She had walked out.Technically.Physically.
But watching her now, watching the way she stared at her bloody hands like they belonged to a stranger, he wasn't sure the same could be said for the rest of her.
He crossed to the ambulance, his boots crunching on frozen gravel, and the paramedic stepped back as he approached.A woman in her fifties with kind eyes and the particular steadiness of someone who had seen worse things than this.
"How is she?"
"Physically?Mild hypothermia, some bruising from the altercation, elevated heart rate.Nothing that rest and warmth won't fix."The paramedic lowered her voice."Mentally?That's above my pay grade.But she's been through something tonight.You might want to keep an eye on her."
James nodded, the words landing somewhere in his chest and staying there."Thank you."
He moved to the tailgate, settling onto the cold metal beside Isla.She didn't acknowledge his presence—just kept staring at her hands, at the dried blood that had turned black in the ambulance's interior lighting.
"Hey."He kept his voice soft, the same tone he used when Emma was upset about something she didn't want to talk about."You okay?"
Isla laughed.It was a broken sound, sharp-edged and hollow.
"I shot him, James.I shot an unarmed man who was running at me, and then I helped him up the stairs so he could look through his camera before he died."She finally looked at him, and the rawness in her amber eyes made his chest tighten."Does that sound okay to you?"
"It sounds like you did what you had to do."
"Did I?"She shook her head, returning her gaze to her hands."He wasn't trying to hurt me.He was trying to make me kill him.Suicide by cop—the oldest trick in the book, and I walked right into it."
"You couldn't have known—"
"I should have known.That's my job, James.Reading people, understanding what they want, predicting what they'll do.And I stood there with my weapon drawn while he engineered his own death, and I didn't see it until it was too late."
James was quiet for a moment, letting her words settle into the frozen air.He thought about all the times he'd second-guessed himself over the years—the cases that had gone wrong, the witnesses he hadn't protected, the suspects he'd let slip through his fingers.The particular weight of carrying responsibility for outcomes you couldn't control.
"Three people are dead because of him," he said finally."Three photographers who did nothing worse than take pictures that reminded him of his father's work.And you stopped him, Isla.Whatever he wanted, whatever his plan was—you ended it.Tonight.Before he could hurt anyone else."
"I ended him."Her voice cracked on the word."He bled out on the observation deck while I held his hand, and the last thing he said was that he was sorry he got blood on the camera lens."
James had no response to that.Some things didn't have responses—they just existed, heavy and immutable, weights you learned to carry rather than problems you could solve.
He reached out and took her hand.The blood had dried to a tacky residue, rough against his palm, but he didn't pull away.Just held on, the way he'd wanted to hold on for three years, waiting for a moment that might never come.
Isla's fingers tightened around his.She didn't say anything.
They sat like that for a long time, watching the sky lighten toward dawn.
***
Getting Isla home took longer than it should have.
She protested, of course—insisted she was fine, that she needed to stay and help process the scene, that there were reports to file and calls to make and a hundred other obligations that couldn't wait.James listened to all of it with the patient stubbornness he'd perfected over years of dealing with his daughter's objections, and then he told her she was going home anyway.
"Kate's orders," he said, which was technically true—he'd called the SAC while the paramedics were finishing their assessment, and she'd agreed that Isla needed rest before the investigation could continue."You can fight with her about it in the morning.For now, you're done."
Isla had glared at him with something approaching her usual fire, but the effect was undermined by the exhaustion that dragged at her features, the slight tremor in her hands that she couldn't quite control.In the end, she'd let him guide her to his sedan without further argument.
Her apartment was cold when they arrived—the heater had failed again, he noticed, the radiator beneath her window sitting silent and useless.James found the thermostat and cranked it up, then started opening cabinets until he located a space heater that looked like it had been purchased during the Reagan administration.
"It works," Isla said from the doorway, her voice flat."Usually."
"Usually isn't good enough."He plugged in the heater and positioned it near the couch, feeling the first weak waves of warmth begin to push back against the cold."You need to get your landlord to fix this properly."
"I've told him three times."