For a second, I just stare. The words don’t register properly.Made an arrest.
Mum appears at the top of the stairs, her robe tied tightly around her, her voice trembling. “What did you say?”
The female officer offers a careful smile. “We’ve taken a suspect into custody. He’s being questioned tonight.”
Jordan appears behind me, arms crossed. “Who is it?”
“We can’t disclose that information right now,” she replies softly. “But we wanted to let you know that we’re making progress. You’ll be kept informed as the case develops.”
Mum grips the bannister so tightly her knuckles turn white. Tears spill down her cheeks. “They got him?” she whispers.
“We believe so, ma’am.”
Relief floods the atmosphere. Mum starts crying properly as she rushes down the stairs, the kind of shaking sob that’s half heartbreak, half release. I step forward, wrapping an arm around her, keeping her upright.
Jordan’s jaw tightens, eyes darting between the officers and me. “You think this’ll stick?” he asks.
The man nods. “The evidence is strong. We’ll know more once the interviews are complete.”
When they finally leave, closing the door softly behind them, Mum sinks into the nearest chair, her hands trembling.
“Maybe now we can finally bury him,” she whispers.
I nod, but my chest feels heavy. Because something about the officer’s tone, the rehearsed sympathy, the too-careful choice of words, doesn’t sit right.
I walk back into the kitchen, turn off the stove, and stare at the half-cooked meal.
We’ve got an arrest.
But for some reason, it doesn’t feel like justice. He still isn’t here.
WARREN
The restaurant is one of those private, members-only places that smells of money and hypocrisy. The lighting’s soft, the waiters silent, and the company is unbearable.
Nancy sits opposite me, wearing a dress that probably cost more than my car. Her father, Chief Winters, is seated to my right, his belly pressing against the edge of the table, his badge glinting faintly from the inside of his jacket pocket like a reminder that he’s both law and sin in equal measure. My own father sits at the head, calm and smug as ever.
I’ve been nursing the same glass of whiskey for half an hour, pretending to listen while the two patriarchs talk business—trade routes, inspections, favours owed. Deals wrapped in polite conversation and bloodstained handshakes.
“Warren,” my father says, his tone oily-smooth. “Chief Winters was just saying the next shipment could use a little… creative paperwork. You can handle that, can’t you?”
“Sure,” I mutter, eyes fixed on the amber liquid in my glass.
Nancy’s foot slides against mine under the table, deliberate, teasing. I shift slightly out of reach, pretending not to notice.
Then the Chief’s phone buzzes against the table. Once. Twice.
He glances at the screen, his face breaking into a small, satisfied grin. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he says, reading the message quickly. His tone turns smug. “Well, that’s timely.”
My father raises an eyebrow. “Good news, I hope?”
“Oh, very.” The Chief places the phone down carefully beside his plate. “Just got word from my team, they’ve made an arrest on our suspect.”
Nancy beams, toasting her glass of wine. “See, Daddy always delivers.”
I bite back my response, reminding them how much his help costs us each time.
My father’s smile widens, slow and deliberate. “Excellent work. I knew I could count on you.”
