"Stop," I say firmly, cupping her face and making her look at me. "You're not lying. Your body remembers even if your mind doesn't. The hospital records don't lie. The photos don't lie. You survived something terrible and you're here, and that's all that matters right now."
"Just breathe with me," I continue, my voice softer now. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you."
She follows my breathing pattern, her eyes locked on mine, using me as an anchor while the panic recedes. It takes several minutes, her body slowly unclenching, the immediate crisis passing. But she's exhausted, wrung out, barely staying upright.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to let her out of my sight. Not now, not when she's this vulnerable, not when Vincent is out there somewhere. But she needs space to breathe, needs to not be in this building with the paperwork and the officer and the constant reminder of what she survived.
"Go sit on that bench right there," I say, gesturing to the wooden bench just outside the station doors, visible through the glass windows. "Right where I can see you the whole time. I just have a few more things to speak with the officer about and then we'll go home."
She gives me a small nod.
"Two minutes," I promise, kissing her softly, a brief press of lips meant to reassure. "I'll be right there."
I watch her walk out of the station, tracking her movement through the window as she crosses to the bench and sits down heavily, her shoulders hunched. I can see her clearly, and only then do I turn back to the table where Dylan and the officer are waiting.
"How likely is this shit actually going to work?" I ask bluntly, dropping back into my chair. "Be honest. Is this piece of paper going to keep her safe or are we just going through the motions?"
The officer's expression turns grim. He glances toward the door where Amelia just left, then back to us, and sighs. "Not very likely, if I'm being honest. In my experience, someone like Vincent who's already demonstrated this level of obsession and willingness to violate boundaries, who's sent hundreds of threatening messages over months, who's escalating in his language and his attempts to locate her—he's going to take what he wants. A restraining order is just paper. It gives us legal grounds to arrest him immediately if he violates it, no questions asked. But it doesn't actually physically stop him from approaching her."
He taps the file folder in front of him. "What concerns me most is his law enforcement connections. He knows how restraining orders work, knows the limitations, knows how to work around the system. That makes him more dangerous, not less."
"Fuck," Dylan hisses, his hands clenching into fists on the table. "I hate this. I hate that we're doing everything right, following all the proper channels, and it still might not be enough to keep my sister safe."
The officer nods sympathetically. "I understand the frustration. What I can do is assign additional patrol units to your address." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "I noticed in the documentation that there are... biological factors that might make the next few days particularly concerning."
Both Dylan and I go very still. The officer continues quickly, keeping his voice clinical and professional. "I'm not asking for details. But if there's a time when she'll be more vulnerable than usual, when her scent might be stronger or her ability to defend herself compromised, we need to account for that in our protection strategy."
"She's going into heat," Dylan says flatly, his jaw tight. "Within the next twenty-four hours, probably sooner."
The officer nods like this confirms something he already suspected. "That's what I thought based on the timeline in the medical records and the urgency of filing today. Here's what you need to understand: if Vincent has been tracking her as obsessively as these messages suggest, he knows her cycle. Men like him, they track that information religiously. Birth control prescriptions, heat suppressant refills, calendar patterns—he'll have documented all of it."
My hands clench into fists on the table, rage making my vision white at the edges. The idea of Vincent tracking Amelia's most vulnerable moments, planning his attack around when she'd be least able to defend herself, makes me want to find him right now and end this permanently.
"I'll assign two additional patrol cars to your address," the officer says, making notes in his file. "Rotating shifts, twenty-four-hour coverage until the immediate threat passes. I'll also put out an alert to all units in the area with Vincent's description and vehicle information. If he's spotted anywhere near your neighborhood, we'll pick him up immediately."
"Thank you," Dylan says, his voice rough with emotion.
"I need to get her home," I say, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the linoleum with a harsh sound. "Dylan, if anything changes, if you hear anything about Vincent's location or movements..."
"I know," Dylan interrupts, standing as well. "I'll call immediately. The second I hear anything."
We walk out of the station together, the morning sun too bright after the fluorescent interior. Dylan is still talking, saying something about how he just wants Amelia to keep that smile on her face, how every day Vincent threatens her happiness. I'm nodding along, trying to engage, but something feels wrong.
That prickling awareness at the back of my neck, the one that kept me alive overseas, the one that says danger is close.
I look toward the bench where I left Amelia, expecting to see her sitting there waiting for us, maybe with her head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, recovering from the panic attack.
But the bench is empty.
My heart drops into my stomach, dread flooding through me in a cold rush. I spin, searching the area. The parking lot. The sidewalk. The street.
"Dylan," I say, my voice coming out strangled, barely more than a whisper. "Where is she?"
Dylan follows my gaze, confusion flickering across his face before it shifts to alarm. "What? She was right there. You told her to wait on the bench."
"She's gone." The words feel surreal leaving my mouth. Our cars are still parked in the lot, but Amelia isn't on the bench, isn't anywhere I can see.
I'm already pulling out my phone, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. One missed call from Amelia, received three minutes ago while we were still inside talking to the officer. Three minutes. She's been gone for three minutes and I didn't know.
