slightly, murmuring, “Reflecting.”
“Oh.” She nods sharply, like she just allowed him to be useful. “That then.”
David scribbles again, his brows furrowed. “Could it have been a man wearing a watch? That would reflect too.”
River tilts her head back, thinking, finger tapping her lip like she’s calculating trajectory and light refraction. Then she shakes her head with absolute certainty.
“No. It was on the right arm.” She throws her right arm into the air so violently, she almost clocks Jackson in the jaw. “Watches go on the other one.”
Jackson blinks, impressed. Marco straightens at the door, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might actually smirk. David looks like he just stumbled across a prodigy disguised as a nine-year-old girl.
“She’s right,” Marco backs her up, his voice clipped, professional. “The driver — definitely a woman.” He stares at Jackson as if hoping to earn points … to cancel out the fact that he let River run into traffic.
Hell, I barely remember the car. How did they get to see all that?
A man walks in. Cast from the same mold as Marco and Miguel. He doesn’t knock — just strides in with that soldier’s posture that says the air belongs to him now. He looks at Jackson, who nods almost unnoticeably, before his voice cuts through the space like a blade through fog.
“It’s Cindy.” Everyone seems shocked.
“The driver,” Mathias says, his tone crisp but grave. “And Graham as passenger.”
The air drops ten degrees. Jackson’s head lifts, slow, controlled — but the subtle tightening around his jaw, the tick in his temple, it’s enough. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t swear, doesn’t throw anything — but the room bends around him like gravity’s getting meaner.
Mathias adds quietly, “They lead us into a trap. Joe’s been shot.”
Jackson doesn’t move — doesn’t blink. Just stares at some fixed point past Mathias’s face, shoulders locked in place. But the tension radiating from him can fry circuits. Every muscle is an iron cable drawn too tight. His silence roars louder than a scream.
Mathias glances at Jackson, eyes pleading silently for mercy or forgiveness — maybe both.
But Jackson’s gaze on him can level a building.
And yet … he doesn’t say a word.
Mathias’ throat works as he looks away, guilt washing over his features, thick and ugly.
Jackson’s jaw flexes once, twice, before he exhales slowly — deliberate, almost gentle — and lowers himself beside River. He doesn’t want her to see the rage behind his eyes. His hand returns to her shoulder, grounding her again, keeping her safe from the dark pit he’s sinking into.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You did good, kid.”
She just leans into him again, small and still, her fingers knotting in the fabric of his sleeve.
“Why were you at a bridal store?” Detective Collin asks. Before I can even start to panic, Mel shoots her left hand in the air like she’s pledging allegiance — the stones flashing under the harsh lights.
“I was looking at dresses,” she says, wiggling her ring finger as if that explains everything.
Logan groans under his breath. “Please don’t tell him about the spreadsheet.”
Mel snorts and switches fingers in the air.
“What about the car?” the other detective asks.
“It was not a car,” River corrects him, dead serious. “It’s an SUV. And SUVs are classified as trucks, not cars.” She folds her arms, then adds primly, “It’s because they use a body-on-frame design … whatever that may mean.”
Marco clears his throat, clearly desperate for redemption points. “It means they build the body and the frame separately before joining them together,” he explains gently.
River side-eyes him. “Yeah, I’m not that into cars. I like animals more. Especially dogs and horses.”
Jackson smirks and ruffles her hair. “Tell you what. If you tell these men everything you saw, I’ll buy you a damn horse.”
Her jaw drops. “A real one? That looks like a unicorn?”
He nods once.
River gasps. “And a dog?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Fock!” she blurts, starry-eyed—then slaps her hands over her mouth like she can shove the word back in.
Damion nearly chokes on a laugh. “Definitely a Moore.”
Logan groans.
“Okay, back to the SUV, kid. Focus,” the detective says.
River straightens, all business. “Yellow Land Rover Defender,” she declares proudly. “California plates. I remember a nine, a seven, and an R.”
Jackson raises his brows.
“Like my name, and my age,” she adds, grinning. “And the tag said February,” she continues. “That’s Daddy’s birthday.” She beams, so damn proud of her own detective work that even David’s stony face softens.
I saw a yellow blur. That’s it. This kid’s incredible.
“There were stickers on the back window too,” she adds, voice quieter now. “Motorbikes. And a lightning bolt.”
“That’s all I remember,” she says, suddenly shy. “Is it enough?”
Captain David shuts his notebook with a small smile. “That’s more than enough, little lady. Thank you.” He winks. “I think you just earned yourself that horse.”
River glows. Like someone just handed her a tiara.
“Marco,” Jackson says, his tone a little gentler now, though his face still looks carved out of steel. “Take her for a milkshake.”
Marco musses her hair. “Come on, madam.”
River grabs his unhurt hand, swinging it between them as she lays out her milkshake demands. “I want a big one,” she says matter-of-factly. “Not those tiny kiddie things. Toffee. With cream. And sprinkles. And get a pink one for Leyla — she likes pink. And when we go home, you must stop for pizza.”
Marco looks like a man bracing for war but just mutters, “Yes, ma’am.”
When they finally disappear down the corridor, the whole room exhales.
David shakes his head, jotting something down. “Extraordinary little girl. I should hire her.” He looks between his two detectives. “Too bad I can’t bribe you with ponies.”
“Right. Start from the top.”
Jackson gestures to Mathias, who starts to speak.
He lays it out like he’s testifying. Telling every detail, leaving out half.
David scribbles in silence, the scratch of his pen like a bug crawling under my skin. His head bobs occasionally, nodding as though the facts are falling neatly into his little boxes.
Mathias finishes up, and David flicks the notepad closed with a sharp snap and strides for the door like he’s walking out of a crime scene instead of a hospital room. The other two follow silently.
“They were aiming for Mel, I’m guessing,” Jackson rumbles, his tone gravelly, his eyes shadowed and locked onto David’s retreating back.
David halts in the doorway, shoulders stiff, then tilts his head in a grim nod. “Targeting her to break you. Same approach. Same pattern. You all should be careful.” His hand makes a vague wave before he disappears into the hall.
The silence left in his wake is suffocating.
“Hell,” Mel mutters finally, her voice rough, fingers digging into her forehead like she can rub the bad luck out. “Why am I always the lucky one?”
Enrique slices her a sidelong look — sharp, unreadable — but says nothing. The silence feels heavier than words.
And then someone approaches again.
Axel steps in slowly, stiff, his whole body taut like it’s holding him upright against gravity. His skin is ashen, drained of every ounce of color, his mouth pressed thin. He looks like a man about to deliver a eulogy, not news.
The room braces for impact.
Something’s off. He appears sick. Haunted. As if he’s going to barf.
“Guys…” he begins, voice barely holding together. Something cold clamps around my chest.
“No …” Jackson whispers. I swear I see the life drain right out of him. His face looks like a haunted poltergeist.
Axel lowers his head. Clearly battling to control his emotions. His shoulders tremble. Eyes wet with tears.
“I —” he stutters, trying to find his voice, “I’m sorry … she …”
Jackson staggers back a step, then another, until he bumps into the wall. He slides down like his knees gave up on him, squatting there on the floor with wide, hollow eyes. And for the first time, I don’t see Jackson the fixer. The fighter.
I see a boy who’s been broken his whole life … and who is breaking all over again.
Silence.
The kind that isn’t empty — it’s crushing.
“Guys…” Axel tries again, his voice cracking. “She … she’s … gone …”
Deimos walks in, stunned. Behind him is Dr. Burden, their faces telling us what we already know. Death took our friend. Our loved one.
“Dad …” Damion breathes.
Dr. Grimm looks at all of us with sorrow deep enough to drown in. “I’m so sorry,” he says softly. “We tried …” His voice fades.
“But … she didn’t make it.”
Jackson jerks upright, a choked sound escaping him. Then he bolts out of the room without another word and storms down the hall, his boots pounding out a rhythm that sounds a lot like war.
And we’re left behind, stunned, shattered, and silent.