The police don’t come right away.
They call.
That’s how I know something’s wrong.
I’m sitting on the couch when my phone vibrates in my hand, the screen lighting up with a number I don’t recognize—but I already know who it is. I always do. My body reacts before my brain can catch up. My chest tightens. My mouth goes dry.
“Jay,” the detective says when I answer, voice calm, practiced. “Just checking in. We’d like to stop by later today. Ask a few more questions.”
Later today.
Not if. Not when it’s convenient. Later.
“Okay,” I say, because that’s what I always say. Because anything else feels like guilt.
I hang up and stare at my phone like it might explain something to me if I look long enough.
This isn’t the first time they’ve called. Since the bodies started showing up, since the word Justice started appearing on the news in red letters I can’t look at for too long, they’ve checked on me more than once. They’re polite. Careful. Like I’m something fragile they don’t want to break again.
But this time feels different.
I look toward the kitchen.
Derrick is there, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, dark hair falling into his eyes while he scrolls on his phone like nothing in the world is wrong. Like there aren’t detectives memorizing my address. Like there aren’t Friday nights stained with things I don’t remember.
The thought of him sitting across from a cop makes my stomach twist.
I don’t know why.
I just know I don’t want it to happen.
“They’re coming,” I say, my voice sounding smaller than I mean it to.
Derrick looks up. “Who?”
“The police.”
The word hangs between us, heavy and sharp.
He doesn’t tense. Doesn’t flinch. He just watches me, like he’s waiting for me to finish a sentence I haven’t started yet.
“You should… maybe go out,” I say. Too quickly. “Just for a bit.”
His brow furrows. “Why?”
“I don’t want them asking about you.”
Silence.
Mike’s footsteps sound down the hall, but he doesn’t enter the room yet. I’m suddenly aware of how loud my breathing is, how hard my heart is working just to keep me upright.
“They’re not here for me,” Derrick says slowly.
“I know,” I say. Except I don’t. Not really.
He steps closer. Not threatening. Just close enough that I can smell him—that same familiar scent that makes something in my chest loosen even when my thoughts are spiraling.
“Jay,” he says quietly, “what do you think they’ll ask me?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
That’s the worst part. I don’t know anything.
I don’t know who hurt me.
I don’t know why those men are dead.
I don’t know why my instincts are screaming to protect the person I should probably be afraid of.
“Do you think I did something?” Derrick asks.
The question lands too cleanly. Too accurately.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
I hate myself for that silence.
Mike appears in the doorway then, eyes darting between us. He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw tightens like he already knows what’s coming.
“They’ll be here soon,” I say, barely louder than a whisper.
Derrick straightens. His expression changes—not fear, not anger. Something sharper. Something resolved.
“I’m not leaving,” he says.
“I didn’t ask you to,” I lie.
The house goes quiet again. Waiting.
Somewhere outside, a car passes. Somewhere down the street, a door slams. Normal sounds. Normal life.
And here I am, standing in my living room, trying to protect a man I can’t remember meeting… from questions I’m terrified to answer… about crimes I don’t believe he committed—
—but can’t stop feeling connected to.
The knock hasn’t come yet.
But I can already feel it in my bones.
