Chapter 4 Four
FOUR
The room they put me in looks exactly like the ones on TV, except smaller, cheaper, more desperate.
The table is scuffed particleboard, the chairs meant for people they don’t want to sit long.
The two-way glass is so obvious it’s almost insulting, why not just paint “You’re Being Watched” across it and call it a day?
The whole place reeks of Lysol and government money, the kind of sterile that makes you want to be dirty on purpose.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Could be half an hour, could be three.
There’s a clock on the wall but the battery’s dead, the second hand stuck between numbers, some asshole’s idea of a metaphor.
When the detective finally comes in, he brings with him a file folder the thickness of a college thesis and the energy of a man who’s already decided how this story goes.
He sits. Doesn’t introduce himself. Doesn’t even offer water.
He’s older, white hair at the temples, nose broken at least once. He flips the file open, skims the first page, and then starts asking questions in a voice so casual it almost sounds bored.
“Let’s go over it again, Darius.”
I say nothing. He doesn’t need me to.
“You were on the ice, end of practice, when the first shots rang out. Is that correct?”
I nod. Yes.
“You ran for cover, made it to the utility corridor with” He glances down. “Rosen, Asher, and two others?”
“Yes.”
He looks up, eyes flat and expressionless. “You recall the name of the first casualty?”
“Ryan Holt.” My throat closes up for a second, like I’ve swallowed something with edges.
“Your captain.”
“Yeah.” I keep my voice level, keep my face still. If I crack now, they’ll never let me out of this room.
The questions keep coming. How many shots? How many shooters? What did you see, what did you smell, what did you do with your hands?
He wants everything down to the fucking nanosecond, and every time I answer, I feel myself getting smaller, like he’s whittling me down to just the raw, useless facts.
At some point, he asks if I can identify either of the shooters. "There were two," I say, because by now they've told us that much, one dead at the scene, one still out there. "They were wearing masks," I say, which is the truth.
But I remember the way he moved, the way he held the gun like it was part of his body. I know that kind of muscle memory.
I know obsession when I see it. I don’t say any of that. I’m not here to guess.
He circles back to Cap, like maybe if he comes at it from a different angle, I’ll confess to something I missed. “You saw Holt go down?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try to render aid?”
The question isn’t accusatory, but it lands like a punch. I look at the glass. I look anywhere but his face.
“I couldn’t.” My jaw goes tight, tight enough I worry my molars will crack.
“Because you were under fire?”
“Because he was already gone.” I can’t tell if the detective is disappointed or relieved.
He flips another page. “You and Rosen were in the equipment room for—” another check—“thirty-one minutes before the police made entry.”
“That’s what the timeline says.” My hands are folded on the table, left over right, fingers interlocked. The skin is white where I’m squeezing too hard.
The detective finally leans back, the chair creaking under his weight. He stares at me for a long moment. “You did the right thing, you know.”
I want to ask if that’s what they tell everyone, if “the right thing” ever brings anyone back. But I just nod, because what else is there to do?
He asks a few more questions, some about the layout of the facility, some about whether I noticed anything unusual in the days leading up to the shooting.
I give him nothing, because there’s nothing to give.
After what feels like another hour, he snaps the file shut and says, “We’re done for now. We may need to talk again.”
I say, “Of course,” and stand, even though my legs are dead asleep and the rest of me isn’t far behind.
He doesn’t offer to walk me out. I’m not a suspect, but I’m not exactly a person, either.
I’m evidence, a piece of the puzzle. I open the door myself, step into the fluorescent-lit corridor, and follow the “EXIT” signs because what else do you do in a place like this.
———
The lobby is full of press. Not dozens, not hundreds, but enough to turn a quiet police precinct into a blast furnace of sound and light.
The second I step through the double doors, the swarm closes in, mics and phones thrust at my face, cameras popping so bright I can’t see shit.
“Darius, over here! Darius, can you comment on?”
“Were you aware of any threats?”
“How are the other survivors doing?”
“Is it true there's a second shooter still at large?”
I don’t answer any of them. My face is already a mask, one I’ve worn since I was old enough to realize that being Black in a locker room means you’re always being watched.
I make my body as large as possible, shoulders squared, head up, eyes straight ahead. I walk through them like I’m still skating, and they part just enough for me to get to the curb.
The team’s PR rep is waiting, her smile brittle as the air.
She shepherds me into a black SUV, tells me not to worry, that someone will handle the media, just focus on myself for now.
I want to say something mean, but I don’t have the energy for it.
As the car pulls away, I catch a glimpse of my own face in the side mirror. I don’t recognize the guy staring back.
———
At home, the world is too quiet.
Every clock is loud, every tick a slap in the ear.
The apartment is dark except for the city-glow leaking in through the blinds, striping the walls in bars of dirty orange.
I hang my jacket by the door, line my shoes up perfectly in the rack, and sit on the edge of the couch because if I settle in I’ll never get up again.
My phone buzzes. I know it’s her before I even look.
I let it ring out once, twice, then pick up.
Nia’s voice is shredded raw, like she’s already been crying for hours and I’m just the last call on the list.
“D?” she says, and just my name is enough to start her off again, the soft, ragged sob that cracks through the line like bad static.
I don’t say anything. I just listen.
“I saw you on TV. Are you… did they hurt you?” She’s breathing hard, like she sprinted here. “Are you okay?”
I look at my hands, palms up, as if expecting to find the answer written there. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Nobody is fine after that. They said on the news you—”
“Don’t believe the news, Nia.”
She lets out a shaky laugh, and for a second it almost sounds normal, like the old days when all we had to worry about was who’d get the last slice of pizza or whether I’d ever beat her at Mario Kart.
There’s a pause, a real one, the kind that makes space for truth if you let it.
“I wish I could see you,” she says, quiet.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
“Are you alone?” she asks, and I can hear the dread behind it.
“I’m alone.”
The words sit there, heavy and final.
She’s sniffling now, trying to muffle it, but I hear every wet inhale. “You don’t have to talk, okay? I just wanted to hear your voice.”
I wonder what she wants from me. Comfort? Confession? Some kind of closure?
I try to say something, anything, but all I manage is, “Thanks for calling.”
Nia’s breath hitches, like I punched the air right out of her. “Of course. You know I care about you, right?”
I want to say I know, I want to say I care about her too, but the words turn to dust in my throat.
Instead I say, “Get some sleep,” and hang up.
———
Later, I stand by the window, looking out at the city, counting the cars as they pass under the jaundiced streetlights.
My reflection in the glass is thin, ghostly, eyes ringed with purple, hair a mess, shoulders knotted up so high I look like I’m trying to become a turtle.
I wait for the tears, the breakdown, the release that everyone tells you is supposed to come after a trauma like this.
Nothing happens.
I flex my hands, watch the veins stand out, watch the skin stretch over the bones.
I open and close them, again and again, as if I’m winding up for a fight that’ll never come.
I think of Cap, of his voice, of the way he used to clap me on the shoulder before every game and say, “You got this, Webb. You always do.”
I think of Rosen, the weight of his hand on my arm, the way he kept pace with me even when the only thing chasing us was death.
I think of the detective, of the file on the table, of the way he made me feel like a piece of evidence instead of a person.
I press my forehead to the glass, the cold biting through to the skull.
And still, nothing.
No tears. No anger.
Just the empty hum of the city, and the knowledge that tomorrow I’ll have to get up and do it all over again.
It’s what I do.
It’s what I’m for.
I get back up.
———
The psychologist’s office is designed to feel nothing like a psychologist’s office.
It’s all calming colors and gentle textures, nothing sharp or loud, not even a wall clock to tick away the minutes.
There’s a fat-leafed plant in the corner, soft light bleeding through a paper shade, and a bookshelf that looks like it’s never held anything as trivial as a sports biography.
I recognize the tactic.
If you make people feel safe, maybe they’ll tell you something useful.
I take the chair by the window, the one with the best view of the door. I set my feet flat, shoulders back, hands folded in my lap, because posture is control and I have control down to an art.
Dr. Sharma is exactly what I expect, which is to say nothing like the other therapists I’ve seen in my life.
She’s younger than I thought, mid-thirties, maybe less, Indian-American, hair in a bun, glasses perched at the tip of her nose.
She doesn’t start with the “I’m so sorry” or the “These are extraordinary times.”
She just sits across from me, knees uncrossed, notepad in hand, and lets the silence build like a skyscraper.
I almost respect it.
“Darius,” she says. Her voice is soft, but she doesn’t overdo it. “Thank you for coming in.”