At thirty-four years old, after eight years as a paramedic in Chicago’s South Side, Tristan Valentine had seen more death and trauma than most people witness in a lifetime. Gunshot wounds, overdoses, car crashes mangled beyond recognition—he’d treated them all with steady hands and a clear mind, compartmentalizing the horror so he could function, so he could save the lives that could still be saved. But nothing in his training, nothing in all those years of emergency response, had prepared him for what he’d find on a humid Tuesday evening in August when dispatch sent him to the Whitmore Hotel.
The morning had started ordinarily enough. Tristan had kissed his wife Colette goodbye at their Lincoln Park townhouse, watching as she applied her makeup with the practiced precision of someone who did this every day, who had her routine down to a science. Her blonde hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends.
She’d been beautiful when they met seven years ago at a hospital fundraiser, and she was beautiful now, five years into their marriage. She worked in event consulting—a vague career that seemed to involve irregular hours and frequent overnight trips but paid well, sometimes suspiciously well for someone whose job description Tristan had never fully understood. “Another late night?” he’d asked, leaning against the bathroom doorframe as she finished her lipstick.
“Client dinner. Probably won’t be home until eleven.” She’d kissed his cheek, leaving a burgundy mark he’d wipe away later. “Don’t wait up.”
It was a familiar refrain, one that had become increasingly common over the past two years.
The late nights, the weekend work trips, the vague explanations about demanding clients and last-minute emergencies. Tristan had pushed down his suspicions, telling himself he was being paranoid, that Colette was simply ambitious and driven. That’s what he’d loved about her when they first met—her confidence, her hunger for success, her determination to build something meaningful.
His partner Devon Davies had noticed Tristan’s distraction during their shift. At forty-two, with fifteen years on the job, Devon had mentored Tristan through the worst calls, the ones that stayed with you long after the shift ended. They were restocking the ambulance at the station when Devon tossed him a protein bar and said, “You’re somewhere else today, man.
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