“I’ll be there.”
I ended the call. I stood there, the air in the bathroom suddenly too thick. My reflection in the mirror looked pale and tired, hair wild from the night, eyes sharp with urgency.
I needed to move. To do something. All the heaviness pressing down on me—the night with Fox, the conversation, the scar, the storm of feelings I didn’t know how to confront—it all needed somewhere to go.
I needed to go.
I crept back into the bedroom, careful not to make a sound. Fox was still fast asleep, his snore confirming that, one arm stretched across the space I’d vacated. His face looked so calm in sleep, his lashes dark against his cheeks.
I yearned to crawl back into bed. To let him hold me. To feel that comfort.
But I couldn’t.
I got dressed in the quiet, pulling on the first clothes I could find. Tucking my phone into my pocket, I turned back to him one last time.
“I’m sorry.” My whispered apology was barely audible.
Fox stirred slightly, but he didn’t wake.
Then, I slipped out the door and into the morning.
Thecinderblockhallwaysofthe county sheriff’s office were dim and still, the overhead lights flickering to life as we passed beneath them. My boots clicked on the linoleum, each step echoing around us. Detective Whize walked beside me, holding a coffee in one hand and his ID badge in the other, which he scanned against the evidence room door.
“You holding up okay?” he asked casually as the lock buzzed and the heavy door clicked open.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He’d kept his tone light, conversational, but the knot in my stomach had gotten tighter since his call.
“I’m fine,” I said out of habit as we stepped inside the evidence storage.
Rows upon rows of metal shelving stretched before us, all labeled with faded stickers and handwritten case numbers. The room smelled like dust and something vaguely metallic.
“We’re still working on figuring out who’s responsible for the cameras.” Whize’s face soured. “I hate that that happened to you.”
He took another sip of his coffee, looking about as tired as I felt. Purple smudges shadowed his eyes. His usually clean-shaven jaw was peppered with facial hair. The weight of that stone made of consolidated guilt in my chest got even heavier. Brandon had been working so hard for me, with me, during this whole process.
I hadn’t even thanked him.
I opened my mouth to rectify that, but a young evidence tech rushed around a corner at that moment. She was probably in her late twenties, with her hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail. Her face lit up when she saw Brandon.
“Detective Whize.” She nodded in greeting.
“Morning, Bridget.” He gave her a warm smile that I swore caused poor Bridget to blush. “Thanks for doing this so early.”
“No problem.” She cleared her throat. “Please, follow me.” She led us confidently down a few rows.
I eyed the boxes of evidence, stunned how much was stored here. The sheer number of cases made my chest ache.
“This is the one.” The tech broke the silence as she reached for a gray box halfway up the shelf. She handled it with care, glancing briefly at me, then Whize, as if silently asking for confirmation.
Whize inspected the case number. “That’s it.”
The tech led us out of the maze of shelves and into a small viewing room off to the side. There were no windows—only a metal table, two chairs, and a single camera tucked in the corner.
Bridget placed the box down gently and turned toward the door. “I’ll make sure to log it.” She pulled a pair of disposable gloves from a wall-mounted dispenser. “One of you will need to wear these if you’re handling anything.”
“I’ve got it,” Whize said before I could even reach for them. He tugged them on with practiced ease. “She’s just here to look.”
Bridget nodded, seeming relieved. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
