At the conference room, I pause, hand on the door handle. I know who’s inside. Draw a deep breath, steel myself, push open the door.

“Detective Sergeant McBride!” Andy Delmonte looks up, an eyebrow raised, his pencil hovering above a notepad riddled with scrawl. “Punctual as ever.”

“Delmonte.” Our eyes lock. His eyes twinkle with curiosity, or is that ambition? I swallow the urge to fire back a retort. We need each other, like it or not. He’s an insufferable prick, but a damn good journo with sources I can only dream of. I give a terse nod. “Ready to dive in?”

His answer is wordless, a sideways jerk of the head towards the empty chair. I drop into it heavily, slap a bulging case file onto the table. He leans in, eyes narrowing at the label: FINANCIAL SCAMS TARGETED AT WOMEN... He opens his mouth to speak but I cut him off.

“Before you ask, yes, there’s a definite pattern emerging.” I flip it open to the first page, stabbing a finger at the list of names, each one seared into my brain, churning my gut. “All affluent women aged 35 to 55. All successful professionals living alone. All targeted by the same scam...”

As I regurgitate the details, I can already see the story forming in his mind, the headlines he’ll craft to hook readers, the outrage and sympathy he’ll stir up. But there’s more to this than a juicy scoop. Each name on that page is a life shattered, savings wiped out, self-worth obliterated. 

Just like my sons, before the grief swallowed Brett and I whole.