“Oh, Ingrid, it’s never Tristian who’s hurt when he’s at the station.”He let out a bitter laugh.“He took his anger out on the wrong person and got himself placed in time-out to cool off.”
“Are you sure he’s okay?” I pressed, my hand trembling.
“Ingrid,”he cut me off, his tone flat.“Tristian’s my son. When the police tell me they’ve had to bring him in for fighting, I don’t bat an eyelid. It’s typical. He gets into a dispute, it leads to a fight. I ask how long they’ll keep him, they make me pay a fine for babysitting. Do me a favor and take him home. I’ve dealt with this too many times. It gets tiring after the third time in a month.”
I nodded into the empty hallway, a hollow “Yes, sir,” escaping my lips before he hung up.
My mind raced. I knew Tristian had a temper, knew he was a fighter, but the thought of him in a cell felt heavier.
I grabbed my keys and shoes, rushing out the door before I could talk myself out of thefear.
The police station was a chaotic blur of fluorescent lights and shouting. I pulled my sweater sleeves down over my hands, trying to make myself smaller as officers hurried past me. I felt entirely out of place.
I approached the front desk, clearing my throat when the officer didn’t look up. He finally glanced at me, his brow furrowing. “Can I help you?”
“I, uh... I’m here for Tristian.”
The man checked his files, sighed, and stood up. “Did Locke send you?”
I nodded.
“Follow me.”
He led me through a heavy door into the back, where the air felt colder and smelled of stale coffee and industrial cleaner.
We stopped at a cell near the end. Tristian was sitting on the floor, his back against the bars, head tilted back and eyes closed.
“Hey,” the officer barked.
I jumped, but Tristian only cracked one eye, looking utterly bored—until he saw me.
The guard rattled the keys in the lock and swung the door open. “You’ve been bailed. Your father sent someone to get you.”
The officer walked away, leaving us in a heavy silence.
Tristian didn’t move at first as he stared.
“Tristian...” I whispered.
He stood, his movements fluid but heavy. “Ingrid.”
My eyes immediately dropped to his hands. The knuckles of his unbandaged fist were split and bruised, the skin raw. The bandaged one was bloody too, and poorly tied. It looked like he’d almost torn it off in the fight that had landed him here, reopened the wound I taped closed earlier, and had maybe re-tied it while he sat cooped up in here.
“What did you do?” I whispered.
He let out a long, ragged sigh. “I didn’t want you to see me like this, doll.”
“What happened?” I pressed.
Tristian hesitated, his gaze shifting away. “I had a run-in with a guy I know from the gym. An asshole named Brandon.”
“What did he do?”
Tristian wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Talked shit. It’s what he does.” He cracked his neck left and right. “Doesn’t really matter. I was already worked up before he even opened his mouth.” He stole a glance at me, then down the corridor. Before I could ask what he meant, he said, “Let’s get out of here. I’ve seen enough of this place for a damn lifetime.”
He strode past me and out. I hurried to follow, not glancing into any of the other cells.
Tristian exchanged words with an officer leaning against the desk, who warned him not to get into any more fights as he handed back Tristian’s phone. Tristian growled something back and was out the door, me right on his heels.
