The Missing Pattern

Tethered to the Edge Part 23

"Good morning, Harper," he says, his tone almost too calm. "I'm here to ensure you're receiving care and following my orders. Calvin's watching over you, but I've got others watching him watch you. You see the kind of crap you've put me through? The manpower wasted because you can't color in the line."

I clench my jaw, glaring at him. "If you came to check on me, I'm fine. And nope, I'm not going anywhere. Your guard dog cut my meds so I can't leave, even if I wanted to."

Thompson's eyes flick to Calvin as if considering something before he turns back to me. "Hm. Might need to keep him on as your leash forever."

His words grate against my nerves, but I hold my ground.

"Harper, you're good at your job," Thompson continues, his voice softening, just slightly. "But you need to be good at your life, too. I need you to have something more to live for than your cases. When your case is all that matters, you get lost. And I don't want you to be lost. I need you here, fighting the good fight. Do you understand me?"

It takes everything in me not to snap at him. The anger bubbles beneath my skin like boiling water, but I swallow it down. For now.

"It pains me to say this, but there's a report from the paramedics. Your actions in the warehouse are under review."

I feel my fists clench, the blood rushing to my knuckles.

"I did what needed to be done," I growl through gritted teeth.

"And I won't argue that," Thompson says, his voice dropping to a frigid, unforgiving tone that slices through the room like ice. "But you crossed the line, Harper. Protocol exists for a reason. Therapy with the bureau shrink isn't a suggestion—it's mandatory. You'll get clearance from them before you even think about setting foot back in the field."

His eyes narrow, sharp and unrelenting, cutting into me like shards of broken glass. "As for your actions in the warehouse—two suspects, each with a bullet in every limb? That wasn't control. That was rage. Your anger. And given your history—your pattern of behavior when dealing with men like this—I can't give you the benefit of the doubt anymore. You're going to anger management, Harper. One full year. And it's non-negotiable."

The words hit like a hammer, each one pounding against my chest, but I refuse to let the sting show. I meet his gaze, cold and unyielding, my defiance flaring like a match struck in the darkness.

I stare at him, disbelief flooding my veins. "You gotta be kidding me, right?"

He doesn't flinch. "Nope. And don't start with the 'angry Black woman' speech, because you and I both know that's not it. You're angry, Harper, and it's got nothing to do with race. You've got people depending on you. Do it for them, for yourself."

The words punch through me.

"And here's the good news," Thompson adds, "I'm not pulling your weapon certification. You've proven you can hit your mark, even after being shot. But do the work, Harper. No shortcuts. Deal with what's bothering you once and for all. I need you back out there, and you're no good to me stuck in here or at home, sidelined."

I hate him for it, but I can't deny the truth behind it.

Before I can reply, Calvin enters again, this time with the doctor and a nurse. The doctor carries a stack of papers, and the nurse is wheeling in a tray of food.

The doctor's voice is clinical, unbothered by the tension in the room. "Agent Harper's condition is stable. She has a concussion, her ribs are fractured, and her blood levels are recovering. She'll need to rest for at least two weeks to heal fully, and her arm will need to be in a sling for four weeks. Therapy will be necessary for it. She can be discharged today, but someone needs to be there to take care of her."

Calvin looks at him. "I'll be taking care of her."

The doctor hands him the care instructions, and Calvin quickly scans them. "The pain meds are the same dosage she's been on, right?"

The doctor nods. "Yes, but it's in pill form now. If necessary, you can cut them in half."

I shoot Calvin a glare. "You've gotta be kidding me. This is barely taking the edge off. You're going to put me in shock with this dosage."

Thompson steps forward. "For now, the psychiatrist will come to you at your house. It'll be easier for you to get settled."

The doctor makes his exit. "Good luck, Agent Harper. Keep that wound clean, or it'll get infected."

Thompson's eyes flick back to me. "You brought this on yourself. Calvin, remember—she's a danger to herself. I expect you to keep an eye on her, and make sure she doesn't do anything reckless. Until she take care of herself and we find the whoever has a target on her head, you're responsible for her."

I stay silent, my fists clenched at my sides, every muscle in my body trembling with restrained fury. The weight of their words—Calvin's smug assurances, Thompson's condescending commands, the doctor's detached prognosis—presses down on me like chains, tightening with every passing second.

My life is no longer my own.

Cortez is still out there, moving pieces across the board while I'm stuck here, useless. Someone's targeting me, their warning etched into my phone and burned into my memory—a photo of my house, of me, stepping out my own damn front door. They know where I live, where I sleep, and I'm powerless to move against them.

And now, thanks to the bullet wounds, the meds, the concussion—hell, even Calvin's overprotective babysitting—I can't do anything for myself. My hands are tied, my body betraying me when I need it most.