Cassian standing in front of the house in handcuffs? Oh, very much present.
Two officers flank him. A third stands directly in front. He's older, gray at the temples, straight-backed, exuding that tired authority cops wear like aftershave. Probably the lead investigator the others mentioned.
I instinctively step back, pressing against the trunk of a tree like that’ll somehow hide the grave rot still clinging to me. My gut twists. Not with guilt—okay, maybe a little—but mostly with a spiraling cocktail of panic and rage. Because if they takeCassian in, and they run his prints, and those prints lead to a trail of convenient corpses and warzone-grade destruction, then…
We’re screwed. All of us.
The lead officer steps closer to him. He’s older, solid, gray at the temples, with that weary, unshakeable cop posture. He looks like the kind of man who’s seen too much and learned to bury it.
His sunglasses come off slow.
Then he sees Cassian.
And his world visibly tilts.
“What the hell…” the man murmurs. His voice is soft. Cracked at the edges. “Cassian?”
Cassian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t answer. He just watches the man like a bad memory come to life.
A younger officer glances between them, frowning. “Detective? You know him?”
The man doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are locked on Cassian like he’s seeing a ghost and trying to decide if he wants it to be real.
Then, barely above a whisper:
“He’s my wife’s cousin.”
The silence that follows is sharp.
Cassian looks unchanged, but something shifts in him. A muscle clenches. A breath is held. Nothing visible, but I feel it. Like the air drops a few degrees.
“Sir?” the younger cop asks again, hesitant.
“Back off,” the older man says, still staring at Cassian. “Give me a moment.”
The others hesitate, then retreat.
When they’re gone, the man takes a single step forward. His voice is softer now. “You disappeared.”
Cassian’s mouth doesn’t move. His voice scrapes out like gravel. “After Sabine.”
That name—Sabine—rips the air open. Was it the name of his sister? Judging by the way the man flinches as if literally slapped, I’m inclined to believe so.
“You didn’t come to the funeral,” he says. “You didn’t call. No one knew where you went. And then... nothing. For years.”
“There was nothing left,” Cassian says flatly.
“I buried her,” the man says. “I stood there with your mother. Your sister in the ground, your name in the wind, and I had to explain that the last family she had left was gone.”
Cassian doesn’t speak.
“We dressed her in her favourite dress,” the man continues, quieter. “The one you gave her. Did you know that?”
Cassian closes his eyes for half a second. That’s all he gives away.
“They said you died with her,” the man says. “We held a second funeral. An empty coffin. Your mother collapsed.”
Still nothing from Cassian. But I see it: his fingers twitch, the smallest tremor in the cold soldier routine.
