Dead Light Threshold

Officer Travis Cole caught her at the records-room threshold with one forearm across the opening.

Claire Bennett stopped short. Her shoulder hit his arm, not hard enough to send her back, but enough to make the point. Behind him, the records room sat under a strip of dead lights and a humming vent. In the bullpen outside, phones rang, a printer clacked, and two uniforms walked past without looking over.

“Move,” Claire said.

Cole grinned like he’d won something. “You got lost, lady?”

“I said don’t touch me again.”

He puffed his chest and leaned in, close enough for her to catch coffee breath and old cigarette smoke on his jacket. “Or what?”

Claire held his eyes. She didn’t raise her voice. “Or this gets worse for you.”

A couple of desk sergeants glanced up. One looked away fast. Nobody stepped in.

Cole laughed through his nose and put a hand on her chest, not a shove yet, more of a test. “You’re standing in a police department acting like you own it.”

Claire’s right hand moved into her coat. Slow. Careful. When it came out, the leather wallet was open in her palm.

“Federal Office of Professional Integrity,” she said.