People always thought running away was dramatic. Screaming. Slamming doors. A stormy night with lightning splitting the sky like something out of a bad movie.
But it hadn't been like that for me.
It was quiet. Simple. I left my adoptive parents' house with a half-packed backpack, forty dollars in cash, and a number written on the inside of my palm. I didn't cry. I didn't look back. I just walked.
I was sixteen, and the world was a cold street at 3:12 a.m., and a bus station that smelled like metal and burnt coffee.
And then I saw him.
Caleb.
He hadn't changed much since the foster home. Still tall and too skinny, like his body had grown faster than it knew what to do with. Same calm eyes, same messy hair, same quiet energy that settled a room without trying. He stood by the bench in a gray hoodie and jeans, hands shoved in his pockets like he had been waiting for me his whole life.
"You actually came," I said.
He nodded. "You actually called."
He didn't ask questions. Just took my bag, handed me a breakfast sandwich, and told me we'd figure it out.
And we did.
Two years later, we were both in uniform.
It had been Caleb's idea, joining the force. He said he was tired of running from everything and wanted to stand for something instead. I thought I joined because I was tired of feeling powerless. I wanted structure. Control. A chance to be more than someone's memory.
Training had been brutal. Early mornings, late nights, sweat and bruises and instructors who didn't care how broken you were on the inside if you couldn't run a mile in under ten minutes.
But I made it.
I hadn't been the strongest, or the fastest. But I was precise. Focused. I watched everything, listened more than I spoke, and hit targets dead center when most recruits were still figuring out which way the safety clicked.
By the time I turned twenty-two, I had four years on the force. Two in uniform, two working quiet jobs behind the scenes. Paper trails. Surveillance. Undercover prep. It turned out when you'd spent your life pretending to be okay, pretending to be someone else wasn't that hard.
My first real undercover case had been the gang bust, but I wasn't ready to talk about that yet. Let's just say it had been messy—and that had been the clean part.
I mostly worked out of District Seven—a small team with big files and a boss who liked to hover too close when he talked.
Captain Ford was good at his job. Sharp, commanding, respected. But he was also the kind of man who thought "mentoring" meant brushing your arm when he handed you a file, or complimenting the way your shirt fit when no one else was around.
He hadn't crossed a line. Not technically.
But I felt it. In the pauses. The lingering stares. The way his voice dropped half a tone when he said my name.
"Amelia."
Always too soft. Too personal.
I smiled. I nodded. I filed reports and kept my distance. I had learned how to survive men like him.
Saturday had been my one free day.
I spent it with the same people every week—Caleb, obviously. Then there was Bree, a short, sarcastic tech analyst who swore like a sailor and wore glitter eyeliner like war paint. Malik was a tactical guy—huge arms, terrible puns, heart of gold. And Theo was the quiet one, used to be military, now did recon. He was always the one bringing snacks none of us asked for.
We met up at a rooftop bar two blocks from my apartment. It wasn't fancy—sticky tables, string lights, beer in plastic cups. But it was ours. For a few hours, we weren't cops or files or ghosts in borrowed lives. We were just people.
Bree always toasted first.
"To the only thing more unstable than our careers," she'd say, raising her glass.
"Our mental health," we all replied, clinking plastic.
It was tradition.
People thought I was happy.
And maybe, in some twisted way, I had been. I had a job I was good at, a small group of people who didn't expect too much from me, and a friend who had always been more like a brother.
And I wasn't going to lie—I looked good.
I wasn't the waifish type. I had curves—hips, thighs, a waist that made pencil skirts look like they were made for me. My skin was a deep bronze from morning jogs and long hours in the field. My hair was thick and wavy, usually tied up, but when I let it down, it fell past my shoulders like it had somewhere to be. My eyes were dark—almost black—and people had told me they made others nervous, like I was always a step ahead of whatever they were about to say.
I didn't smile much. But when I did, people noticed.
I didn't use my looks to get what I wanted. I just never apologized for having them.
That Monday started like any other.
Got up by 6:45 A.M., showered, ate a doughnut, drank some coffee, and headed out to the station.
Chicago Police Department. It was a 20 minutes' walk from my apartment. It was a large grey building with a huge glass door entrance. As I stepped into the reception, I was greeted by the familiar stale smell of ink and sweat and microwaved leftovers wafting through the precinct halls. I saw Caleb leaning against a desk.
"Ford wants you to meet him in his office"
I let out a long groan. "Any idea why?" I asked.
"Officer Vale". I turned and saw Captain Ford standing in front of his office. "Please come." He said quite impatiently.
"Shut the door." Always a red flag.
"Take a seat."
"I'm good standing," I replied, arms crossed.
He leaned back. Smiled like we were old friends. "Got something for you. A new assignment. Sensitive. Quiet."
My stomach tightened. "Undercover?"
He nodded. "It's a club this time. East side. Big money moving through, and we think someone's cleaning it off the books. You'll be working behind the bar as 'Mel Monroe'. Earning trust. Watching everything that goes on."
I didn't answer right away.
Then came the look. That too-slow scan of my face, my neckline, the shape of my shoulders.
"You'll fit right in," he added.
I smiled with my teeth, not my eyes. "When do I start?"
"Tomorrow night," he said, tossing me a file. "The owner's name is Dante Moretti."
Dante Moretti. I had seen the name before. On reports. On files marked confidential.
He owns some of the biggest clubs in Chicago.
I had also seen his photo. A short, burly man with pale skin and a thinning, grey mop of hair on his head. He looked like he was in his early forties. He looked quiet and calm but there were rumors that he had made a few people disappear in the past.
And now I was going to be behind his bar.
"You'll get off at noon. You need to study that file thoroughly and carefully." He added.
I looked down at the thick file in my hand. Was I ready for this? It was really short notice.
"You can't back out, Amelia. You're the one I trust the most for this"
I took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll do it"
"That's great but you didn't really have a choice." He winked at me and laughed.
As I was leaving his office he said "Goodluck sweetheart."
Noon couldn't come soon enough.
Caleb met me outside the precinct, leaning against his car like he had nowhere better to be.
"You get the job?" he asked.
I held up the file. "I got something."
He looked at me for a long second. "You sure you're up for this?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"You always have a choice, Amelia."
I didn't answer. Just opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
We didn't speak much on the ride home. Caleb never pushed me to talk, and I loved him for that. Not love-love. Just… loyalty. The kind of bond that was older than words.
We finally got to our apartment.
"Thanks for bringing me home, Caleb"
"I wish I got a half-day off at work too, I'm so jealous." He said playfully.
"Well, I'm still working, technically." I said as I waved the huge file in his face.
"Do me a favor and stop being such a nerd please. This is a very exciting case so have some fun." He nudged me.
"I'll try." I lied. I didn't plan on having any fun. This was a serious case.
"I have to go back to work now. I'll be back by seven."
"Okay. Grab some milk from the store on your way back!"
"Will do. Bye nerd!"
"Bye."
I walked up the stairs and got to my apartment, kicked off my boots at the door and let my jacket slide off my shoulders. The apartment was still, warm, lived-in, peaceful. The kind of peace you only appreciate when you've fought for it.
I lived here with Caleb. We found the place after house-hunting for two months. Nothing fancy, just a modern, well-furnished, three-bedroom apartment. It's the only place that's really felt like home to me since my parent's died. Plus, it's close to the station so I was never late to work.
I turned the lights on. That's when I noticed the envelope.
It was lying flat on the floor, just a few inches past the doorframe, like someone had slid it under while I was gone. Strange. I didn't usually get mail and if I did, it was usually left on the doorstep, outside. There was no stamp. There was no name. There was no handwriting. Just a cream-colored rectangle with sharp edges and a silence that didn't feel right.
I picked it up slowly, flipping it between my fingers. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the mailman left it here by mistake. I decided to open it
Inside was a single object.
A candy packet. Gummy bears to be precise.
Red and gold foil, faded at the corners, creased from being folded too many times.
I stared at it, my heart stalling for a second, then kicking back harder.
I knew this wrapper.
They used to sell that brand in the tiny store down the street from my childhood home—back before it all went dark. Back when my parents were still alive and the world still smelled like cinnamon and safety. I hadn't seen that brand in over fifteen years. The store was gone. The candy stopped existing, at least as far as I knew.
I hadn't thought of it in over a decade.
I turned the wrapper over to see if there was a note. Nothing. Just foil and memory.
My throat felt tight.
There were only two people who might've known about my love for this candy. One of them was buried next to a woman with a cinnamon-scented scarf.
And the other one…
I wasn't sure anyone else even remembered.
I sat down on the arm of the couch, the wrapper still in my palm. It felt too light for the weight it carried.
Someone knew.
Someone had been paying attention.
But who… and why now?