By eight o'clock that night, the Wilshire Precinct had finally begun to calm. Jack, still chewing through a greasy burger, spotted John across the bullpen, handing over Caleb Yost to the county sheriff.
"I told Hannah to head back and rest," Jack said between bites. "Hospital just called—Deputy Graham's stable. Let's go check on him."
John's expression turned strange, hesitant. "I already asked around. Graham doesn't have a wife—never married. But he told me to give his message to someone named Beth."
Jack frowned. American names—endless nicknames, shortened forms, and the constant question of first name or last. He sighed and flagged down a passing deputy escorting a prisoner.
"Deputy Graham—any colleagues or friends named Elizabeth? Or Isabella?"
A voice answered from down the hall. "My name's Elizabeth. What's this about?"
A woman in her forties, uniform sharp but eyes tired, stepped forward.
John blinked. "You knew Graham?"
Elizabeth nodded softly. "Yes. We've worked together for five years."
Jack swallowed the last of his burger and stepped closer. "Did he ever call you Beth?"
Her expression flickered. She didn't answer directly. "Why are you asking?"
John scratched his head. "When we pulled him from the crash, he grabbed my hand before they loaded him onto the ambulance. He said he had a message for Beth."
Elizabeth's eyes darted, her voice catching. "What… what message?"
John faltered, words sticking.
Jack rolled his eyes—enough hesitation for one day. He spoke plainly. "He said, 'Tell Beth I love you.'"
Elizabeth's hands flew to her mouth. Disbelief, joy, and grief all collided in her eyes. "You're lying."
"No," John insisted quickly. "He thought he was dying. Those were his last words."
Jack leaned in, unable to resist stirring the pot. "So? Are you two together?"
Elizabeth's tears spilled over. She nodded, barely. "We were close friends. I always thought… maybe one day he'd ask me out. I hoped for it. But he never did."
Case closed. Jack and John slapped palms, grinning like kids.
John softened. "He'll want to see you. We're heading to the hospital—come with us?"
Elizabeth wiped her face and nodded eagerly.
Jack balled up his wrapper and tossed it across the bullpen—straight into the trash can. "Fairytale ending," he muttered.
Later, back at the house, Hannah curled against him on the sofa, blushing as he recounted the story. She kissed him softly. "That's sweet."
Jack smirked. "Speaking of sweet—John and his doctor, Dr. Garris, might actually happen. The way they looked at each other? Goosebumps."
Hannah nipped at his ear. "So what about us? Valentine's Day is in two months, but I'll be at Quantico. Let's move it up."
Her arms slid around his neck, her breath hot against his skin.
Jack lowered his head, planting a kiss just above her collarbone, leaving a strawberry mark. He was about to move further when she pushed him away with a teasing laugh.
"We promised, remember? After Quantico."
Jack groaned in frustration, giving her a playful slap on the hip. Promises. Agreements. He hated them.
Still, life was moving forward. His "time-traveler's library" had unlocked a flood of new skills: husbandry, carpentry, machining, photography. Some even merged into hybrids—gardening plus farming became planting, while chemistry and handicraft combined into demolition and bomb disposal.
His skill tree bloomed, dazzling and tempting, but system coins remained scarce. Eight in total—five from his promotion bonus, three saved—still not enough to raise a master skill. Should he push his rifle to mastery? Or hold out, reach ten coins, and make his pistol godlike within ten steps?
The dilemma gnawed at him, but either way, he wasn't wasting coins on trivialities. Basic lockpicking, Spanish, and French would level naturally over time.
The bigger victory came outside the system. After a slog of paperwork and signatures, the white two-story house at 7765 Genesee Street was finally his. A mortgage of nearly three grand a month chained him for twenty years—but it was his.
He'd sent Daniel Lawson and his boy Jacob to Salt Lake City with a fresh start. Then, in the days after, he scrubbed, patched, and cleaned until the house gleamed. By the weekend, he was moving in.
Jack Reeves, LAPD patrol officer, homeowner, and reluctant American dreamer.
(End of this chapter)