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Voices, laughter, and low music could already be heard from outside. Ethan entered the bar and took a quick look around.
It didn't take him long to find Burgess at a secluded table, sitting in a corner with a beer in front of her. She was alone, her gaze lowered and her shoulders tense.
Before he could approach, a familiar voice called him from the bar.
—Ethan.—
Ruzek raised a hand with a wide smile. Beside him was Wendy, his fiancée, dressed with simple elegance and holding a glass between her fingers.
—Want to join us?— Ruzek asked, cheerful and clearly in a good mood.
Ethan approached them, but shook his head.
—Another time.—
Wendy smiled when she saw him.
—Before you escape, I wanted to thank you.—
Ethan arched an eyebrow.
—For what?—
—For letting us use your house for the rehearsal dinner,— she said sincerely. —And for paying for it. It was a very nice gesture, Ethan, but… too much.—
Ruzek grimaced, as if they had already had that conversation.
—I told her not to argue with you, but you know how she is.—
Wendy gave him a light smack on the arm, without taking her eyes off Ethan.
—I mean it. You didn't have to do that.—
Ethan gave a slight, calm shrug.
—I didn't do it because I had to. It's my wedding gift.—
—Ethan…—
—Wendy,— he interrupted her, with a faint smile, —Adam is my friend. You're going to marry him, which proves you're either a very patient woman or very unlucky. Either way, you deserve a good rehearsal dinner.—
Ruzek burst out laughing.
—Hey, I'm right here.—
—I know.—
Wendy tried to stay serious, but eventually smiled.
—Still, it was a lot.—
—Then accept it as an exaggerated gift from someone who doesn't know how to buy normal things.—
Wendy watched him for another second, then sighed in resignation.
—Alright. Thank you. Really.—
Ethan inclined his head slightly.
—You're welcome.—
Then he discreetly pointed toward the corner where Burgess was sitting.
—Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go see someone.—
Ruzek turned his head, saw Burgess, and his expression softened a little.
—Yeah… sure.—
He raised a hand to greet her from the bar. Burgess responded with a small, almost automatic gesture.
Ethan moved away from them and calmly crossed the bar. When he reached the table, he placed his jacket over the back of the chair and sat across from Burgess.
She lifted her gaze, trying to smile as if nothing was wrong.
Ethan didn't pressure her.
—You're early. I thought you'd take a little longer,— Ethan said, settling in across from her.
Burgess lifted her shoulders, trying to sound calmer than she felt.
—Writing reports is my specialty.—
Ethan watched her for a moment. Her eyes looked tired, her shoulders were stiff, and her hands were closed around the beer bottle as if she needed something to hold on to.
He didn't say anything about it.
He only raised his hand toward the bar.
—Hermann.—
Christopher Hermann, who was behind the bar cleaning some glasses, looked up and came over with his usual energy.
—What can I get you?—
—Give me a couple shots of tequila and two beers,— Ethan ordered.
Burgess looked at him with one eyebrow raised, since it was strange. It was well known that Detective Morgan drank whiskey.
—Tequila?—
—Yeah. That's what you need tonight,— Ethan replied. —Morgan family recipe for after a shootout… lots of alcohol.—
Hermann looked from one to the other, noticing the tension in Burgess's shoulders and Ethan's lower tone. His expression softened a little.
—I heard something in passing,— he said carefully. —Did you catch the suspect?—
Burgess lowered her gaze to the table. Ethan didn't answer right away.
That small silence was enough.
Hermann understood the mood and didn't insist. He only nodded once, discreetly.
—Sure. I'll bring it right over.—
He returned to the bar, and a few moments later came back with a dozen filled shot glasses, two bottles of beer, a small plate with lemon wedges, and another with salt. He placed everything on the table without asking questions.
—It's on the house,— Hermann said.
Ethan reached into his pocket, but Hermann lifted a hand to stop him.
—This round is from 51.—
Burgess looked up, surprised.
—Thank you.—
—Don't mention it,— Hermann replied, with a smile quieter than usual. —Take your time.—
Then he stepped away, leaving them alone.
Burgess picked up one of the shot glasses, but before she could bring it to her mouth, Ethan reached out and gently stopped her.
—Wait.—
She frowned.
—What?—
—If you're going to do it, do it right.—
Ethan took his own shot glass and pointed at the salt.
—First, the tequila. You drink it in one shot.—
—I already knew that.—
—Then the salt,— he continued, ignoring her. He moistened the top of his hand, between his thumb and index finger, and sprinkled a little salt there. —Here.—
Burgess imitated him, a little clumsy at first, though a small smile appeared on her lips.
—And the lemon?—
—After the tequila and the salt. The lemon at the end, so you don't hate your decisions as much.—
She let out a short laugh.
—Alright, Professor. Teach me.—
Ethan raised his shot glass.
—Cheers.—
—Cheers.—
They both drank the tequila in one shot. Burgess immediately grimaced, hurried to lick the salt from her hand, and then bit hard into the lemon.
—God!— she exclaimed, setting the shot glass on the table. —That's horrible.—
Ethan barely smiled.
—And yet it works.—
He pushed a beer closer to her.
—That's what this is for.—
Burgess took a long drink and exhaled slowly, leaning back against the chair. Her shoulders were still tense, but something in her expression began to loosen.
This time Burgess did it better: tequila first, salt on the top of her hand, and lemon at the end, as if she were following an official procedure.
After the third shot, the stiffness in her back began to disappear.
After the fourth, she stopped looking at the table so much.
And after the fifth, she finally let out a full laugh, warm and almost incredulous, as if the sound had surprised her.
—Alright,— she said, pointing at him with the half-bitten lemon, —I admit your method works.—
—My method usually involves less tequila.—
—Liar. You have the face of a man who has made terrible decisions with alcohol.—
Ethan took a cashew from the small basket on the table and put it in his mouth.
—I can neither confirm nor deny that.—
Burgess licked her lips, still tasting the sour lemon and the burn of tequila. Some color had returned to her face, and her eyes no longer looked as lost as they had at first.
She lifted her beer toward him.
—Thanks for coming.—
Ethan gently clinked his bottle against hers.
—You don't have to thank me.—
—I know,— Burgess murmured, lowering her gaze for a second. —But I'm doing it anyway.—
Ethan didn't pressure her. He only took a drink of beer and let the low music of the bar fill the silence between them.
For the first time all night, Burgess seemed to breathe a little easier.
—The scene where I shot today keeps replaying in my mind.—
She took a large drink of beer and then, clasping her hands together, said:
—How do I explain it? I even clearly remember where the first shot hit that person's ribs and which direction the blood sprayed.—
—Actually, that's not a bad thing.—
Ethan slowly chewed the cashew.
—At least next time you'll know you have to shoot more accurately.—
After making the joke, he smiled and added:
—Don't overthink it. Think about the Rosemont police officer who died today.—
—You avenged his family.—
Compared to vague statements like "you were just doing your job," Ethan thought giving her something tangible to hold on to was more appropriate.
He took his beer glass and clinked it against hers.
—That officer's family will be grateful to you too.—
—Maybe.—
A little vitality returned to Burgess's face, and a faint smile appeared.
—Maybe I hope to be a police officer who never fires a single shot in her entire career. That would be great too.—
—Then you should request a transfer to the North District,— Ethan said, chuckling. —Life in the South District isn't suitable for you.—
—You can't say that. You haven't worked Patrol, so you don't understand.—
Burgess shook her head.
—There are still a lot of patrol officers who have never fired a weapon. I know several of them.—
—Isn't your goal the Intelligence Unit?—
—Yes, it is.—
—Then you'll see this kind of situation much more often. We're a response unit. You can't lose focus just because you shot someone. If you can't get past this obstacle, you'll move farther and farther away from your goal.—
—I know.—
Burgess arched her eyebrows, looking at him with curiosity.
—And you? What's your secret?—
—You've only been here a few months, but your number of kills is already among the highest in the department. How do you manage that kind of emotion?—
After thinking for a moment, Ethan shrugged.
—You might not believe it, but I've already gotten used to it. No matter what happens, I can forget it quickly and stop thinking about it.—
—So you just hide your feelings?— Burgess insisted. —Like those old-school tough guys?—
—Do you want me to be honest?—
—Of course.—
—I don't feel anything when I shoot a criminal,— Ethan said, not looking away. —For me, it has always been simple: it's us or them.—
He set down his empty glass and gestured to the bartender for another round.
Ethan toyed with the glass while Burgess kept looking at him with a very serious expression.
The two of them kept talking like that, slowly, and Burgess's mood visibly improved. Half an hour later, seeing her flushed cheeks, Ethan ended the drinking session.
—Let's go. You should go home and rest.—
Ethan put on his jacket.
—I don't want the police catching you driving drunk later.—
—Let me tell you something good about being a patrol officer.—
Burgess stretched and stood up.
—We never arrest our colleagues.—
Part of her waist was visible beneath her white T-shirt.
She turned and put on a black jacket. However, the simple black-and-white combination gave off a captivating beauty.
For some reason, Burgess had chosen an outfit in those colors specifically that night.
Seeing Ethan's fixed gaze, she felt a secret satisfaction.
Burgess walked out with her hands in her pockets, her head held high, completely recovered and full of energy.
As they passed Ruzek's table, a few more people had joined his small group.
Bursts of laughter could be heard from time to time.
Seeing them having such a good time, Ethan nodded, not wanting to disturb them further.
After leaving the bar, he accompanied Burgess to where her car was parked.
Beep, beep.
After pressing the button on the remote, Burgess turned around and said:
—Thank you. I had a really good time tonight.—
The night wind blew, ruffling her long hair.
—You're welcome. Drive carefully,— Ethan said, his hands in his pockets.
—If you ever have something worrying you in the future, don't hesitate to talk to me.—
Burgess smiled. Her red lips and white teeth shone under the dim light.
She looked at the man standing in front of her, felt a sudden pounding in her heart, and quickly brushed a strand of hair away from her face.
—Sorry.—
Ethan raised a hand, indicating:
—There's still something messy here.—
Seeing her fumble, Ethan simply reached out, his fingers gently brushing Burgess's cheek as he tucked her brown hair behind her ear.
With him so close, Burgess blinked.
Suddenly, she raised both hands and grabbed Ethan by the neck.
She stood on tiptoe, closed her eyes, and leaned forward.
Ethan paused for a moment, then immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, responding without hesitation.
Their lips met, beginning a passionate chase.
Burgess's breathing quickened, her mind confused, while Ethan guided her back until she was pressed against the door of the car beside her, making the snow on the roof crunch and fall.
—Wait a second.—
She didn't know how much time had passed, but Burgess quickly pulled away.
—What's wrong?— Ethan reluctantly separated from her soft lips. —Do you have a boyfriend?—
—No, what are you talking about? You're the one dating Detective Lindsay.—
Burgess quickly shook her head, panting.
—I'm sorry.—
Burgess's voice sounded nervous.
—You know what my goal is. I don't want people thinking I'm a woman who succeeded because of that.—
—Don't worry.—
Burgess let out a deep sigh and then opened the car door. Ethan felt a little regret, but he still respected her decision.
—Good night, Detective.—
—Good night, Burgess.—
She quickly got into the car, slamming the door shut.
She was afraid she wouldn't be able to control her emotions if she waited a few more seconds, and her fingers trembled as she pressed the button to start the vehicle.
—Drive slowly.—
Burgess nodded, quickly shifted gears, and stepped on the accelerator.
The black Volkswagen sped away, turned a corner, and disappeared at the edge of the street.
Snowflakes fell softly, and the streetlights stretched Ethan's shadow.
Ethan brushed the snow drifting over his shoulders and placed a cigarette between his lips. He took a deep, helpless drag and tried to calm himself.
After stirring up his thoughts a little, that woman had simply left. It was clear that Burgess was the kind of woman who put her career above everything else.
But that left him in an awkward situation, and for a moment he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Biting down on the cigarette, he walked toward where his Ford Interceptor was parked, which kicked up a cloud of snow as it quickly drove away.