[Brooklyn]
Emma Watson just wanted some peace, away from the limelight, for a couple of weeks.
Her last film, Noah, had been a box office success, and the paycheck meant she could finally take a breath without worrying about the next project. She had graduated from university just last week, and her only plan was to live quietly in her new Brooklyn apartment. But life did not agree.
Her new role as UN Women Goodwill Ambassador filled her calendar with speeches, meetings, and interviews. Emma accepted the responsibility with pride, but the constant exposure left her more visible than she had ever wanted to be. And visibility invited attention.
The letters came first.
At the start, they were clumsy attempts at flirtation, the kind of fan mail she had received before and usually ignored. But the handwriting returned again and again, the same scrawl in dark ink. The tone shifted. Flirtation turned into fixation, fixation into demand, and demand into threat. One letter promised that if she did not return his love, she would regret it. Another spoke of knowing where she lived.
She told herself not to panic. Fame carried shadows. Threatening notes were part of that world. She had lived through them before. Still, something felt different this time.
On her walks to the market, she began to sense it. A pair of eyes that lingered too long. The same black sedan idling on the corner of her street. In the library, in the café, even in the quiet of the park, she felt the weight of someone just out of sight. Always close, never too close.
She reminded herself it was paranoia. Then last night proved otherwise.
The apartment had been locked, windows latched, nothing disturbed. Yet when she went to the bathroom in the morning, she froze. The socks she wore to bed were not on her feet. Instead, she was wearing a new pair with polka dots, carrying the faint scent of lavender.
Emma stood in the bathroom doorway, staring at her reflection with a chill tightening her spine. Someone had been inside. Someone had touched her. Someone had been close enough to change her shocks.
She quickly checked the locks and windows, but nothing was out of place. Then she searched her entire apartment. Other than the shocks she was wearing last night, nothing was stolen.
So, she decided it was time to go to the cops.
...
[Meanwhile...]
[Nine Nine – 1 PM]
The bullpen was buzzing in its usual way. Jake and Charles sat at their desks surrounded by giant stacks of case files, each pile leaning precariously like towers of doom.
Jake groaned loudly, dropping his head onto the nearest folder. "This is cruel and unusual punishment. Captain Holt has sentenced me to paperwork prison. Paperwork. Prison. I'm Jake Peralta, not Jake Boralta."
Charles gasped. "No. Don't. Don't use 'boring' as a prefix to your name. You're better than that, Jake!"
Across the bullpen, Amy flipped through her giant binder, muttering under her breath while scribbling notes. Her desk looked like a war zone of highlighters and sticky tabs.
Jake pointed dramatically. "See! Amy is working on the fun case. The smuggling-hit-and-run-explosive-awesome case. Meanwhile, I'm stuck with… oh look. The Case of the Missing Sandwich. Spoiler alert: Scully ate it."
Scully, without looking up from his chicken pie, mumbled, "It was delicious."
Hitchcock dusted powder off his feet with a tiny brush. "This mold is so detailed. You can even see the bunion."
Amy wrinkled her nose. "That's… That's disgusting."
Jake shot Amy a pleading look. "Come on, Amy. Partner. Binder Queen. Slip me in on your case, Holt will never know."
Amy shut her binder with a firm thud. "No, Jake. And stop calling me Binder Queen. It's creepy when you say it with that face."
Jake grinned. "What face?" He did it again.
Amy groaned and turned back to her binder.
...
[Evidence Room]
Terry tiptoed between shelves of old files until he reached the very back corner and pulled out a mini fridge. He opened it and took out a yogurt cup with a shiny golden lid. He then put the fridge back.
Terry whispered, "Oh yeah. Daddy's got you. Limited edition guava swirl. Terry's gonna slurp you so good."
"Wow," Gina's voice drifted from behind the cabinet. "I always knew you had freaky fetishes, but golden yogurt lids? That's a new one, even for you, Big T."
Terry yelped, nearly dropping the yogurt. "Gina! Don't sneak up on a man in his yogurt moment."
Gina smirked. "Your yogurt moment? Ew. Do I need to call HR?"
Terry clutched the cup protectively. "This is limited edition, Gina. They only made thirty of these in Brooklyn."
She leaned closer, deadpan. "And somehow they all thirty ended up here, in the police evidence fridge. Suspicious."
Terry cleared his throat with a nervous look, and he started to look here and there before looking back at Gina. He tried to laugh and said, "You think I'm running a yogurt smuggling ring?"
"Are you?" Gina said with her death glare.
Terry held the yogurt like it was a priceless artifact. Gina folded her arms and raised a brow, her smile growing more villainous by the second.
"I don't know what you are talking about," Terry said as he slowly took a step back.
"Relax, Muscle Milk. I'm not gonna rat you out." She leaned in, lowering her voice. "On one condition."
Terry narrowed his eyes. "What condition?"
"You subscribe to my app," Gina said smoothly. "StarGina. It's the only astrology app that personally insults you while guiding your destiny."
Terry groaned. "No. No way. Terry doesn't waste money on fake horoscopes."
"Fake?" Gina gasped. "Please. Yesterday my app told a Pisces to avoid escalators and guess what? An escalator broke down at Macy's. Two sprained ankles. That's science, baby."
Terry shook his head. "Not happening."
Gina's smirk widened. "Fine. I'll just mention to Captain how someone's been using the evidence locker as their personal storage."
Terry's eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."
"Would." She snapped her fingers like a mob boss. "I'm pretty sure he'll be disappointed in you and might even tell you to clean up this place."
Terry winced, clutching the cup tighter. "Alright! Fine! How much is this scam membership?"
"Not a scam. A lifestyle. Premium membership is one hundred dollars a month."
"One hundred?" Terry nearly dropped the yogurt again. "Gina, come on. Terry's already stretched thin. Lacey and Cagney need new ballet shoes, and school pictures are this week. Terry can't spend that kind of money on your astrology nonsense."
Gina tapped her chin, pretending to think. "Hmm. Normally I'd show no mercy… but since you pulled the kid card, I'll compromise." She whipped out her phone. "Fifty bucks. Basic membership. You only get half the insults and your horoscopes are delayed by six hours."
"Fifty? Still way too much."
"Fifty or Holt hears about your little yogurt cartel."
Terry groaned again, but finally pulled out his wallet. "Fine! I will do it. But Terry is not happy about this."
Gina grinned triumphantly as she tapped in his credit card number. "Congratulations. You're now officially a StarGina Bronze Member. Today's horoscope? Sagittarius: You will be publicly humiliated in a yogurt-related scandal if you don't listen to your app."
Terry growled, "Terry hates astrology."
Gina winked. "Follow the app and lead a happy life."
...
[Later that afternoon. Brooklyn streets]
Ray was on patrol duty as usual. He already had three arrests in the bag. Two teenagers whose prank had spun out of control, nearly causing a cyclist to crash, and a drunk who had tried to assault a couple enjoying a picnic in Central Park. The drunk had cursed the entire way to the precinct, inventing new words that Ray was fairly certain did not exist in any known language.
Now, back on the road, Ray spotted a silver BMW weaving a little too aggressively through traffic. He flicked on the siren and gave a short whoop of the lights. The car slowed, pulled neatly to the curb.
Ray stepped out of his cruiser, adjusted his vest, and approached the driver's window.
The glass slid down.
Ray froze.
Emma Watson stared back at him from behind oversized sunglasses.
For a beat, neither of them spoke. The city hummed around them, horns in the distance, pedestrians walking by, oblivious.
Finally, Ray broke the silence. He pointed a finger at her and said flatly, "Eeww."
Emma whipped off her sunglasses. "You! No! Stop saying that. I was having a bad day, you know that."
Ray narrowed his eyes. "Bad day or not, you puked inside my two-day-old McLaren. You have any idea what I had to go through?"
Her jaw dropped. "That was like six years ago. You are seriously holding on to that?"
"You scuffed the custom interior," Ray said. "Unforgivable."
Emma groaned and slapped the steering wheel. "Unbelievable. And why the hell are you a cop? You told me you were a painter and work in Real Estate."
Ray shrugged. "I am a painter. And a cop too. As for Real Estate, not anymore."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"It does in Brooklyn."
They glared at each other for another long moment. Then Emma's face softened, hurt creeping in. "Where the hell were you for the past six years? You didn't call. And when I tried your number, it was out of reach."
Ray shifted, his expression unreadable. He glanced at the sidewalk, then back at her. "That's complicated."
Emma leaned forward. "Try me."
Ray exhaled slowly, then shook his head. "Not here while I'm standing on Atlantic Avenue with my siren still flashing. People already think cops pull over celebrities for selfies."
Emma crossed her arms. "So turn it off."
Ray almost smiled. "You always were bossy."
"And you were always impossible." She gave a small, tight smile of her own. "Guess nothing's changed."
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[25 advance chs] [No double billing.]
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