10. Closing In
Closing In
Micah
T he overhead lights of the Columbus Police Department interview room buzz with maddening persistence, their harsh glare reflecting off the metal table between me and Detective Rachel Archer, the homicide detective assigned to Lucas’s cases.
As I maintain my carefully neutral expression, decades of experience in similar situations kick in. Back straight but not rigid. Hands visible and relaxed on the table. Face composed but not blank. Every detail calibrated to project cooperative innocence while revealing nothing.
The room itself is an exercise in psychological warfare through banality—beige walls, uncomfortable metal chairs, a mirror that’s obviously one-way.
I’ve sat across from countless detectives in rooms just like this over the years, but never with stakes this personal. Never with secrets this devastating.
Detective Archer sits across from me, her light brown hair pulled back in a severe bun that emphasizes the sharp intelligence in her deep brown eyes. The detective’s badge clipped to her belt catches the fluorescent glare periodically, a pointed reminder of the precarious situation I’m all in.
“Just procedure,” she says, her tone professional and to the point. “Since you’re Lucas’s father, we need your statement on record.”
I meet her gaze, weighing her words. I’m not surprised I was called in for a statement. As Lucas’s father, they want me to speak about his character and lifestyle.
“Sandra, your ex-wife, has called me several times,” Detective Archer continues, shuffling some papers on the table between us.
“She’s insistent that we investigate certain angles more thoroughly.
” Her dark eyes study my face. “She’s particularly focused on Lucas’s wife, Naomi, and her potential involvement.
And your role in possibly harboring her. ”
Damn Sandra. Even after all these years, she’s still finding ways to complicate my life. I keep my expression neutral as old frustrations surface.
“Sandra’s grief is understandable,” I say carefully, the words tasting like ash. “Losing our son was hard on both of us, but she’s always been prone to dramatic interpretations of events.”
She nods, her pen scratching against her notepad. “When did you last see Lucas?”
And so it begins—the delicate dance of partial truths and calculated omissions. “Months ago. Our relationship was strained.” Understatement of the century. “We didn’t speak often.”
“And you were aware of his marital problems with Naomi?”
“Yes.” My jaw tightens involuntarily. “She came to me for protection from him.”
The words hang heavy in the air between us. Detective Archer’s pen pauses briefly, her expression softening with understanding. Did Eve talk to her about Naomi, or does she have a soft spot for survivors of domestic violence?
“And you provided that protection?”
“Of course.” Some of my carefully maintained control slips, anger bleeding into my voice. “He was hurting her. My own son or not, I couldn’t let that continue.”
She watches me with that sharp detective’s gaze, but there’s something else there too—approval maybe. “How long ago was it that Naomi came to you for help?”
“Maybe three, no four months ago,” I say, keeping my answer short.
“Sandra said Naomi was staying with you,” she adds.
“Yes.”
Detective Archer stares at me like she’s waiting for me to say more, but I don’t. “Did she see Lucas at all during that time?”
“No.”
She makes a few more notes in her notebook before she continues. “Were you aware of any changes in Lucas’s behavior before his death? Any new associations or unusual activities?”
I consider my response carefully. The truth—that Lucas had become increasingly violent and unstable—needs to be established without revealing too much about that final confrontation with Naomi.
“Like I said, I hadn’t seen him in months. But he was—” I search for the right words. “Volatile. Angry. Always had been, so nothing you find out would surprise me. But we weren’t close enough for me to know details of his life.”
“What about his connections to local drug trafficking?”
Good. This is the official narrative that needs to stick. “I knew he was involved in some illegal activities. But the specifics,” I spread my hands in a helpless gesture, “he didn’t exactly confide in me.”
The questioning continues in this vein—how often did I see Lucas, what did I know about his movements the day he disappeared, had he mentioned any threats or enemies.
I provide answers that are technically true while obscuring the heart of the matter.
It’s exhausting, maintaining this perfect balance between helpful witness and grieving father, all while protecting Naomi.
Even here, in this sterile interview room with a detective across from me, the thought of her creates a dangerous warmth in my chest. Her strength in surviving Lucas’s abuse, her vulnerability in seeking my protection, the way she trusts me despite everything.
“As I said, Sandra doesn’t believe his death was drug related,” Detective Archer says, watching my reaction. “She’s quite insistent this was Naomi’s doing. Do you believe Naomi is capable of something like this?”
“Sandra needs someone to blame besides Lucas,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “She can’t accept that her son might have been involved in dangerous activities. It’s easier to blame Naomi than face the truth about Lucas.”
She nods, making another note. “And you have no idea where Naomi is currently?”
Careful now. “She needed somewhere safe to recover. Somewhere Lucas couldn’t find her, and Sandra couldn’t harass her.” Not technically a lie.
“You’re protecting her.” It’s not quite a question.
“Wouldn’t you?” I meet Detective Archer’s gaze directly. “After everything Lucas did to her? After everything Sandra enabled?”
Something flickers in the detective’s expression—something I can’t quite interpret—before she looks back down at her notes.
“I need to talk to Naomi,” she says, closing her notebook. “I appreciate your need to protect her, but her statement would be helpful.”
“She’s not here.” My voice sounds more clipped than necessary.
“Where is she?” she asks.
“She’s been in hiding for months. She doesn’t have anything to add to your investigation.” I push to my feet, signaling the end of this interview. “She’s been through enough. It’s best if you leave her out of this.”
She holds my gaze, narrowing her eyes. For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to let this go. “Very well. For now. But if Naomi happens to return to the city, I’d like to talk to her. To close all loose ends.”
“Naomi is not a loose end,” I say, voice low and dangerous. Too dangerous for this interview. “She’s a survivor of domestic violence, and she’s earned her peace.”
Detective Archer’s eyes widen slightly at my tone. She gives me a single curt nod before standing, her chair scraping loudly across the floor. “Let me show you out.”
She escorts me through the station’s maze of corridors, past desks where other detectives work on their own cases, and out the main entrance.
Despite the gray skies, the sunlight outside the station feels harsh after the fluorescent lighting, but I breathe easier in the open air. My truck waits in the parking lot.
As I slide behind the wheel, my mind races with contingency plans. Detective Archer may have let this go for now, but if Sandra pushes hard enough for additional scrutiny, we could be in trouble. The cabin provides good security, but it’s only temporary. We need a more permanent solution.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Zeke requesting my presence at the club.
I start the engine, plotting the fastest route that will avoid traffic. The weight of Detective Archer’s questioning, Sandra’s accusations, and Naomi’s safety presses down on me like an anchor trying to drag me to the bottom of the sea.
Cigar smoke hangs thick in the air, mingling with expensive cologne and the underlying tension of high-stakes gambling. I survey the club’s main floor, transformed from nightclub to exclusive gaming den for today’s private event. All part of Zeke’s master plan to lead the local mafia organization.
Green felt drapes the tables where Columbus’s elite conduct their business through cards and dice rather than explicit negotiations. The familiar scents—tobacco, whiskey, money—trigger decades of memories. Some good, most bad.
A dealer’s crisp shuffle breaks through the murmur of conversation. Chips click against felt. Someone laughs—too loud, too forced. My gaze snaps to the sound, assessing. Just another wannabe tough guy trying to project confidence he hasn’t earned.
I make a mental note to have Eli check his background. New faces always warrant scrutiny, especially with the coalition still finding its footing.
Keep moving. Stay alert.
The mantra echoes in my head as I continue my circuit of the room. At fifty-four, I’m past my prime for this kind of work, but experience compensates for what age has taken.
I notice things younger men miss—subtle tells in body language, the way alliances shift like smoke across gaming tables, the undercurrents of ambition and resentment that could erupt into violence at any moment.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Naomi’s check-in, right on schedule. The urge to read her message immediately wars with professional discipline. Focus on the job . The text can wait.
She’s safe at the cabin, probably baking something delicious. The thought of her—flour-dusted hands, red curls escaping their bun, green eyes bright with concentration—brings an involuntary smile that I quickly suppress. Getting distracted could get us both killed.