Everyone saw the way Ghost toyed with me, the way he pushed and prodded until he found the cracks in my armor. Shame warms my cheeks, and I avert my gaze. It takes me a moment, but once I regain my composure, I look at the detective.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” I shrug, trying to dismiss Allen’s concern. “Ghost really knows how to manipulate someone, I’ll give him that. In the end it doesn’t matter because saving Anna Lee is the goal.”
The detective’s frown deepens. He steps closer, his tone gentle. “Ghost made things personal to throw you off your game. And he knew things about you that he shouldn’t. He’s more dangerous than I originally thought.”
His words hit harder than I expect, and for a moment, I’m not sure how to respond. I want to tell Allen that I’m fine, that I’m still in control. But even as I try to form the words, I know they’re not true. Not entirely.
“You did good in there,” he continues. “Better than most people would have. Don’t let him get to you. He’s just another criminal wanting attention, but you never have to see him again.”
I nod, though the relief I expect doesn’t come. Instead, there’s just a hollow, gnawing emptiness, a sense that something is slipping away from me, something vital. I want to ignore it, to focus on the mission, but the weight of Ghost’s words lingers like a shadow, dark and inescapable.
“I’ll be fine.” The words feel like a lie. “Getting back to work is what I need right now.”
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. There’s no shame inneeding some time. Are you sure you don’t want to take the rest of the day?”
I shake my head. “Being alone with my thoughts is the worst thing I can imagine.”
The detective holds my gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable, as if he’s considering whether to push further. But then he nods. “All right. Let’s check in on the team and see where they’re at.”
We step outside, the fresh air biting against my cheeks, offering a brief reprieve from the oppressive atmosphere of the prison. Allen looks at me again.
“I know I already said it, but you really did good in there. I wouldn’t have lasted long before losing my shit.”
The cemetery is quiet.
It’s the kind of silence that seeps into your blood and flows through your veins, until you’re either overcome with grief or peace. I’ve had a lot of experience with the former and none of the latter.
The traffic after work was abysmal as always, but there’s no relief in arriving at my destination. I wave off the driver, who’s quick to leave, his tires squealing against the cracked pavement as he takes off. The neighborhoods surrounding the grave site are crumbling with broken windows and graffiti has been scrawled across the walls in angry bursts of color.
The cemetery bears the same weight of neglect. The headstones are simple, most of them weathered and worn, some of them barely legible. Weeds grow unchecked between slabs of granite, and the grass is overgrown, needing to be mowed.
This area, on the outskirts of the city, has been forgotten by anyone with the means to make a difference. It’s not a thing of beauty, but of necessity, a final resting place for those who had nowhere else to go. For all of its flaws, there’s a stark reality to it that I haven’t found in the polished parts of the city.
I walk down one of the narrow paths, careful not to trip on the uneven ground. Once I leave the pavement, my high heels sink into the grass and soft earth, and the fog becomes thicker. Heavier. Matching the weight constantly bearing down on me.
I used to come here often. Despite the pain. The anger. The loss.
Then my obsession with studying criminals and their patterns grew like the weeds underneath my feet: wild and unrestricted.
After the day I’ve had, I need to be here. I need to speak to my parents, choosing to believe they can hear me even if they can’t respond.
When I reach their graves, I stop, standing there for a moment, simply staring at the headstones. Their names are carved neatly into the marble, along with dates that mark the beginning and end of their lives. I kneel, brushing away a few fallen leaves from the stone, and sit back on my heels.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” My voice is quiet. Full of longing. “It’s been a long time since I’ve visited. I’m sorry about that. And for the way I acted last time.”
A year ago, I came to grieve.
A year ago, I lost control.
A year ago, I questioned my sanity.
I can still see it in my mind as clearly as if it happened yesterday: the crushed beer cans, the cigarette butts, the remnants ofsomeone’s careless night left to rot on the graves of the two people who meant the most to me. Like they were just another piece of trash to be discarded. Something inside me snapped. Whatever I’d kept tightly wound since my childhood momentarily broke loose.
I’d driven here with the intention of spending the day with my parents, telling them how much I missed them, how I was trying to make them proud. But when I saw the mess, the complete and utter disrespect, all I could see was red.
I didn’t think. I just acted.
I remember yanking open the trunk of my car, grabbing the baseball bat I keep there for protection, and marching back to their graves. The first swing shattered a beer bottle, the glass spraying across the headstones like a rain of jagged shards. The second swing took out the plastic table someone had dragged over, the pieces splintering under the force of my anger. I kept swinging, kept smashing, kept destroying until there was nothing left but debris and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
