The Missing Pattern

Breaking the Surface Part 26

The days no longer dragged as they once did, though the anger management sessions still tested every ounce of patience I had left. The difference now was subtle but significant: I wanted to get through them. Not because I found solace in their scripted exercises or bought into their optimistic philosophies, but because I wanted to heal. Not for anyone else—just for me. Sixteen days had passed since I'd woken up battered and bruised, and though my body had nearly mended, my mind was still crawling its way back from the edge.

Calvin was my constant through it all, a steadfast presence who said little but always seemed to know what I needed before I did. On the rare occasion he wasn't there, Ford or Bailey took his place, always hovering nearby, ensuring I didn't try anything reckless.

The sessions with the psychologist had shifted. They felt less like interrogations and more like genuine conversations. "You're making progress," she said during our latest meeting, her voice steady and calm. "You're learning to redirect your anger, Kitty. That's not just growth—it's survival."

The words didn't sit easily with me, but I couldn't deny the truth in them.

To break up the monotony, Calvin and I had started cooking together. It began as a way to fill the silence, something to do that didn't involve the endless loop of therapy and recovery. At first, I fumbled, burning toast and over-seasoning sauces, but Calvin was patient. He guided me through recipes with an ease that unnerved me—how a man who thrived in chaos could be so precise in the kitchen was beyond me.

One night, we managed to bake a lasagna that didn't resemble a brick. Ford relieved Bailey and joined us for dinner, giving the dish a rare compliment. It felt... normal. Almost like a family.

That's what they had become, in a way. Calvin, Bailey, Ford, even Reese—they weren't just my colleagues anymore. They were something more, something solid in a world that had always felt fleeting. We'd fought side by side, bled for the same cause, and carried the weight of each other's lives in our hands. Now, they weren't just brothers and sisters in arms; they were the closest thing I had to family other than my own family.

It reminded me of Yang. We had spent months together working undercover, our lives entangled in a web of lies and danger that demanded absolute trust. Yang had been my shadow, my partner, my confidant in the darkest corners of the job. We didn't just survive together; we thrived, learning each other's rhythms, each other's fears. It was a bond forged in fire, the kind that doesn't just fade when the case is closed.

Even now, I could hear Yang's voice in my head, sharp and steady. "Harper, you don't flinch, not for anything. You stand your ground, or you're already dead."

Those words had stuck with me, etched into my mind like a scar. Yang had been my compass, reminding me who I was when I started to lose sight of myself. And now, Calvin, Bailey, Ford, and Reese were filling that role in their own way—keeping me grounded, tethering me to something real when the chaos threatened to swallow me whole.

They weren't just allies. They were my people.

The punching bag became my outlet. Calvin had it delivered and installed in the garage, claiming it was part of my recovery plan. I resisted at first, not wanting to admit I needed an outlet for the storm raging inside me. But the first time my fist connected with the heavy bag, the weight of it rattling up my arm, something shifted.

"You've got more in you, Harper," Calvin said as he steadied the bag, his voice calm but insistent. "Let it out."

And I did. Each strike was a release, each grunt a piece of the darkness breaking free. The anger management techniques might not have worked in the sessions, but here, in the garage, with my fists flying and sweat pouring, they found their place.