Someone said her name, twice, but she was walking out of the room, blind, heading toward the glide fast, her boots clicking on scarred tile. Dizzy, she gripped the rail until her knuckles went white.
"Dallas, goddamn it." Webster caught up to her, grabbed her arm. "Call your advocate."
"Get your hand off me." The words were weak, shaky, and she couldn't find the strength to pull away. "Get it off and stay away."
"You listen to me." He dragged her clear of the glide, pushed her against a wall. "Nobody in that room wanted this. There's no choice. Goddamn it, you know how it works. We clear you, you get your badge back. You take a few days' vacation. It's going to be that simple."
"Get the fuck away from me."
"She had diaries, discs." He spoke quickly, afraid she'd break and run. "She put down all kinds of shit about you." He was crossing the line and didn't give a damn. "It has to be looked into and dismissed. Somebody beat her to pieces, Dallas, to fucking pieces. It'll be all over the media within the hour. You're tied to her. If you're not automatically suspended pending, it looks like cover-up."
"Or it looks like my superiors, my department, my colleagues believe me. Don't touch me again," she warned in a voice that shook so badly he stepped back.
"I've got to go with you." He spoke flatly now, furious that his own hands weren't steady. "To see that you clear only personal items from your office, and to escort you from the building. I need to confiscate your communicator, your master and vehicle codes."
She closed her eyes, fought to hold on. "Don't talk to me."
She managed to walk. Her legs felt like rubber, but she put one in front of the other. God, she needed air. Couldn't breathe.
Dizzy, she braced a hand on the doorway of the conference room. It seemed to swim in front of her eyes, as if she was looking into water. "Peabody."
"Sir." She sprang up, stared. "Dallas?"
"They took my badge."
Feeney was across the room like a bullet from a gun. He had one hand on Webster's shirt and the other already fisted and ready. "What kind of bullshit is this? Webster, you prick bastard—"
"Feeney, you have to take the interviews." She laid a hand on his shoulder, not so much to stop him from laying into Webster, but for support. She didn't know how much longer she had before she folded. "Peabody's got…Peabody's got the schedule, the data."
His fingers uncurled, closed gently over hers, and felt them tremble. "What's this about?"
"I'm a suspect." It was so odd to hear the words, hear her own voice float. "In the Bowers's homicide."
"That's a fucking crock."
"I have to go."
"Wait just one damn minute."
"I have to go," she repeated. She looked at Feeney with eyes dazed with shock. "I can't stay here."
"I'll take you, Dallas. Let me take you."
She looked at Peabody, shook her head. "No. You're with Feeney now. I can't—stay here."
She bolted.
"Feeney, Jesus." Eyes swimming, Peabody turned to him. "What do we do?"
"We fix it, goddamn it, son of a bitch, we fix it. Call Roarke," he ordered and relieved some fury by kicking viciously at the desk. "Make sure he's there when she gets home."
• • • •
Now she pays. Stupid bitch. Now she pays a price she'd consider higher than her own life. What will you do now, Dallas? Now that the system you've spent your life fighting for has betrayed you?
Now will you see, now that you're shivering outside, that the very system you've sweated for is meaningless? That what matters is power?
You were nothing more than a drone in a hive that collapses constantly in upon itself. Now you're less than that.