At some point, he asks if I can identify either of the shooters. "There were two," I say, because by now they've told us that much, one dead at the scene, one still out there. "They were wearing masks," I say, which is the truth.
But I remember the way he moved, the way he held the gun like it was part of his body. I know that kind of muscle memory.
I know obsession when I see it. I don’t say any of that. I’m not here to guess.
He circles back to Cap, like maybe if he comes at it from a different angle, I’ll confess to something I missed. “You saw Holt go down?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try to render aid?”
The question isn’t accusatory, but it lands like a punch. I look at the glass. I look anywhere but his face.
“I couldn’t.” My jaw goes tight, tight enough I worry my molars will crack.
“Because you were under fire?”
“Because he was already gone.” I can’t tell if the detective is disappointed or relieved.
He flips another page. “You and Rosen were in the equipment room for—” another check—“thirty-one minutes before the police made entry.”
“That’s what the timeline says.” My hands are folded on the table, left over right, fingers interlocked. The skin is white where I’m squeezing too hard.
The detective finally leans back, the chair creaking under his weight. He stares at me for a long moment. “You did the right thing, you know.”
I want to ask if that’s what they tell everyone, if “the right thing” ever brings anyone back. But I just nod, because what else is there to do?
He asks a few more questions, some about the layout of the facility, some about whether I noticed anything unusual in the days leading up to the shooting.
I give him nothing, because there’s nothing to give.
After what feels like another hour, he snaps the file shut and says, “We’re done for now. We may need to talk again.”
I say, “Of course,” and stand, even though my legs are dead asleep and the rest of me isn’t far behind.
He doesn’t offer to walk me out. I’m not a suspect, but I’m not exactly a person, either.
I’m evidence, a piece of the puzzle. I open the door myself, step into the fluorescent-lit corridor, and follow the “EXIT” signs because what else do you do in a place like this.
———
The lobby is full of press. Not dozens, not hundreds, but enough to turn a quiet police precinct into a blast furnace of sound and light.
The second I step through the double doors, the swarm closes in, mics and phones thrust at my face, cameras popping so bright I can’t see shit.
“Darius, over here! Darius, can you comment on?”
“Were you aware of any threats?”
“How are the other survivors doing?”
“Is it true there's a second shooter still at large?”
I don’t answer any of them. My face is already a mask, one I’ve worn since I was old enough to realize that being Black in a locker room means you’re always being watched.
I make my body as large as possible, shoulders squared, head up, eyes straight ahead. I walk through them like I’m still skating, and they part just enough for me to get to the curb.
The team’s PR rep is waiting, her smile brittle as the air.
