Derrick pov
Jay sits too straight.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Not rigid—alert. Like every muscle is waiting for a signal only he can hear. His hands rest in his lap, fingers laced together, knuckles pale. He hasn’t looked at me once since the detectives sat down.
I stay quiet. Quiet has always been my advantage.
The detectives talk the way they always do—soft voices, careful words, circling questions that pretend they’re harmless. They ask Jay how he’s feeling. How recovery is going. Whether he’s been sleeping.
He answers automatically. Too smoothly.
Then one of them mentions the journalists.
“They’ve been asking again,” the detective says. “We’ve declined for now. Given the threats.”
Jay’s head snaps up.
Not toward the detective.
Toward me.
It’s quick, almost nothing, but I feel it like a hand around my throat. His breathing stutters. Words start spilling out of him, fast and tangled, like his mouth can’t keep up with his thoughts.
“I—I don’t want to talk to them, I mean not now, maybe later, I just—”
I don’t think.
I reach out.
My hand lands on his knee, firm but gentle, a grounding touch I’ve used before without him ever realizing it was me. His whole body freezes.
Jay looks down.
At my hand.
Then up—at the cops.
Then at me.
Something breaks across his face. Fear, yes—but also recognition. Not memory. Something worse. Instinct.
“I need the bathroom,” he says suddenly.
He stands so fast the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. He stumbles, knees buckling, and before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, catching his arm.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur.
Too quiet for anyone else to hear.
He pulls away and bolts down the hallway.
The room goes silent.
The detectives exchange a look. Mike shifts uncomfortably. Jay’s mum presses a hand to her mouth.
“What was that?” one of them asks.
I don’t answer.
Two minutes pass.
Then I follow.
I find him in the bathroom, hands gripping the sink, staring at his reflection like it might accuse him of something. His lips are moving.
“…don’t—stop—think—”
“Jay.”
He flinches like I touched him again.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “I’m okay. I just—needed a second.”
I close the door behind me.
“This isn’t your first time talking to cops,” I say carefully. “What’s different?”
He laughs once. Sharp. Broken.
“You,” he says.
The word hits harder than any accusation.
“What did I do?” I ask.
He shakes his head, frantic now. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I don’t know what I know. I just—when they started talking, it felt like—like I was about to say something I couldn’t take back.”
I study his face. The fear there isn’t for himself.
It’s for me.
“I just need one minute,” he says. “Please. Just one.”
I nod.
When we return, Jay is quieter. Focused. The rest of the questions pass without incident. The detectives leave with polite smiles and eyes that linger too long.
When the door finally closes behind them, Jay slides down against it, exhales like he’s been underwater.
“That was close,” he whispers.
I step closer. Too close.
“What was?” I ask.
He jumps, spinning toward me, eyes wide like he forgot I existed.
Nothing. Silence stretches between us.
For the next hour, I watch him.
He pretends everything is normal. Pretends I’m not here. But he keeps glancing at me when he thinks I’m not looking. Watching. Measuring.
Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle—
—and terrified of what the picture might be.
And for the first time since this all began, I don’t understand him.
Which means something has already gone wrong.
