“No.”
“Anything to eat?”
Jennifer looked at the croissants.
“Sure.”
She paid.
Took the cup.
Then looked toward the table by the window.
Occupied.
She almost laughed.
She found another table.
Opened her phone.
Sat.
Nothing happened.
Nobody watched her.
Nobody asked how long she planned to stay.
Nobody called police.
Ten minutes later, Rebecca Sloan entered.
She recognized Jennifer instantly.
For a moment, panic crossed her face.
Jennifer saw it.
Rebecca approached carefully.
“Agent Monroe.”
“Ms. Sloan.”
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I didn’t either.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Would you like privacy?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
Jennifer lifted her cup.
“I’m fine.”
Rebecca started to leave.
Jennifer stopped her.
“How’s business?”
Rebecca looked surprised.
“Recovered.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“We changed a lot.”
“I heard.”
“I don’t expect that to mean anything to you.”
“It means something.”
Rebecca’s eyes became slightly wet.
She looked embarrassed by it.
Jennifer said:
“Changing after you’re forced to is still changing.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Jennifer gestured lightly toward the café.
“Just keep doing it.”
Rebecca walked away.
Jennifer stayed forty-seven minutes.
She knew because she checked later.
Nobody removed her.
Craig Bartlett’s life after policing was less public.
He could not easily return to law enforcement.
The termination and disciplinary record followed him.
He found work eventually in logistics security for a private company outside the city.
A reporter contacted him two years after Peak Street.
Bartlett initially refused.
Then agreed to an audio interview without cameras.
The reporter asked:
“When did you realize you were wrong?”
Bartlett was quiet.
“At the precinct.”
“When they verified her?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“When the desk sergeant asked me what about the credentials looked fake.”
The reporter waited.
“I realized I didn’t have an answer.”
“Why hadn’t you verified them?”
“Because I thought she was trying to manipulate the situation.”
“Why?”
Bartlett exhaled.
“Because by then I had already decided who she was.”
The reporter asked:
“Was it race?”
Long silence.
“Yes.”
Not a dramatic confession.
Not hatred.
Bartlett continued.
“I didn’t think, ‘She’s Black, therefore criminal.’”