Police station

I’m not exactly a frequent flyer at police stations, but the moment we step inside, it all comes back. That smell—god, that smell. Like disinfectant fighting a losing battle with stale coffee and old stress. Monica's fingers are drumming on the armrest like she’s trying to summon patience. I’m trying not to look directly at the overhead lights, because those ancient fluorescent tubes are flickering like we’re in a low-budget horror movie. Seriously, what is it with cops and bad lighting? Ever heard of LEDs?

A young officer leads us to a private room, where a Black woman in her late thirties sits behind a desk. Her hair is tied up in a no-nonsense bun and she seems calm, but not cold. She even offers me a small, practiced smile.

“I’m Officer Bennett,” she says, like she’s done this a thousand times. “Let’s start from the beginning. Just tell me what happened, in your own words.”

I glance at Monica. She nods, and I take a breath so deep I swear it scrapes my ribs. I tell her everything. My voice shakes at first, but I get through it: meeting Trevor, the alley, and then... him.

I hesitate. How the hell do I say this without sounding like I’ve lost my mind? “There was this man,” I manage. “He pulled Trevor off me like he weighed nothing. Like, nothing. And then he... he threw him across the alley.”

Bennett’s pen stutters for just a second. Her eyes flick up at me, then back down. She doesn’t interrupt. Just waits, like she’s heard worse.

I finish the story, feeling wrung out. She types something into her computer.

“You’re brave for coming in,” she says, softer now. “What you’ve been through—we take this seriously. We’ll open a case and—”

She stops mid-sentence. Her eyes lock on her screen. Her mouth tightens, the kind of tight that means shit just got complicated.

“What is it?” Monica asks, sharp.

Bennett hesitates. When she speaks again, the warmth’s gone. “There’s been... a development.”

My stomach knots. “What kind of development?”

She swivels the monitor toward me. A photo—Trevor. A few years younger, but definitely him. He's smile seems authentic here, unlike the creepy grins I witnessed.

“Is this the man who attacked you?”

“Y-Yeah,” I blurt. “That’s him!”

She turns the screen back and her tone shifts, more clipped and careful now. “Trevor Jordan was found this morning. He’s deceased.”

I blink. “I—what? He's dead?”

“Dead,” she repeats, flat as cardboard. “Discovered in an alley not far from the one where you say the attack happened. Autopsy’s in. Cause of **** is natural causes. A heart attack, specifically.”

I just... stare. My brain won’t compute. “Wait... what? A heart attack?” I finally echo, voice too loud in the tiny room. “Are you kidding me? I told you—he was thrown across an alley. He hit the wall. Hard. That's hardly called natural causes...”

Bennett’s mouth twitches. She looks like she wants to say something but bites it back. I see it—just for a second—the cracks in her professional mask. There’s something in that report that’s rattled her, too. But she schools her face again.

“There were no injuries consistent with... what you’re describing,” she says. Like she’s reading off a script now. “The autopsy’s conclusive. No foul play. No case to pursue.”

Monica explodes. “I'm sorry, but that sounds like bullshit to me! He was only thirty or so! And you’re just fine with a heart attack?”

Bennett’s voice lowers, controlled but tight. “I understand your frustration. But the suspect is deceased. Your friend’s safe. That’s what matters.”

Safe. Right. Tell that to the pit of dread in my gut.

Monica’s getting heated. “And the guy who dragged him off? The guy who saved Thalia? What about him?”

“That’s... not our focus. The suspect is deceased. There’s no threat to pursue,” Bennett says, but she’s avoiding eye contact now, fiddling with her mouse, her collar, like she’s itching to be anywhere else.

I glance at Monica—her hands clenched white on the chair. “Let’s just go,” I mutter.

“Thalia, you can't—”

“Please,” I say, tugging at her sleeve. “There’s nothing more to get out of this.”

Monica shoots Bennett one last glare but follows me out.

Outside, the sky’s caught between storm and sunlight. Dark clouds swallowing the blue, wind starting to rise. Pretty much how my head feels right now.

So Trevor really is dead. The sick fuck who tried to hurt me is gone. So why do I feel anything but relief? Maybe because deep down, I knew. The second that stranger dragged him off, I knew.

He hadn’t just saved me. He’d finished the job.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hum of Monica’s car fills the silence as we head back to my apartment. Rain taps at the windshield, the wipers swiping it away in steady, tired arcs. Monica’s got both hands clenched tight on the wheel, jaw set hard. She’s been stewing the whole drive.

“I just can’t believe it,” she snaps, finally breaking the quiet. “That officer—Bennett, or whatever—what a joke. A guy tries to kill you, gets thrown into a wall by some mystery man, turns up dead the next morning, and they chalk it up to a heart attack? What the actual fuck is wrong with these people?”

I keep my eyes on the rain-smeared window, watching the city blur past. “I don’t think it’s incompetence,” I say, voice low. “It’s bigger than that. They don’t want us digging.”

Monica lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh, sure. Some grand conspiracy. Well, great. Now Trevor gets off easy. No rotting in prison, no payback. You know what happens to psychos like him in there…”

My chest tightens. Anger. And something else, coiled deeper. “He already got punished,” I mutter.

Monica glances at me, sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug, sinking back in the seat. “Nothing. Forget it.”

But she doesn’t let it go. “No, really. What are you feeling about all this? He’s dead. After what he did—after what he tried to do. Are you relieved? Angry? What?”

I stare at the wet streets ahead, the words forming before I even realize I’m thinking them.