The Guardian
Epilogue

Two months later…

Shawn Maxwell had seen a lot of sh!t in his dozen years as a cop, but a Delia-versus-Capelli showdown at the Crooked Angel’s Trivia Night just might’ve been the most brutal.

It had started with the buildup, naturally. They’d divided up into two, three-person teams, with Capelli having strategically chosen Dr. Natalie Sheridan for her medical background and pop culture knowledge, and hockey hotshot Finn Donnelly for being a walking, talking SportsCenter. Delia was no slouch in the captain department, though, having picked Natalie’s husband, Jonah, for his medical background as a trauma surgeon, along with Roman, who had—much to everyone’s surprise except for Delia—turned out to be one hell of a sleeper pick, having wiped the floor with everyone on Team Capelli in no less than three categories.

Hanging back on the perimeter of the crowded bar, Shawn watched from his usual spot by the door as Capelli tied up the score by beating Delia to the buzzer on which of the Great Lakes had claimed the Edmund Fitzgerald (Lake Superior, Shawn was surprised to learn). But then Hale, who had volunteered to play host, held up her hands to quiet the room.

“Okay, trivia junkies,” she said, giving her blond brows an exaggerated waggle. “We’ve arrived at the final round. The score is currently tied. Whichever team answers the most questions correctly in this category will be our winner!”

A chorus of hoots and cheers went up in the crowd, incited mostly by Shae and the crew of firefighters from Station Seventeen. Shawn had to laugh as Hale lifted a hand to her ear in reply, encouraging the crowd in that natural-born cheery way of hers that bordered on being campy. She was like a sister to him, probably the closest thing to a best friend he’d allow himself to have. They couldn’t be more different, with her hogging the extroverted end of every personality test known to man, and him feeling like four syllables should totally count as a conversation, provided they got the point across. Somehow, though, the two of them being total opposites made them perfect work partners.

It didn’t hurt that her big and bold personality made it that much easier for him to blend in to the shadows, either. After all, that was where he felt most comfortable.

One step outside, looking in.

Hale’s voice filtered over the quieting crowd, capturing Shawn’s attention again. “Our final category is…Greek Mythology.”

“You’ve got this, baby!” Garza called out, as his sister, Camila, gave up an expert whistle to boost her best friend’s confidence.

It turned out, Delia didn’t need it. She went on a tear, nailing five questions in a row to take the win. Half of the crowd erupted in cheers while the other half collapsed into good-natured g****s, and after a few minutes of congratulatory hugging and back-slapping, everyone started milling back to their tables or the bar.

“You’re not mad, are you?” Delia asked Capelli as they arrived back at the Intelligence Unit’s usual table, which—given tonight’s crowd—was really two long tables pushed together.

“Anger is not a logical response to losing trivia night,” Capelli replied with a shake of his head. “Although I won’t deny disappointment. I thought my team had it in the bag after that Video Games category.”

Shae grinned from beside him, her arm linked through his. “But then Delia had to come out of nowhere with a freaky-deaky knowledge of Greek myths. Who knew?”

“I knew.” This, from Garza, who was insanely biased. Also, actually smiling, and God, this whole new non-grumpy(ish) version of the guy was still taking some getting used to.

He slung his arm around Delia, pulling her close. “Nearly all of the constellations are based in Greek mythology, and her father is a world-renowned astronomer. You can’t beat that.”

“Statistically, there’s actually a pretty good possibility that I can be beat at trivia,” Delia said, and Shawn would bet even money she was calculating actual odds in her head. “Especially by someone with a knowledge base as wide as Capelli’s. In fact—”

Garza cut her off with a k!ss that lasted just long enough for his sister, Camila, to g***n from the spot where she stood on Delia’s other side. “Oh, my God, get a room, you two!”

“We did, remember?” Delia asked.

“How could we forget?” Shawn asked, making a show of rubbing his shoulders. “I think I’m still sore from helping you move.”

Okay, so it had been a month since Delia and Garza had moved in together—they weren’t wasting any time, that was for sure—but rule number two of being a cop was to give your partners as much good-natured sh!t as possible when the opportunity presented itself.

Rule number one was to compartmentalize at all costs. Work stayed at work and personal stuff stayed at home. Far the f**k away from the job.

No exceptions.

“Of course we asked you to help us move,” Delia said, bringing Shawn back to the Crooked Angel’s crowded space with a snap. “You’re one of our closest friends.”

“And strongest,” Garza put in. “Let’s face it. No way was I moving that couch without your brawn, dude.”

“Somehow, I feel like I should be offended by that,” Roman said, returning from the bar with a fresh beer.

Despite the unit’s rocky start with the guy, Roman had ended up being pretty decent, albeit still a hard-as*s for the rules. He’d stuck around Remington as they’d closed the case against Kent Cromwell, who had fully recovered from his injuries thanks to Jonah Sheridan’s surgical skill. Between the trio of murders, Delia’s abduction, and the embezzling/money laundering that had gone down over the course of what had turned out to be years, Roman’s unit had been busy as hell uncovering the extent of not only Kent’s crimes, but also Nicky’s and Peyton’s. After a whole lot of back and forth between the D.A.’s office, the FBI, and Kent’s attorneys, they’d reached a deal that would keep Kent behind bars forever.

Camila laughed, rolling her eyes at Roman. “I feel like you live to be offended,” she said, with just enough of her smile lingering in the words to turn them into a tease.

Roman smiled back. “And I feel like you need to lose at darts.”

“Wait a sec.” Camila’s black brows went up. “Are you challenging me?”

“Well, if you don’t think you can handle it…” Roman shrugged, and Shae let out a low whistle.

But Camila didn’t blink. “Oh, it’s so freaking on right now,” she said, turning toward the game alcove on the other side of the bar.

Roman’s gaze lingered on Camila’s swagger-filled, swivel-hipped walk for just a beat before he murmured, “Yeah, it is,” and followed, and Shawn would give him this. The guy had balls.

“Wait…” Garza caught up a second later, his eyes narrowing. “No. No, it is not on. Nothing is on,” he said, turning on one boot to follow both Roman and his little sister.

Delia pressed her smile between her lips. “I’m going to go referee all”—she waved a hand in the direction of the alcove—“that, so no one gets hurt. Or, you know. Eaten alive.”

“You referee,” Shae said, tugging Capelli by the hand. “I just wanna watch to see who’s left standing.”

Shawn shook his head, allowing just enough of his smile to escape as his friends turned to retreat, leaving him alone again. In truth, he was okay with that. His introverted side (fine; it was his only side) didn’t leave him uncomfortable on the periphery, and the solitude made it easier to observe everything going on around him—a survival skill, when you worked as many undercover cases as he did.

So, he did what he was good at, and blended in to the background.

The Crooked Angel was packed to the rafters, and Kennedy had pulled out all the stops for this trivia showdown. Beer specials, two-for-one appetizers (which Shawn appreciated, because her cook’s hot wings were the stuff of f*****g legend), extra chairs brought in from God knew where. The works. She’d even made it as family-friendly as a bar and grill could be, with Tess’s husband, Declan, sitting at a nearby table, coloring with his two-year-old son, and Tess’s best friend and fellow attending, Dr. Charleston Drake, giving her six-month-old daughter a bottle in a quiet spot by the corner booth. Kellan and Isabella had even brought their little guy, Elijah, who was currently cuddled up against Kellan’s chest in one of those baby carrier things.

As irony had it, the baby had been born at pretty much the exact time the rest of the Intelligence Unit had been racing all over creation, trying to replace Delia in that farm house. Of course, after the fact, Isabella had joked/not joked that she’d missed all the excitement. But considering the way her whole face had just lit up as Kellan lifted their son out of the carrier to nestle him in the crook of one tattooed arm, looking at the baby with a near-indescribable combination of happiness and awe, it was pretty clear that Isabella wouldn’t trade what she had for a million exciting cases.

And, really, it wasn’t just Isabella and Kellan. So many of Shawn’s friends had made committed relationships part of their lives over the past couple of years. Capelli and Shae. Tara and Xander. Christ, even Garza—who was the last person anyone would ever peg as the type to fall head-over-boots for someone—was sitting next to Delia looking like that damned emoji with hearts for eyes.

The pang came out of left field, just as it always did, nailing Shawn in the sternum and screaming of what if. What if he’d fought harder for the one chance he’d had at a love like that? What if Francesca hadn’t fought him so hard? What if they’d been able to make things work? Would they still be crazy about each other? Be married? Have kids?

Whoever had come up with the saying “it was better to have loved and lost” should be bitch slapped. Eight years after he’d done just that and Shawn was still playing the what-if game.

On second thought, maybe he should be bitch slapped.

“Hey, Maxwell. Can I get you a refill?”

Kennedy’s voice delivered him back to the crowded bar with a thump. He shook off his thoughts—depressing little fvckers—and worked up an approximation of a smile.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said, nodding down at his empty pint glass. He hadn’t been much of a drinker ever since Sinclair had made him Intelligence’s go-to guy for undercover cases, preferring to be ready to roll with a clear head at a moment’s notice. God, was that really five—no, six—years ago, now?

“You sure you’re okay?” Kennedy asked, and damn it. She’d always had sharp eyes. He should’ve known better than to let memory lane back into his headspace in front of her, even for a second.

He opened his mouth to one-eighty the subject, but—yes—his phone did the job for him. “It’s work,” he said as soon as he saw Sinclair’s name and number on the screen. “I’ve gotta take this. Sorry.”

She waved him off. “I’m married to a firefighter, remember? When duty calls…”

“Right.” Ducking outside into the crisp fall evening, Shawn lifted his phone to his ear. “Maxwell.”

“Caught a case that requires your skillset,” Sinclair said, not beating around the bush, because why start now? “Seems pretty open and shut, but Atlanta P.D.’s vice unit is teamed up with the DEA, trying to bring down a heroin ring.”

The back of Shawn’s neck prickled, hard. But, come on. The A.P.D. had over a dozen cops in their vice unit, and anyway, it had been over a year since he’d let himself check to see if she was still there. Alive. Well. Probably still pissed. “Okay,” Shawn said. “What does that have to do with us?”

Sinclair replied, “Their main suspect headed out of Atlanta a week ago and landed here in Remington. Rented a place on the edge of North Point, so they’re thinking he may be trying to work some connections and expand his reach. We need to put someone inside as a buyer so we can try to nail this guy.”

Shawn’s brain started piecing together the persona of a drug dealer, someone dark and dangerous. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slid undercover as a grifter, or, hell, even the tenth. “You got it, boss.”

“I’ll get you and the unit spun up tomorrow. Oh, and one more thing.” Sinclair’s pause lasted just long enough to pluck at Shawn’s instincts. “A.P.D.’s vice sergeant is pretty adamant we do this as a tag-team with one of their detectives. A guy named Frankie Rossi. Guess he’s their hotshot and they don’t want to trust the bust to our team alone.”

Shawn’s heartbeat stuttered once before kicking into its highest setting, and f**k, how could that name alone rip into him with the same force that it had eight years ago, as if time had never passed? “You want me to run this case with Frankie Rossi?”

“I do. Why? Do you know him?” Sinclair asked.

Shawn took a deep breath. Gathered all of his strength. And slammed the lid over every last feeling swarming his chest.

He had a job to do. It was what he was good at. What he’d wanted. Nothing—not even Frankie—was going to stand in the way of that.

“Her. Frankie Rossi is a woman,” Shawn corrected, squaring his shoulders against the nighttime shadows outside the Crooked Angel and giving up the most painful truth he’d ever learned.

“But, to answer your question, no. I don’t know her at all.”

Notready to leave Remington yet? Make sure to snap up Detective Shawn Maxwell’s single-dad/second-chance r0mance, THE GRIFTER, right here!