Tristan's POV
The fluorescent lights of the precinct hummed, a flat, oppressive drone that grated on my nerves. I sat on a hard plastic chair, my hands clasped between my knees, the faint smell of stale coffee and disinfectant thick in the air. Time stretched and blurred. Then the door creaked open, and Marc walked in, his face a mask of barely contained fury. His usually impeccable suit jacket was slightly rumpled, his tie askew. It was a bad sign.
“Tristan,” he said, his voice low, each syllable chipped from ice. He didn’t sit down. He just stood there, towering over me.
“Marc,” I mumbled, my throat tight.
“Do you have any idea the mess you’ve made?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.
I wanted to explain, to tell him what really happened. “He grabbed her, Marc. He wouldn’t let go.”
