And as Jade drifts off to sleep against my chest, I stare up at the foggy window and wonder if this is the last night we'll ever spend as free people.
CHAPTER 9- JADE
The police station smells like burnt coffee and despair.
I notice it the moment we walk through the doors, that unusual combination of stale air and industrial cleaner and the lingering anxiety of everyone who's ever sat in these plastic chairs. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that makes even Phoenix look slightly unwell.
We're holding hands. His grip is firm, reassuring, but I can feel the tension running through him.
The front desk is manned by a tired-looking officer who barely glances up as we approach. Phoenix gives our names, explains that we're here to see Detective Nowak, and the officer makes a phone call that seems to take forever. I study the wanted posters on the bulletin board behind him, the faded safety notices, the sign reminding visitors that weapons are prohibited. As if I needed another reason to feel like a criminal.
"Someone will be right with you," the officer says, gesturing toward a row of chairs along the wall. "Have a seat."
We sit. We wait. Phoenix's thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, a soothing rhythm that does nothing to calm the storm in my chest. I watch people come and go, officers inuniform, civilians with worried faces, a woman crying softly into her phone in the corner. Everyone here has a story. Everyone here is dealing with something terrible.
I wonder how many of them are lying about it.
The door to the back opens and a young officer emerges, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Crawford? Ms. Catalano?"
We stand together, but the officer shakes his head.
"We'll be speaking with you separately. Ms. Catalano, you'll be in Interview Room B. Mr. Crawford, you're in Room A."
My heart stops. We prepared for this possibility, Phoenix warned me they might try to separate us, but knowing it could happen and having it actually happen are two very different things. I feel my hand tighten convulsively around Phoenix's, and he squeezes back.
"It's fine," he murmurs, leaning close so only I can hear. "Just like we rehearsed. It'll be fine."
I nod, not trusting my voice. He releases my hand, and the loss of contact feels like losing a limb.
The officer leads me down a hallway lined with doors, each one identical, each one hiding God knows what behind its institutional gray surface. We stop at the third door on the left, and he pushes it open to reveal a small, windowless room that makes my chest tight.
A metal table sits in the center, bolted to the floor. Two chairs on one side, one on the other. A camera mounted in the corner, its red light blinking steadily. The walls are bare except for a mirror that I know is two-way glass, which means someone is probably watching me right now.
"Have a seat," the officer says. "The detectives will be with you shortly."
He leaves, and the door closes behind him with a click that sounds far too final.
I sit in the single chair, facing the mirror, and try to remember how to breathe. The air in here is stale and recycled. I can hear the faint hum of the ventilation system, the distant murmur of voices somewhere down the hall. My own heartbeat, pounding in my ears.
I wait.
Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time moves strangely in this room, stretching and contracting in ways that make me feel unmoored. I study the table, the scratches in its surface, the faint rings left by coffee cups. How many people have sat here before me? How many of them walked out free, and how many of them are sitting in prison cells right now?
The door opens.
Detective Nowak enters first, followed by Detective Reeves. They're carrying folders, notepads, cups of coffee that smell infinitely better than anything I've encountered in this building so far. Nowak takes the chair directly across from me while Reeves settles into the one beside him, slightly back, like he's just here to observe.
"Ms. Catalano," Nowak says, his sharp eyes meeting mine. "Thank you for coming in. We appreciate your cooperation."
"Of course." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too high and too thin. I clear my throat. "Whatever I can do to help."
"Can we get you anything? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
I'm the opposite of fine. But admitting that feels like admitting defeat.
Nowak opens his folder and glances at some papers inside. I try to read them upside down, but the angle is wrong and my eyes won't focus properly. Reeves is watching me with those kind grandfather eyes, and somehow that's worse than Nowak's sharp assessment. It feels like a trap.
