Chapter 3: The Rotation
April , 2018 - Talia Bishop's Shop
Bishop drove with the radio volume low, scanning intersections like she was reading a book. Methodical. Professional. Everything about her screamed "by the book."
"Lopez says you have good instincts," she said without looking at me. "Bradford says you're learning but soft. I'm here to see which one's right."
"Both, probably."
She glanced over. "Self-aware. That's a start."
The call came in twenty minutes later. Domestic disturbance, neighbor heard screaming. Standard Tuesday morning in South LA.
The apartment door opened before we knocked. Woman in her thirties, bruise forming under her left eye, cradling her arm wrong.
"I'm fine," she said immediately. "Just clumsy. Fell down the stairs."
My chest clenched. Sharp, uncomfortable pressure right behind my sternum. The lie detection had been firing randomly all week—anxiety, excitement, even caffeine sometimes triggered false positives. But this felt different. Specific.
She's lying. She's protecting someone.
Bishop's expression stayed neutral. "Ma'am, can we come in? Make sure you're okay?"
"Really, I'm fine." The pressure in my chest intensified. Another lie. "My husband's at work. I was just rushing this morning and—"
"Is there anything else you want to tell us?" The words came out before I'd planned them. "We can help."
Bishop shot me a look. I kept my eyes on the woman.
She crumbled. Tears first, then words spilling out about her husband's temper, the escalating violence, the fear. Bishop guided her inside while I called for backup and medical.
The husband arrived home twenty minutes later. Walked right into the arrest.
Talia Bishop's POV
Mercer had read that woman like an open file. No visible cues I'd caught—the bruise could've been from a fall, the arm position ambiguous. But he'd known she was holding back.
"You read people well," I told him after we'd cleared the scene.
"Just asked the right question."
"It was more than that." I pulled back onto the main road. "You knew she was lying before she finished the sentence. How?"
His hands twisted in his lap. Nervous tell. "Gut feeling?"
"Officer Mercer, I've trained six boots. The good ones develop instincts after months of experience. You're on day four." I kept my tone even. Not accusing. Curious. "So either you're exceptionally gifted, or there's something you're not telling me."
Silence filled the shop. He stared out the window, jaw working.
"My mom used to say our family noticed things other people missed," he said finally. "Maybe it runs in the blood."
Deflection. But I'd pushed enough. Everyone had secrets. As long as his didn't endanger anyone, I could work with mysterious instincts.
"Alright. Just remember—trust your gut, but verify with evidence. Feelings don't hold up in court."
"Yes, ma'am."
Day Six - Angela Lopez's Shop
Lopez picked me up with coffee already waiting in the cupholder. Large black, no sugar. My exact order.
"Figured I'd return the favor," she said. "Since you're keeping tabs on everyone's preferences."
"Thanks." I sipped. Perfect temperature.
"So." She pulled into traffic. "Let's talk about day one. The knife call."
My stomach dropped. "What about it?"
"How did you know?" Her eyes stayed on the road, but the question had weight. "And don't say instinct. I've been doing this twelve years, and nobody's instincts are that good right out of the academy. Especially not someone who's never been in a real fight before."
The lie detection hummed in my chest—she genuinely wanted to understand, not trap me. But the danger sense whispered warnings about exposure.
"My mom used to say our family had good timing." The same line I'd used with Bishop. It was becoming my go-to deflection. "Maybe I inherited it?"
Lopez laughed. Sharp, without humor. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She drove in silence for three blocks. Red light. She turned to face me fully.
"Look, Mercer. I don't care if you're psychic, lucky, or just freakishly observant. What I care about is whether I can trust you to have my back. Can I?"
"Yes."
No lie detection fired. Because I meant it completely.
"Good." The light changed. She drove. "Then I'll drop it. For now."
Day Seven - Mid-Wilshire Station
"Mercer's Luck strikes again!" Jackson West's voice carried across the bullpen.
I looked up from my report. Jackson grinned, waving a file folder.
"What?"
"The plate number you remembered from that hit-and-run three days ago? Partial plate, barely legible photo, witness mentioned it once in passing?" He dropped the folder on my desk. "You recalled it perfectly. We got the guy."
Lucy Chen leaned over from her desk. "How do you even do that? I have a good memory and I couldn't pull a partial plate from three calls ago."
"I just—" I shrugged. "I remember things."
"Mercer's Luck," Jackson repeated, like he was trying out a stage name. "The universe just hands you wins."
"It's not luck." But my protest came out weak.
"Sure it isn't." Lucy's grin was all teeth. "And I'm sure you'll keep getting 'lucky' while the rest of us work for our wins."
Sergeant Grey emerged from his office. His eyebrow—that skeptical, evaluating eyebrow I'd seen on TV—rose as he caught the conversation's tail end.
"Officer Mercer. A word."
Oh no.
His office smelled like old coffee and paperwork. Grey settled behind his desk, fingers steepled.
"Seventeen calls in seven days. You've had 'lucky breaks' on eight of them. That's nearly fifty percent." He leaned forward. "You want to explain how a boot fresh out of the academy has better statistical outcomes than officers with years of experience?"
"I pay attention, sir."
"Everyone pays attention. Not everyone spots knives before they're drawn or recalls witness statements from three days ago word-for-word." The eyebrow rose higher. "You're either the luckiest rookie I've ever seen, or you're not telling me something."
The danger sense pulsed. Not physical danger. Career danger. If Grey decided I was a liability, I'd be reassigned. Everything I'd planned would fall apart.
"Sir, I'm just trying to do good work. If my methods are—"
"Your methods are fine. Results are fine. It's the consistency that's unusual." He sat back. "I'm watching you, Mercer. Keep your nose clean."
"Yes, sir."
Evening - Nolan's Porch
Nolan handed me a beer. Cheap stuff, but cold. We sat on his porch watching the sun turn the smog orange and purple.
"Heard Grey pulled you in," he said.
"News travels fast."
"Small station. Everyone knows everything." He took a long drink. "You worried?"
"Should I be?"
"Grey's fair. He's just... cautious about things that don't add up." Nolan studied me. "You are kind of unnaturally good at this."
"You think I'm cheating somehow?"
"No. I think you've got something the rest of us don't. And I think it scares you that people are noticing." He set his beer down. "Am I close?"
Close enough to be dangerous. "It's just been a weird week."
"Week one is always weird. Week two's when the real work starts." He smiled that earnest Nolan smile. "But we're gonna make it through this, neighbor. All of us."
The transmigration secret sat heavy in my chest. Nolan was a good man. He deserved honesty. But honesty would get me committed to psychiatric evaluation.
"Thanks for the beer," I said instead.
"Anytime."
I walked back to my mansion. Too big, too empty, filled with someone else's furniture and someone else's life. But it was mine now. This whole world was mine.
Just have to figure out how to live in it without exposing what I am.
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