Luz texted me instead of calling.
Downstairs. Don’t bring the mic. –L
I stared at the message from my kitchen table, my laptop screen still lit with Hailey’s name in my notes and the words Harrow Island underlined three times. The gauze on my palm felt tight, the skin underneath hot where the glass rose had bitten into it. Somewhere beyond the laundromat’s humming dryers and detergent tang, I could hear a faint thud of bass rolling in from the waterfront bars.
I shoved my phone in my pocket, grabbed my hoodie, and headed down the narrow stairwell that always smelled like fabric softener and old fry oil. Outside, the air hit me with the usual Crescent Bay cocktail—salt, exhaust from the delivery trucks, a hair spray sweetness drifting from the salon down the block. An unmarked dark sedan idled at the curb, tucked half behind a line of town recycling bins like it was hiding.
Luz sat behind the wheel in a plain gray T-shirt, badge chain tucked away. No uniform, no radio crackling, just a travel mug in the cup holder and her jaw clenched tight enough to draw the skin along her cheek into a clean line.
I opened the passenger door and slid in. The seat smelled like old coffee and faint lemon cleaning wipes. The engine vibrations buzzed against my calves.
“Hey,” I said, closing the door. “You couldn’t just text like a normal person and say, ‘Want to grab a coffee?’”
She didn’t smile. “Coffee comes with people,” she said. “People come with phones. Phones come with cameras. I wanted you in a box that’s harder to bug.”
Gratitude flickered under my ribs, fast and sharp. “So this is the Cone of Silence.”
“This is the ‘I don’t need my lieutenant seeing us on someone’s Instagram story’ car,” she said. She put the sedan in gear. “Buckle up.”
I clicked the seatbelt across my chest. “Where are we going?”
“Not the station,” she said. “And not your place.”
She pulled away from the curb, the laundromat’s neon sign slipping past in the side mirror. We headed down toward the waterfront, past the manicured row of cherry trees in front of Crescent Bay High, their trunks ringed with engraved donor plaques. The same surnames carved there showed up on school board minutes, yacht club rosters, and the brass nameplates on half the police office doors.
I counted each one like a rosary on our way by.
Luz turned off before the marina, cutting onto a side road that wound up toward the cliffs. Instead of the scenic overlook turnout where teenagers parked to make out and pretend not to notice the caution signs about the drop and the treacherous rock shelf below, she chose a gravel maintenance lot screened by scrub pines. From here I could see a slice of ocean, the cliff fence a thin rail beyond it, and the top edge of the Harrow house roofline in the distance, glass panels catching the late light.
She killed the engine. The sudden quiet wrapped tight around us, broken only by the ticking of hot metal and a gull’s distant scream.
“Okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Either you’re going to murder me or this is extremely off the record.”
“You really need to retire ‘murder’ as a casual joke, Lane,” she said. “Given your brand.”
But her fingers stayed on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. I waited. The bandage on my palm pulsed.
“Tell me about Harrow Island,” she said at last, eyes still forward.
I let my head drop back against the seat. “Sadie forwarded an anonymous DM,” I said. “Talking about ‘the real prom’ out on the water. Said to ask ‘the king and his court’ about it. I took Hailey to a wine bar and dangled nostalgia in front of her until she cracked.”
Luz glanced over. “And?”
“And she confirmed there was a secret after-party,” I said. “On Harrow Island. Limited guest list. Elliot arranged the boat. No adults except the ones drinking with them. Juliet wasn’t supposed to be there. Then she came anyway.”
The word came lodged in my throat. In my mind I could already hear that tape again, Juliet’s voice layered over some 90s slow jam: I’m not your secret anymore.
“You recorded that conversation?” Luz asked.
“No,” I said. “She would have bolted. I took notes afterward. I was going to… package it. For later. Once I had more than one person’s drunk memory.”
Luz sucked a breath through her teeth. “Okay,” she said. “Good. Because if you’d already dropped that island name on the podcast, I’d have to start this next part by reading you your rights.”
My laugh came out thin. “You’re terrifying when you say romantic things.”
She didn’t answer. Instead she reached down, pulled her phone from the cup holder, and tapped the screen. The glow lit the inside of the car in cold blue. She scrolled for a second, then handed it to me.
My own name hit me first, the way it always did when I saw it in official fonts.
From: Lt. Mendez To: Capt. Farrow, Chief D’Amico Subject: Reeves case reactivation / community relations
I skimmed, heart thudding harder with each line. Phrases jumped out: “consider reopening as cold case review (in-house control of narrative)”, “respond to podcast-fueled mob justice without endorsing it”, “careful messaging to emphasize prior thoroughness, avoid admission of misconduct under Calder administration.”
Near the bottom:
“Navarro’s proximity to Lane undermines appearance of neutrality. Recommend reassignment to administrative support only. Primary contact with Lane to shift to designated PIO if necessary.”
There it was.
“They’re reopening Juliet’s case,” I said, hearing how flat my own voice sounded. “And they’re punishing you for making that happen.”
“They’re protecting themselves,” Luz said. “Punishing me is dessert.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Luz, I—”
“Scroll,” she said.
Another paragraph. “Internal note: must address online vigilantism. Several incidents (Cooke harassment, doxxing) directly tied to Lane’s content. Legal flagged potential liability if CPD perceived as coordinating with her platform.”
My stomach folded into a small, tight knot.
“They’re blaming me for the subreddit,” I said.
“They’re blaming your podcast for stirring up people they already failed,” Luz said. “There’s overlap, but it’s not identical.”
I handed her the phone back. The screen’s afterimage floated in my vision, that phrase mob justice burned in negative.
“You wanted me to see this?” I asked.
“I wanted you to understand where the ground under my feet is now,” she said. “They’re reopening the case. That part is good. But they’re doing it for the same reasons this town throws charity balls with glass rose centerpieces—appearance, control, keeping the donors calm. They want to be the ones holding the mic again.”
“You think they’ll actually investigate Harrow Island?” I asked. “Or just slap a ‘we checked’ sticker on it and call it a day?”
She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “If the case file gets officially reopened, I can advocate for warrants and follow-up,” she said. “If I’m not benched.”
The word landed heavy between us.
“Benched,” I repeated.
“Reassigned to desk work,” she said. “No interviews, no search warrants, no face-to-face with witnesses who might say inconvenient things about old chiefs with names on PTA rosters.”
I swallowed. The air in the car tasted stale, cut with the faint citrus of her cleaning wipes.
“Because you talk to me,” I said.
“Because they think I feed you,” she said. “Because you walk into PTA meetings and country clubs with a recorder, and people whose surnames are carved into every plaque in town start panicking. And because you don’t always know when to stop.”
The defensiveness shot up on reflex. “I didn’t dox Mr. Cooke,” I said. “I never named him on air.”
Her eyes flared. “You called him ‘our missing chaperone,’” she said. “You described enough detail that anyone with access to an old yearbook and internet literacy could figure him out in an hour. And your subreddit did. Then your subreddit published his address.”
I flinched. Images flashed: the thread title, the comment with his street, the screenshot of an inbox full of you should have saved her messages.
“I released an emergency episode telling people to stop,” I said. “I begged them.”
“And then?” Luz asked.
“And then nothing,” I said. “The internet doesn’t have an off switch.”
She sighed, a long exhale that lifted and dropped her shoulders. “Mara, I’m not your enemy,” she said. “I wouldn’t be risking my reputation meeting you in a gravel lot if I were. But I need you to hear me when I say this as your friend and as a cop: some things you cannot publish the second you get them.”
A pulse started behind my eyes. “You mean Harrow Island,” I said.
“I mean Harrow Island, yes,” she said. “And any future leads that point directly at a specific location or person that we might have a shot at catching off guard. You dump it into an episode, half the town lawyer ups and the other half start their own stakeouts. Evidence disappears. Witnesses get scared off or threatened. Or worse, try to ‘help.’”
I looked out the windshield. In the distance, the Harrow house caught the last of the light, glass glinting. Beneath it, below the cliffs, the invisible rock shelf waited where kids used to sneak cigarettes and where the official story said Juliet’s body had broken.
“Public pressure is the only reason your lieutenant is writing emails about reopening the case,” I said. “If I stop talking, they go back to blaming a dead working-class boyfriend and patting themselves on the back at Prom Throwback.”
“Public pressure got Mr. Cooke hospitalized with panic attacks,” she said gently. “Public pressure got a glass rose delivered to your door. Public pressure has your ex’s lawyer licking his chops.”
The bandage on my palm tingled, memory of the shard sliding into skin.
“So what are you asking me to do?” I said. “Shut down the show? Put Juliet back on a shelf because the grown-ups in uniform finally decided they might care?”
Luz turned in her seat to face me fully. In the fading light her eyes looked darker, steady and tired.
“I’m asking you to stop acting like you’re the only one who can deliver justice,” she said. “You’re not. You’re good at shining a light. I’m good at building cases. Those skills work together until they don’t.”
My mouth opened, ready with a retort about how well the system had “built a case” for Juliet twenty-six years ago, and then I shut it. The taste of salt sat on my tongue, from the air or from biting back the words.
“You think I care more about narrative than procedure,” I said instead.
“I think narrative is the air you breathe,” she said. “You see arcs, hooks, cliffhangers. You grew up watching rich kids turn the town into their stage. Then you got a mic and finally found your own spotlight. I respect that. But procedure is the thing that either gets a conviction or lets a defense attorney turn everything into reasonable doubt.”
I slumped a little in my seat, the seatbelt cutting across my chest. “You know I never started this thinking about court strategy,” I said. “I started it to make sure Juliet wasn’t just a pretty corpse in a newspaper clipping.”
“And you’ve done that,” she said. “She’s a person again to a lot of people. But now we’re at the part where what you publish can actually affect what happens in a courtroom. That’s a different stage.”
The words stung, mostly because they were true in ways I’d been dodging.
“I do think about safety,” I said, picking at the edge of my bandage with my thumb. “I cut kids’ names, I don’t air certain voicemails, I run things by my lawyer when I can afford to. But yeah, sometimes I look at a lead and my brain jumps to, ‘How does this fit the structure? How do I make listeners understand the stakes?’ before I ask, ‘How would Luz build this into evidence?’”
Saying it out loud made heat flood my face.
Luz didn’t flinch. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For saying it. That’s all I wanted. For you to see the gap.”
“So what now?” I asked. “What’s your line in the sand?”
She nodded toward her phone. “For starters, you do not say the words ‘Harrow Island’ on Glass Roses until I tell you I’ve got movement from inside the department,” she said. “You don’t describe boat routes, guest houses, dock layouts. You don’t name any former Prom royalty in connection with private locations. If you get more about that night, you bring it to me first.”
“You’re asking me to sit on the biggest revelation I’ve had all season,” I said. “My listeners—”
“Are not entitled to real-time access to a murder investigation,” she cut in. “They’re not your jury. And they’re not safe, frankly, from themselves.”
I thought about the subreddit thread that turned Mr. Cooke into a piñata, about the anonymous note on my doorstep scolding me about endings. My chest ached.
“What if brass drags their feet?” I asked. “What if reopening the case means one press conference and a fresh coat of paint on the same old lies?”
“Then we reassess,” she said. “And maybe I leak just enough to keep them honest. But if you go rogue now, they have an excuse to sideline me completely and paint you as the reckless podcaster who blew up their chance at ‘real justice.’ Calder’s friends would toast that outcome at the next yacht club dinner.”
I swallowed hard.
“You’re telling me to trust a system that already failed her,” I said.
“I’m telling you to trust me,” she said. “Not the department. Not the donors. Me.”
The car felt small suddenly, the air thick with salt and old coffee. I watched her hands on the steering wheel—broad, steady, the same hands that had held a flashlight for me at the cliffs, that had lifted the bagged glass rose with care.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I won’t say Harrow Island on the show. Not yet.”
Relief flickered over her face, quick and restrained.
“Thank you,” she said.
“But I’m not stopping,” I added, meeting her eyes. “I can’t. The note on my doorstep, the roses on Katie’s porch, whoever keeps visiting that rock shelf—they’re already writing their own ending. If I go silent, their version is the one that wins.”
Luz nodded once, accepting and resigned all at once.
“Then you need to find a way to talk to your people without handing them torches,” she said. “Not clues. Not villains to chase. Just… perspective.”
The idea pricked at the edges of my mind—a live episode, maybe, something less scripted, more human, a way to tell the fandom to stand down while still keeping them engaged. A Q&A instead of a scavenger hunt.
“You’re going to hate my next idea,” I said.
“I usually do,” she said. “Just remember what you promised when you turn that mic back on.”
I climbed out of the car a few minutes later, gravel crunching under my boots. The wind coming off the water carried faint music from a waterfront party and the sharp spray of salt. I looked once toward the cliffs, toward the strip of fence guarding the drop and the invisible rock shelf waiting below, then back down the hill to where my apartment sat above the laundromat, a tiny square of light in a town that loved its shadows.
Inside that apartment, my microphone waited on the kitchen table, black and patient.
As I walked toward it, Luz’s words rang in my ears: talk without handing them torches.
I just didn’t know yet whether any version of my voice could pull the flames back, or if the next time I hit “record” I’d only be feeding the fire that might burn us both.