Chapter 2: Shattered Images, Bitter Truths

After the investigation, they cleared me. Relieved wasn’t even the word; it felt like someone had cut the weights from my ankles and let me finally breathe.

As for that jerk Marcus Evans—

Tax evasion, human trafficking, running a criminal organization. The local news ran his mugshot on loop—Channel 7, right after the weather. They called him a menace, the kind of guy who made neighbors lock their doors. First estimate: at least life without parole. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

He wasn’t dumb; he ran right away. I pictured him bolting into the night, expensive shoes pounding on cracked pavement, not even glancing back.

In the precinct’s office, everyone was talking about it. I sat at the break table, clutching my coffee, restless. The cup was too hot and too thin, and my hands shook a little. The cheap plastic chairs squeaked every time someone shifted, and the whole place buzzed with gossip.

Suddenly, someone called out cheerfully, “Hey, Derek’s girlfriend’s here!”

A few young officers in uniform crowded around a long-haired girl as she walked in. They stood up straighter, cracking jokes and elbowing each other like high schoolers at prom.

She looked like she’d wandered out of a summer bridal shoot—white sundress, sandals, not a speck of this place’s grime on her. She seemed to float above it all, untouched by the station’s chaos.

She shyly walked up to Derek and handed him a lunch box. Homemade, probably—something with love and effort in every bite. The kind of thing I’d never brought him.

Oh.

His girlfriend had arrived. The room seemed to brighten and dim at the same time. Even the crustiest old sergeant went a little soft, glancing her way with a faint smile.

Derek’s eyes softened, a smile tugging at his lips. “You came.”

She said softly, “You better eat this before it gets cold. I slaved over it, you know.”

“You don’t have to do this next time.”

Derek pinched her cheek, his face full of affection. The casual intimacy made something twist in my chest. He’d never looked at me like that—not once, not in public.

...

I looked away, cheeks burning, suddenly aware of every flaw in my own reflection in the breakroom’s grimy window. The coffee suddenly tasted like ash, bitter and old. My knuckles turned white around the cup.

Everyone around me kept chatting and laughing. It was so loud. The kind of laughter that stings—sharp, uninvited, ringing in your ears. I tried to tune it out, but it pressed in from every side, leaving me alone in a room full of people.