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He tapped the desk with two fingers as if wrapping up a dull meeting. You are suspended immediately pending review. Turn in your badge. Those words shattered Jordan far more than Clare’s public attack. Sir, please don’t do this. Let me explain. Not to me, Tom said, already opening the office door to the committee on Monday.
Maybe if they even convene after the holiday, as if Jordan’s entire career dissolving in one night was just an inconvenience in the schedule. A second supervisor entered, Marta, head of PR crisis control. Her expression was tight. Jordan, social media is moving fast. #scarun unsafe pilot is trending from what? Jordan demanded from one woman’s lie.
Tom didn’t. Not yet. Yet. That single syllable made Jordan’s stomach twist. He was escorted out of the building through the employee exit, alone, shivering in the December wind with cameras pointed at him like weapons. Jordan sat in his dim living room, Christmas lights blinking weakly on a miniature tree he’d bought out of habit, not joy.
His uniform lay draped over the couch like a defeated soldier. He opened his late father’s worn leather Bible, its edges frayed, its pages soft from decades of sermons and tears. A handwritten note fell out. For my son Jordan, courage will carry you when justice sleeps. He turned to Joshua 1:9, the verse his father quoted during every moment life seemed unfair.
Be strong and courageous. Do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” Jordan exhaled shakily. And for the first time since Clare’s attack, his heartbeat slowed. His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. “I saw what she did. You’re not crazy. You’re not wrong. Claire’s been doing this for years.
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