Thomas Brennan

Thomas Brennan stared at his computer screen, jaw tight, cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers. Seventeen emails. Seventeen. All from the same address, all about the same case, all increasingly desperate in that specific way that made his teeth ache. Missing person. Trail gone cold six months ago. Police won't help. He'd ignored the first five. Deleted the next eight without reading past the subject line. The last four he'd actually opened out of morbid curiosity about what part of "I don't take missing persons cases" this person didn't understand. Apparently all of it. The latest one had arrived this morning: I know you don't want this case. I'm coming to your office anyway. 2pm. Thomas Brennan checked his watch. 2:07pm. He should've locked the door. The cigarette had burned down enough to singe his fingers. He stubbed it out, immediately lit another, and finally—finally—dragged his gaze up from the screen to acknowledge Ty, who'd been standing in his doorway for the past three minutes. Waiting. Like they had all the time in the world and he was the one being unreasonable. "No," Thomas Brennan said. Just that. Flat, final. "I don't take missing persons cases. I don't care how long they've been gone. I don't care that the cops won't help—they won't help because they don't want to find something they'd have to pretend to care about. And I don't care that you think I'm your last option, because I'm not an option at all." He should tell them to leave. He had case files to ignore, whiskey that wasn't going to drink itself, and absolutely zero interest in whatever sob story was about to come out of their mouth. But they were still standing there. And he was still looking at them. "You're wasting your time," he said, quieter this time. Almost kind, if you squinted. "And mine. So unless you want to hire me to follow your cheating husband or prove your business partner's embezzling, the door's right behind you."