But then I thought about her. The way she’d looked back, just once, before running. Eyes wide, chest heaving, scarf askew. The way she’d fought, even when it was obvious she was outmatched.
If I left now, what would that make me?
No better than anyone who pretends they don’t hear a scream. I scrubbed a hand over my face, jaw throbbing. The metallic taste of blood lingered on my tongue. My knuckles had already started to swell, skin split in a few places.
“Shit,” I muttered.
That’s when the headlights came around the bend. Twin beams swept through the trees, too white to be anything but a car with its brights on. They cut across the trunks in streaks, then splashed over us, me standing, him sprawled on the ground.Cops.
Because, of course, someone had called. Not her. No way she had time. She’d been running, and she should’ve been. But someone else, maybe a neighbor, heard the screams. Maybe a dog walker. Maybe a kid home from college who looked out the window at the right moment. Maybe Christmas miracles come with flashing blue lights.
The car doors opened in near unison. Two officers stepped out. One had a flashlight already in hand, beam slicing through the falling snow. The other, taller, kept his hand near his holster.
“Hey!” the one with the flashlight shouted. “Step away from him! Now!”
I raised my hands before they told me to. It didn't matter. Reflex from an old life. From too many nights ending with myarms in the air, fingers spread, trying to look less like trouble than everyone assumed I was.
“Easy,” I called back, forcing my voice steady. My breath puffed in front of me. “He was attacking a woman. I stopped him.”
They didn’t care about my explanation. They cared about what they saw. Flashlight guy swept the beam over the guy on the ground, took in the blood, the bruises already blooming, the ways his limbs sprawled. Then the light jerked up to my face, pausing on the line of red along my temple, the bruise already forming on my jaw, the split skin over my knuckles.
He narrowed his eyes. “Put your hands on your head,” he barked. “Step back. Slowly.”
I did as told. Fingers laced behind my head, I took two deliberate steps back, boots crunching. My heart hadn’t quite slowed from the fight, and now it started hammering for a different reason.
The taller officer moved in, staying angled so he could see both of us. His hand never strayed far from his weapon. He checked the guy on the ground first, two fingers to the throat.
“He’s got a pulse,” he said. “Radio for an ambulance.”
Flashlight guy relayed it into his shoulder mic, voice clipped and professional, spelling out the location, the condition. “Male, mid-twenties, unconscious, possible head trauma, extensive facial injuries.” Extensive. Yeah. Fair.
The taller officer stood, turned his attention fully on me.
“Turn around,” he said. “Face the trees.”
“I told you,” I said, keeping my voice level. “He was dragging her off the path. I stopped him. She ran.”
“Turn around,” he repeated. No give. No interest.
I sighed and turned, staring into the dark line of trunks. Snow drifted down, collecting in my eyelashes. My breath felt loud in my own ears. Cold metal kissed my wrists a second later. Thesound of the cuffs clicking shut, once, twice, echoed in my bones. Old familiarity. Old shame.
The officer, tall, young, nervous if you knew what to look for, read me my rights like he was reciting from a cue card.
“You’re under arrest for aggravated assault,” he said. His voice only stumbled once, over a legal term he’d probably practiced in the mirror. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say….”
“I saved her,” I muttered, mostly to myself. To the trees. To the universe. “She was screaming. I stopped him.”
He didn’t respond. Not really. Just kept going like I hadn’t spoken, like my words were interference on a channel he couldn’t tune to. Because that’s not how the world works when you look like me.Leather jacket. Bruised knuckles. Blood on my shirt. Riding a motorcycle alone after dark.
Doesn’t matter what you did. It only matters what it looks like. And from where they’re standing. It looks bad.
Flashlight guy came up beside us, shining the beam over me again, slower this time. Taking in the scuffed boots, the worn jeans, the scar on my face that might as well be a neon sign to guys like him.
He jerked his chin toward the ground. “You do all that?”
I didn’t bother lying. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
