Obsessed

Chapter 60

The sun was barely up when Mark and Ronnie stepped out of his truck and made their way into the precinct. The morning air was crisp, still holding onto the chill of early spring, but Mark felt lighter than he had in weeks. Maybe even months. Last night had stripped away more than just clothing; it had peeled back layers of guilt, doubt, and hesitation. What remained was something raw, something real.

He glanced sideways at Ronnie, watching the way her fingers brushed a stray strand of platinum hair from her cheek as she walked beside him. Her expression was neutral, calm and collected as always, but he noticed the way her lips were slightly curved, just enough to hint at the softness beneath her usual guarded demeanor.

As they reached the double glass doors of the precinct, Mark slowed and turned to her, gently cupping her jaw. Ronnie blinked up at him in surprise just before he leaned down and kissed her, not rushed, not tentative—just present. A soft hum escaped her throat before they parted.

"See you in a bit," he said with a smile.

Ronnie nodded, her fingers grazing his wrist as she pulled away and walked toward her office. Mark watched her go for a second longer than necessary, then shook his head and made his way toward the bullpen.

He was still carrying that same faint smile when he reached his desk, dropping his coffee and file onto the surface. The seat across from him creaked, and Kyle Peterson dropped into it with his usual boyish energy. He looked fresh—too fresh for someone who'd only gotten five hours of sleep, according to the text he sent Mark at midnight.

"Well, well," Kyle said, his tone teasing. "Looks like someone had a good night."

Mark glanced up from his coffee and cleared his throat, the faint smile slipping. "You working a case or gossiping?"

"Touché," Kyle said with a laugh, holding up his hands. "Just making conversation, man."

"Make it about work."

"Right, right. That robbery case you were tracking? Tip came in late last night. Warehouse on Ashmont and 3rd. Apparently, the guy’s been seen lurking there."

Mark straightened. "Let’s move."

The warehouse was in the industrial district, flanked by rusted shipping containers and the faint smell of oil and iron. Kyle followed Mark’s lead without hesitation, one hand near the butt of his service weapon.

Mark approached the building from the side, scanning windows and doors for movement. "Dispatch confirmed?"

"Yeah. No official warrant yet, but Reynolds said if it’s hot, we go in."

Mark nodded, signaling to Kyle. They moved in tandem toward the back entrance, their steps silent, practiced. Mark’s instincts prickled. He had a bad feeling about this one.

Just as they rounded the corner, a sharp noise—metal clanging against metal—echoed from inside.

Mark lifted a fist. They paused. Drew their weapons.

He mouthed: On three.

Kyle nodded.

Mark counted silently, then kicked the door in.

Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit by slivers of light filtering through broken windows. Shelves and crates were scattered across the floor, creating a maze of shadows. They split, flanking opposite aisles. A noise to Mark’s left drew his attention—a shuffle, then the sharp click of a safety being disengaged.

Gunfire exploded.

Mark dove behind a stack of pallets as bullets splintered wood overhead. He saw the suspect—tall, masked, moving fast—dart between shadows and disappear behind a column. Mark rolled to the next cover, firing two shots that missed by inches.

"He's moving toward the east exit!" Kyle shouted from somewhere in the dark.

Mark tried to follow but a shot rang out, hitting the pillar just inches from his head. Another bullet grazed his shoulder.

Pinned.

He crawled behind another crate, breath heavy. He could hear Kyle yelling, returning fire from the other side. Sirens wailed in the distance, backup finally arriving. Mark’s vision blurred for a second, but he forced it back. He wasn’t dying here.

Then Kyle was there, vaulting over a crate, gun drawn. He fired twice—clean shots. One bullet struck the shooter’s shoulder, spinning him into the wall with a grunt. The gun clattered to the floor.

Mark exhaled, both relief and adrenaline flooding him.

Kyle jogged over. "You good?!"

"Shoulder’s grazed," Mark ground out. "But yeah. I’m alive."

The shooter groaned, trying to crawl away. Kyle handcuffed him with quick, efficient movements just as officers burst through the front.

Two hours later, Mark sat in the precinct infirmary, shirt off, shoulder wrapped in gauze. Ronnie appeared in the doorway, eyes wide with worry.

"You weren’t answering your phone," she said softly.

"Lost it somewhere in the chaos."

She stepped closer. "They said you were shot."

"Just a graze. Nothing deep."

Ronnie reached out, brushing her fingers over the edge of the bandage. Her hand trembled for half a second.

"I'm okay," he reassured her, reaching for her hand. "Promise."

Ronnie looked into his eyes, studying him like she always did. "You’re lucky."

He smirked. "Or stubborn."

Her lips twitched. "Maybe both."

Kyle stood in the hallway, watching them for a moment before turning and walking away.

But not before Mark saw him.

And something about the way Kyle looked at Ronnie made Mark’s jaw tighten again.

This wasn’t over.

The precinct’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Ronnie stepped into the interrogation room, clutching the file folder tighter than she needed to. Her heels clicked once, twice against the cold tile floor before she stopped, watching the suspect handcuffed to the table. He was twitchy—eyes darting, legs bouncing, jaw clenching every few seconds like he was chewing invisible gum.

Jason Miller, twenty-four years old, priors for theft, drug possession, and now armed robbery. He was sweating like he knew he was part of something much bigger.

Ronnie laid the file gently on the table and offered a soft, polite smile. “Jason.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at her with hooded eyes, sizing her up.

Ronnie didn’t flinch. Instead, she slowly pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. Her tone was calm, rhythmic—her voice the same one she used when calming Theodore from a meltdown. “Do you want water?”

Jason blinked, clearly thrown off by her kindness. “Sure.”

She pushed the intercom button on the table. “Water for the suspect, please.”

Across the glass in the observation room, Mark stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His left shoulder still throbbed where the bullet had grazed him earlier, but his focus was locked on Ronnie. She was in her element now—measured, confident, radiant.

Ronnie gently slid the folder toward Jason. “You’re in a lot of trouble,” she said, not unkindly. “But this doesn’t have to end badly. You talk to me—I mean really talk to me—and I’ll go to bat for you.”

Jason snorted. “Right. You’re a shrink. What can you do?”

“I’m also a federal consultant. I have enough influence to make sure you don’t disappear into a cage forever.”

Jason rubbed his face. “You got no idea what you’re messing with.”

Ronnie leaned forward, her expression softening. “Then help me understand.”

There was a knock at the door—an officer entered briefly and handed Jason a bottle of water. Ronnie waited until the officer left before she spoke again.

“I know someone like you doesn’t rob a bank on a whim. You were desperate. People only get that desperate when someone’s holding something over them.”

Jason stayed quiet, eyes narrowing.

“Someone forced you to do this, didn’t they?” Ronnie asked gently.

Jason’s hand shook slightly as he opened the bottle. “I didn’t know they’d have a silent alarm. They didn't mention it.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” she pressed, her voice still calm.

Jason exhaled. “They told me if I didn’t hit the bank and get the cash, they’d go after my sister. Said they knew where she lived. What school her kid goes to.”

Ronnie’s expression shifted just a fraction—enough to show empathy, not pity. “What are their names?”

Jason hesitated, then muttered, “They called him Roach. Said he worked out of the eastside warehouse near the docks. That’s all I know, I swear.”

“Did they give you a phone?”

Jason nodded. “Cheap burner. Told me not to call unless I had the money.”

“Where is it?”

Jason looked up at her. “Locker 237 at the main station.”

Ronnie nodded slowly. “Thank you, Jason. You did the right thing. And I promise I will do everything in my power to help you, ok?”

Kyle stood beside Mark, chewing on a toothpick and leaning casually against the glass. “Damn,” he muttered. “She’s good.”

Mark didn’t respond.

Kyle let out a low whistle. “I mean, look at that. She gets them talking like it’s nothing. Woman like that could get a man to confess to anything.”

Mark’s jaw ticked. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “She’s amazing.”

Kyle smirked but kept his eyes on the scene beyond the glass.

When Ronnie stood and walked out of the room, Mark was already waiting for her outside the door. Kyle leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed, looking her up and down with a grin.

Ronnie ignored him.

Mark leaned close, his voice low. “You were incredible in there.”

Ronnie smiled softly, tilting her head. “He’s scared. They’re using people like him to do their dirty work.”

“We’ll get on it,” Mark said.

“Warehouse near the docks,” Ronnie repeated, handing him the file. “Roach. We need to find out who that is.”

Mark nodded, flipping it open. “I’ll run it through our system.”

Kyle stepped up. “Damn, Summers. You were like a mind-reading ninja in there.”

Ronnie offered a polite but tight smile. “Thank you, Detective Peterson.”

“Seriously. If I ever screw up, I’d want you to interrogate me.”

Mark shot Kyle a look. “Let’s focus on the case.”

Kyle raised his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. Just giving credit where credit’s due.”

Ronnie gave Mark a glance, sensing the tension in his jaw again. “I’m heading to my office to type up the notes.”

“I’ll come find you if we get anything from locker 237,” Mark replied, his tone softening.

She nodded and walked away.

Kyle watched her go, muttering under his breath, “Unreal.”

Mark turned slowly. “You got something to say?”

Kyle glanced at him. “Just... appreciating talent. That’s all.”

Mark took a step closer, his voice low and even. “She’s not some trophy for you to gawk at. She’s brilliant, and she’s mine. Got it?”

Kyle blinked, holding Mark’s gaze for a moment before cracking a small smirk. “Crystal clear, partner.”

Mark didn’t respond. He turned and walked toward the evidence room, his fingers tightening around the file folder. Every nerve in his body was screaming that something about Kyle Peterson was off—and he wasn’t going to let his guard down for a second.