“Because he had his hands on someone who didn’t want him there.”
He snorted. “That’s what you tell yourself?”
“Doesn’t matter what I tell myself.” I shrugged as much as the cuffs would allow. “It’s what happened.”
He made a noise that was halfway between disbelief and annoyance, then moved off to help his partner roll the guy into the recovery position, check his pupils, shine lights into his eyes. The distant wail of an approaching ambulance began tocut through the trees, thin at first, then growing louder, weaving through the night.
Three minutes later, I was face down in the snow, handcuffed, while the guy I stopped was being rolled into the back of an ambulance. They hadn’t asked me once if I was okay. Didn’t really need to. I was standing. He wasn’t. That told them everything they thought they needed to know.
My cheek pressed into the cold ground, and for a second, I let myself just feel it, the bite of ice against my skin, the sting of the cut on my neck, the ache blooming in my ribs. A paramedic’s radio crackled somewhere above us. The stretcher squeaked as they slid it into place.
“On three,” someone said. “One, two, three….”
The guy groaned as they lifted him. I heard someone say,“possible concussion,” “fractured cheekbone,” “might have a broken nose.”They didn’t use words like “attacker.”They used“male,” “patient,” and “subject.”
The taller officer hauled me up by the arm once they were done, not rough, but not gentle either. My shoulders protested. My hands had gone numb behind me. He steered me toward the squad car parked at the edge of the road. The blue and red lights spun lazily, painting the snow in pulses of color. The bike sat off to the side, half in the ditch, forgotten for now.
“Do you have any weapons on you?” he asked.
“Just my hands,” I said dryly.
He didn’t laugh.
He patted me down anyway, professional, impersonal. Found my keys, my lighter, my wallet. Pulled it out, flipped it open, glanced at the ID.
“Jaxon Ward,” he read. I heard the recognition in his voice. The way his tone shifted just slightly. “You’ve been in trouble before.” Not a question.
“Yeah,” I said. “You gonna pretend that’s surprising?”
He didn’t answer that. Just shook his head and nudged me toward the back seat of the car. The interior smelled like stale coffee and disinfectant. The vinyl was cold against the back of my legs as I sat, the cuffs digging into my wrists when I tried to adjust. The door shut with a heavy thunk, sealing me into a bubble of my own breath and the distant, muffled sounds of people doing their jobs.
Flashlight guy walked past the car, glanced in at me once. His eyes were full of the story he’d already written.
Another thug.
Another violent piece of shit.
Another statistic.
Outside the window, the trees stood silent, snow catching in their branches. The path where it all went down was already starting to look different, the evidence softening at the edges.
The ambulance doors slammed shut. The siren wound up again, long, and low, then rose as the vehicle pulled away, carrying him off to a warm bed and morphine and sympathetic nurses.Me?I got a ride downtown.
The squad car jostled as the officer climbed in, radio crackling. He spoke into it, confirming we were en route to the station with one in custody. My name crackled back at me, detached and official, like it belonged to someone else.
As we pulled onto the road, I turned my head as far as the barrier behind me would allow and looked toward the trees one last time. She wasn’t there. No flash of a coat, no pale face, no wide eyes. Just snow, and shadows, and the ghost of her footsteps already fading.
And she was gone.
Four~Aftermath
Mara
IDidn’t Sleep. Not Really. I spent the night on the couch, coat still on, lights off, legs pulled to my chest. The radiator hissed and clanked like it always does, but it sounded louder, harsher, like the building itself was restless.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even hours after I locked the door behind me. Every time I closed my eyes, it was there again. The path. The hand in my coat. The snap of my scarf tightening around my throat.
And then the impact, him crashing into the man who had me. The sound of bodies hitting frozen ground. Fists. Grunts. That roar. I must’ve made tea at least four times. I’d push myself off the couch, legs unsteady, and go through the motions: fill the kettle, click it on, stare at the counter while the light flickered red. Pick a mug. Grab a teabag. Wait for the boil. Pour.
