Chapter Two
1452 Words
The door slammed shut behind me with a final, mechanical sound.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Definitive.
The interior light of the patrol car flicked on, washing the backseat in a harsh white glow. Vinyl stuck to the backs of my legs where my skirt rode up. The air smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, a sterile attempt to erase whatever had happened to the people who’d sat here before me.
It didn’t work.
My wrists throbbed where the cuffs bit into them. I shifted, testing the space, but there was nowhere to go. The divider between the front and back seats was solid, unyielding. A barrier meant to keep things contained.
Me included.
The door on the other side opened. An officer slid in beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t say anything. Just pulled the door shut and faced forward.
The car started moving.
I twisted in my seat, trying to see out the window. The building disappeared behind us, swallowed by flashing lights and uniforms and the kind of chaos that would be cleaned up by morning. By the time the sun came up, it would look like nothing had happened.
I knew better.
My breath came too fast, too shallow. I forced myself to slow it down, counting silently, grounding myself the way I’d learned to do after long nights at City Hall when the pressure got too thick and the smiles too fake.
In. Hold. Out.
It didn’t help.
The image of the mayor’s smile replayed in my mind, sharp and polished and entirely too calm for a man who’d just been told no. I’d seen that look before. In his office. Across his desk. In reflections on darkened windows when he thought no one was watching.
You don’t say no to men like him.
You just delay the consequences.
The car slowed, then turned. The streets outside shifted from residential to industrial, the buildings lower, darker, less forgiving. My stomach dropped.
This wasn’t the main precinct.
This was somewhere quieter.
The car came to a stop. The engine idled for a moment before cutting off.
The door opened.
“Out,” the officer beside me said, finally looking at me.
I stepped out carefully, the cuffs throwing off my balance. The night air was colder here, heavier. The building in front of us was squat and unremarkable, brick darkened with age, no signage beyond a small metal plaque by the door.
Police Department.
No name. No welcome.
Inside, the air was stale, recycled too many times. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a sickly pallor. The floors were scuffed. The walls bare. This place wasn’t meant to comfort anyone.
They led me down a short hallway and into a small room with a metal table bolted to the floor and two chairs. No windows. A camera in the corner.
The officer gestured for me to sit.
I did.
The cuffs came off with a sharp click that made my wrists sting. I rubbed them instinctively, fingers already bruising.
“Wait here,” he said, and left without another word.
The door closed.
I was alone.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the table, listening to the hum of the lights, the distant echo of footsteps somewhere beyond the walls. My pulse still hadn’t slowed. Every sound felt amplified, like the room was designed to keep me on edge.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer. Time stretched in strange ways when you were waiting for something you couldn’t see coming.
The door opened again.
He stepped inside.
The officer from the stairwell.
He wasn’t wearing his tactical gear anymore. The vest was gone. The helmet. The gloves. Now he looked… ordinary. Dark uniform shirt, sleeves rolled up, badge clipped neatly to his chest.
That made him more intimidating.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms crossed. He didn’t sit.
“You okay?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard.
I laughed once, short and sharp. “No.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not sympathy. Not regret.
Recognition.
“You were grabbed in the alley,” he said. “Tell me about that.”
“I already tried,” I said. “No one listened.”
“I’m listening now.”
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to talk, but because something about the way he said it made my instincts scream.
Be careful.
“He came out of nowhere,” I said slowly. “He knew who I was. He said… he said someone wouldn’t let me go.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say a name.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He pushed off the door and moved to the table, pulling out a chair across from me.
“You didn’t recognize him?”
“No.”
“But he recognized you.”
“Yes.”
He watched me closely, like he was weighing each word, measuring what I knew against something he already had in his head.
“Do you know the mayor?” he asked.
The question landed hard.
I kept my face neutral, my voice steady. “I work for the city.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence stretched between us.
“Yes,” I said finally. “I know him.”
“How?”
I met his gaze. “That’s not relevant.”
His mouth curved—not into a smile, but something close. “It is to me.”
I swallowed. “We had a… personal relationship.”
The word tasted bitter.
“How long ago?”
“It ended.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It ended,” I repeated, sharper now.
He leaned back in his chair, studying me. “You’re aware there was another woman.”
My chest tightened. “What?”
“Another woman,” he said evenly. “Before you. Same pattern. Same access. Same promises.”
Cold spread through my veins.
“She died,” he continued. “Overdose. Officially.”
I stared at him. “You said officially.”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Because unofficially, it was something else.”
The room felt smaller. The air heavier.
“I didn’t know,” I whispered.
“I believe you.”
That surprised me enough that I looked up sharply.
He held my gaze. “But he doesn’t let go easily.”
The door opened suddenly.
Another officer stepped in, stiff, uncomfortable. “Sir. The mayor’s on the phone.”
The man in front of me didn’t react immediately. Then he stood.
“Give us a minute,” he said.
The officer hesitated. “He said it’s urgent.”
“I said give us a minute.”
The door closed again.
He turned back to me. For the first time since we’d met, something in his expression shifted.
Not softness.
Resolve.
“You’re not leaving tonight,” he said.
My heart slammed. “You can’t keep me here. I haven’t done anything.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because if I let you walk out that door,” he said quietly, “you’ll be dead within a week.”
The words sucked all the air out of the room.
“That’s not your decision,” I said.
“It is if you won’t make it.”
I stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You don’t get to decide my life.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I get to stop it from ending.”
I laughed, hysteria creeping in. “By locking me in a room?”
“This is temporary.”
“Until what?”
He didn’t answer right away.
When he did, his voice was low, measured. Dangerous in its certainty.
“Until I figure out how to take you off the board completely.”
My stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the tension in his jaw, the faint scar along his knuckle.
“It means,” he said, “that protection isn’t enough anymore.”
The door banged open.
“Sir,” the other officer said, pale. “The mayor is on his way here.”
The man in front of me straightened, all emotion gone.
“Good,” he said.
Then he looked at me one last time before turning away.
“Because now,” he added quietly, “we’re out of time.”
And in that moment, I realized something far worse than being arrested.
I wasn’t a suspect.
I was leverage.
And everyone in this room knew it.
- Writer
