She'd logged into the evidence server that morning under her own credentials at a time stamp that lined up close enough to the leak for Garvey to be certain. He found her alone in the equipment room on Wednesday afternoon, restocking her vest between shifts. He closed the door behind him. Funny thing about server logs, Garvey said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. They keep records of everything.
Every login, every file pulled. Oliver kept her eyes on the vest in her hands, focused on the buckles, refusing to look up at him. I don't know what you're talking about, Captain. Sure you don't. His voice stayed calm, almost friendly, which somehow made it worse.
Here's the thing, Oliver. You've got what? 8 Months on this job? Less. You've still got a lot of career left to lose.
He took a step closer. A career that depends a whole lot on people trusting you've got their back when things get complicated. Cops who talk to reporters instead of their own department don't exactly build that kind of trust. Word travels. I never talked to a reporter, Oliver said, which was technically true.
She'd sent the file through an anonymous line. She hadn't spoken a single word to Anderson directly. Doesn't matter how it happened, Garvey said. Matters what people believe happened. And right now, a lot of people in this building believe it was you.
He let that sit. You've got a long career ahead of you, or you don't. Depends on what happens next. Depends on whether you keep opening your mouth to people who ask you questions about that morning. He didn't wait for her to respond.
He walked out, leaving the door open behind him, leaving her standing alone with a half-buckled vest in her hands and her pulse hammering in her ears. That night, Oliver sat in her car in her apartment building's parking lot for almost an hour before she went inside. Her phone had three missed calls. One from Roxan at the DA's office, one from a colleague, one from a blocked number she didn't recognize and didn't want to. She didn't answer any of them.