Chapter 36 #2
I wanted that steadiness more than I wanted air.
I needed to see him, to borrow that solidity for just a minute, maybe long enough for the echo of Marla’s poison to fade from my head.
I just needed him to look at me the way he always did—steady, certain, like I was someone worth choosing.
If I could see that once more, maybe I could drown out her voice.
I scrubbed at my face with both hands, trying to pull myself together enough to pass for normal.
Or close enough to normal that no one would ask questions.
If I walked into the police station looking like I’d just gone three rounds in a back alley with my mother—and lost—they’d all know something was wrong.
And the last thing I needed was somebody asking questions I couldn’t answer without falling apart completely.
The walk to the station seemed longer than usual. By the time I pushed through the front door, I’d managed to paste on a smile that felt brittle as spun sugar, the kind that might shatter if anyone looked too closely.
Officer Clark glanced up from his crossword puzzle, pen poised over what looked like a particularly challenging clue. His face lit up with the easy friendliness I’d grown used to over the past few months. “Afternoon, Mrs. Gibson. Here to see the chief?”
We’d never corrected anybody about the fact that I hadn’t actually changed my name.
I’d even started thinking maybe I should take care of that soon, make it official in every way that mattered.
But hearing it just now, after everything Marla had said, the name pricked like a thorn, sharp and uncomfortable.
I forced my lips to hold the curve of my smile, because I’d be damned if I’d let the broken pieces show for the rest of the town to talk about over their morning coffee. “Something like that,” I managed, hoping the lightness in my voice didn’t sound as brittle to him as it did to me.
“Go on back,” Clark said, waving his pen toward the hallway that led to the offices. “He’s in there working on some reports.”
“Thanks.” The word didn’t come out as raw as I felt.
A couple of the other officers were scattered around the main room, heads bent over paperwork and case files.
I gave them nods and tight smiles as I moved through the familiar space, murmuring greetings like I hadn’t just been gutted in an alley by my own mother.
One of them—Officer Martinez, I thought—cracked a joke about me making sure Bodie didn’t try to dodge movie night again this month, and I laughed on reflex.
The sound came out too sharp in my own ears, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Each step toward Bodie’s office felt heavier than the last, like I was dragging a hundred pounds of doubt and shame behind me.
Part of me wanted to turn around, to shove all of this back down into the dark corners where I usually kept it and pretend I hadn’t seen Marla at all.
But the other part—the raw, wounded part that was still bleeding—needed something to hold on to.
Some kind of proof that I hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my life.
I reached his door, the familiar nameplate reading “Chief B. Gibson” in simple black letters, and lifted my hand to knock.
Just seeing him through the half-open door eased something in me.
Head bent over paperwork, sleeves rolled, that familiar line between his brows—solid, dependable, safe.
My lungs loosened for the first time all afternoon.
Then he spoke. His voice carried clearly through the slightly open doorway, and something in his tone made me hesitate.
“…I appreciate your input,” he was saying, his voice carrying that formal edge he used for official business. A pause long enough that I wondered who he was talking to. “This has been weighing on me for a while.”
Weighing on him? My heart gave a hard, painful kick against my ribs. What had been weighing on him? He hadn’t said anything to me, not a single word. We’d talked about everything lately—work, the bakery, our plans for the weekend. If something was bothering him, why hadn’t he mentioned it?
But maybe it was just a work thing, I told myself. Some case or departmental issue he didn’t want to bring home. He’d always been careful about keeping the uglier parts of his job separate from our life together.
“…yeah, I know it’s a conflict,” he continued, and I could hear the weight in his voice now, something heavy and complicated that made my stomach start to churn. “But I feel like I owe it to Emmaline. It balances the scales, you know?”
The words hit the raw place my mother had just carved open. Of course. I wasn’t a partner; I was penance. All that tenderness, all that steadiness—it was restitution, not love.
Mama’s voice slid back in, oily and sure as poison: You think Bodie married you for love? He did it to soothe his guilty conscience. And when that runs out, so will he.
The fluorescent light overhead suddenly seemed too bright, its harsh buzzing drowning out whatever else he was saying.
I couldn’t hear past the rushing in my ears, couldn’t breathe past the tightness crushing my chest. My hand slipped from the doorknob.
As I backpedaled away from the door, I heard him say something about mistakes, and the word stuck like a hook in my ribs.
I didn’t even wait to hear the rest. I already knew which mistake he meant. The same one everyone else had warned me about. Me.
I stumbled backward down the hall, desperate to get out before anyone saw the tears already stinging my eyes, before I completely fell apart in the middle of the police station where everyone could see.