Zephyra

Chapter 20

They Only Need One Name

Violet

Asher’s words don’t fade. They settle. Sink in deep.

Bring Zephyra into my world.

I stand at the sink with my hands under running water, staring at nothing while my pulse rattles behind my eyes. I don’t have time for this. Not for him. Not for whatever game he’s playing. Ella will be home soon, and I need to be steady when she walks through the door. I need to look like myself.

But my hands won’t stop shaking.

I scrub the same plate twice, then a third time until my fingers ache, and my thoughts blur together. He saw too much. That’s the part I can’t get past. Not what he said—what he knew. The way he spoke like he’d already been watching me unravel.

My phone starts ringing, and the sound slices straight through me.

My heart jumps so hard it hurts, breath catching sharp in my throat. I stare at the screen, pulse roaring in my ears. Unknown number. My stomach drops. I already know this isn’t nothing.

I wipe my hands on a towel that does nothing to dry them and lift the phone.

“Violet Cole?” the voice is calm. Professional. Familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.

The kitchen falls away.

I’m standing in a dorm hallway again, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and the smell of industrial cleaner and panic in the air. Two detectives. Clipboards. That careful tone people use when they’re about to change your life.

I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s been an accident…

My stomach twists hard, dragging me back into the present.

“Yes,” I say, forcing the word out. “This is Violet.”

“This is Detective Lang with the NYPD. We need you to come into the precinct for questioning.”

Questioning?

The word lodges in my chest. My throat goes dry, but I keep my feet planted. I refuse to spiral back into that hallway. I refuse.

“About what?” I ask.

“We just have some questions, Ms. Cole,” he says evenly. “Can you come in today?”

Like I have a choice.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

The line goes dead and I stand there for a long second, with my phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. Then my screen lights up again—not a call this time.

A text.

UNKNOWN: Tick tock. Panic looks a lot like guilt from the outside. And you’re running out of places to hide.

My blood goes cold. I read it again. And again.

My pulse pounds in my ears, my fingers tightening around the phone like it might bite me if I let go. This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t random. Someone knows exactly where to press.

I swallow hard and shove the phone into my pocket like that will make it stop existing.

Driving into the city is out of the question—I can barely keep my thoughts straight, let alone fight traffic and parking. An Uber straight to the precinct feels like walking in with a sign over my head.

So I do the thing I hate doing.

I text Cami.

ME: I need a ride from the ferry into the city. Are you free?

The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

CAMI: Fine. I’ll be there when you dock.

It’s not warm. It’s not kind. But it’s enough.

I text Ella that I’m meeting Cami and might be home late. It’s a half-truth I cling to because I don’t know how to say the rest without terrifying her.

The ferry ride feels longer than it ever has. Normally I love this part—the water, the air, and the space to breathe. Today, it feels like everyone is looking at me. Like there’s a glowing sign above my head announcing exactly what I’m afraid of.

Suspect. Guilty. Waiting to be caught.

I curl deeper into my jacket and stare at the water until the city comes into view.

The black town car waits at the curb when I step off the ferry. Cami’s driver steps out, opening the door for me. I slide into the plush interior, my pulse still uneven.

Cami sits on the other side, her arms crossed as she watches me. “You could say thank you,” she mutters finally, eyes locked on the window.

I let out a slow breath. “Thank you.”

Her fingers tighten. “For what?”

I glance at her, frowning. “For the ride?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

And there it is. The thing neither of us has wanted to talk about since the party. Since the drugs. Since the whispered blame we both hurled at each other, convinced the other had brought them.

We have talked about this once already. Both of us swearing we weren’t responsible. But neither of us had really heard each other, too scared and too angry to listen.

My jaw tenses. “Cami—”

“I didn’t bring that shit, Vi.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s something beneath it—hurt, maybe. “I thought you did.”

I exhale, pressing my fingers to my temples. “I thought you did.”

A bitter laugh escapes her. “Great. So we both thought the worst of each other.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Because she’s right. And it stings more than I want to admit.

I hesitate, then shake my head. “That’s not who we are, Cami. We’ve been through too much to let this break us.”

Her shoulders sag slightly. “I know. I just… it scared me, Vi. Thinking you might’ve—” She stops herself, jaw tightening. “I should’ve known better.”

I nod slowly. “Me too. I should’ve trusted you instead of jumping to conclusions.”

Cami exhales sharply, her grip on the leather seat easing. “I should’ve trusted you.”

I glance at her. “Yeah.”

She gives me a small, wry smile before looking back out the window. “We good?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”

The tension in the car eases. It’s not perfect—there’s still a lot left unsaid. But for now, it’s enough.

I stare out the window as the city skyline looms closer, my chest tight.

Whatever happens next, I have a feeling nothing will be the same after today.

The NYPD precinct smells like coffee, disinfectant, and tension. They lead us into a small waiting room with flickering fluorescent lights and chairs that are bolted to the floor.

I can’t stop shaking. The coffee in my hands sloshes dangerously close to the rim, but I don’t trust myself to set it down.

Cami sits beside me, knee bouncing. She’s quieter than usual. That scares me more than her anger would.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters. “Why are we even here?”

“Because Alessandra Moore is dead,” I whisper. “And someone wants it to point back at us.”

Before she can respond, a deputy opens the door. “Ms. Cole.”

My stomach drops.

I set the coffee down carefully and stand. Cami gives me a tight nod, bravado slipping for just a second.

They walk me down the hall and into an interview room. A two-way mirror separates it from the one beside it, and they seat me directly across from it.

I can see Cami through the glass in a different interrogation room, fidgeting with her sleeve.

A man in khakis, and a black button-down enters and sits across from me, clipboard in hand. Calm. Measured.

“How are you doing today, Ms. Cole?”

“I’m okay.”

“Good. Did they tell you why we asked you to come in?”

I shake my head.

“We’d like to ask you some questions about Alessandra Moore.”

Even knowing it’s coming doesn’t soften the blow.

“How many times have you been to one of her parties?”

“None,” I say honestly. “I’ve never met her in person.”

“How do you know Ms. Devereaux?”

“She’s my best friend. Since college.”

“And how often do you attend her events?”

“I’ve been to two.”

He scribbles something down, nodding.

“We have an eyewitness who claims you were the last person to speak with Ms. Moore before her death.”

My pulse spikes. “That’s impossible. I wasn’t there. I only knew of her through social media.”

Movement catches my eye through the glass—Cami being escorted out with a man in a suit. Panic claws up my throat.

The detective clears his throat. “Do you have anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts on the sixteenth?”

Ella’s face flashes through my mind.

“Yes,” I say. “My sister.”

He nods. “That’s all for now. You’re free to go.”

The ferry terminal hums with low, hollow noise—the slap of water against concrete, the distant call of a deckhand, and the churn of engines somewhere beneath my feet.

Late afternoon light stretches the shadows long and thin across the pavement, everything washed in gold that feels wrong for how I feel inside.

My hands won’t stop shaking.

I wrap both of them around my coffee cup, like that might steady me, like the heat might anchor me back into my body. It doesn’t help. The tremor is deeper than caffeine or nerves. It’s lodged somewhere under my ribs, humming.

“That was ridiculous,” Cami says, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. Her voice is sharp, annoyed, and already done with it. “They didn’t have anything on us.”

I swallow, my throat tight, and my grip on the cup too hard. “They asked about my alibi.” I keep my eyes on the water, afraid if I look at her I’ll crack. “They said someone claims I was the last person to talk to Alessandra before she died.”

Cami scoffs. It’s quick, practiced. “Which is bullshit. You didn’t even know her. They’re reaching.”

I want to believe that. I really do. But the doubt won’t let go.

“They wouldn’t have brought me in,” I say quietly, “if they didn’t think they had something.”

She exhales, sharp and impatient, shaking her head. “Vi, I’m not worried. My dad already had his lawyers deal with it. They shut it down before it went anywhere.”

I finally look at her. “They just… let you go?”

She shrugs, lips tipping into something smug and unbothered. “Pretty much. Something about improper detainment. Coercive questioning. Due process. I don’t know.” She waves a hand. “A lot of legal words that basically mean the cops can’t do shit without evidence. And they don’t have any.”

Of course they don’t.

Not for her.

Cami, the diplomat’s daughter. Untouchable. Buffered by money, connections, and men in suits who make problems disappear before they ever get teeth.

I take another sip of coffee I don’t taste.

I don’t have that. No powerful father. No legal cavalry waiting in the wings. No safety net beneath me if this goes wrong. Just my name, my face, and the slow, suffocating pressure of knowing how easily narratives get written once people decide who the villain is.

Cami glances at me again, really looks this time. Whatever she sees on my face makes her expression soften. “Vi,” she says, quieter now. “This isn’t going anywhere.”

“I know,” I whisper, though I don’t feel like I know it at all. The words come out thin. “I just—what if they decide it is? What if someone lies? What if—”

“Stop.” She reaches out, grips my arm, grounding and firm. “They’re fishing. That’s all. It’ll blow over.”

I nod, because that’s easier than arguing. Because I don’t trust my voice not to shake if I try to explain the way fear has settled into me, heavy, alert, and waiting.

We stand there in silence as the ferry pulls in, metal groaning, and water churning louder now. People move around us—commuters, tourists, and lives continue like nothing is wrong. While I feel like I’m drowning beneath the waves.

Cami stands beside me, calm, steady, and certain.

And as I watch her, the truth settles cold and clear in my chest:

If this explodes, she’ll walk away.

I won’t.