54. Chapter 54
Cate
Present
We left the house with the kind of quiet that felt rehearsed.
Trevor locked the door behind us, the click of the deadbolt sharp in the afternoon air. He checked it once, then again, before turning toward the car like that small ritual mattered. Like it meant something.
The sun was too bright. The sky Colorado blue and unapologetic, the kind of day that made everything feel exposed. I paused on the front step longer than necessary, my chest tightening as I took it in - the street, the neighbors’ yards, the normalcy of it all.
Trevor noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he said gently, touching my elbow. “You good?”
“Yes,” I replied, too fast.
He didn’t call me on it. He just opened the passenger door and waited.
I slid into the seat and pulled the door shut. The interior smelled faintly of leather and coffee, familiar and controlled. Trevor adjusted the mirrors before starting the engine, his movements practiced, and unhurried.
“We’ll park in the garage,” he said as he backed out of the driveway. “It’s closer to the elevators. Less walking.”
“Okay.”
Traffic thickened as we headed downtown. Red lights. Crosswalks. Office buildings rising higher the closer we got, glass and steel reflecting the sky back at itself. I watched it all pass like I wasn’t part of it, like I was moving through someone else’s day.
Trevor filled the silence easily.
“Marshal’s office is on the third floor,” he said. “He’ll have us in a standard interview room, this isn’t an interrogation. That’s important.”
I nodded, though my stomach had begun to churn.
“If he asks anything you’re not comfortable answering, you look at me,” Trevor continued. “I’ll step in.”
“I can answer questions,” I said quietly.
“I know you can,” he replied. “This isn’t about capability. It’s about boundaries.”
Boundaries.
The word settled oddly in my chest.
We stopped at another red light. A pedestrian crossed in front of us, earbuds in, oblivious. Life moving forward without hesitation. I wondered when the last time had been that I’d crossed a street without thinking about where I was going - or why.
Trevor glanced over at me.
“You’re doing great,” he said.
I didn’t feel like I was doing anything at all.
The parking garage was dim and cool, the echo of tires against concrete loud in the enclosed space. Trevor chose a spot near the elevators like he’d planned it that way all along. When the engine cut off, the silence rushed in, heavy and immediate.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
“Remember,” he said softly, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You don’t owe anyone more than the truth.”
I swallowed. “What if the truth isn’t enough?”
He turned fully toward me then, his expression steady, almost tender. “It always is.”
We rode the elevator in silence. The doors closed with a dull thud, sealing us inside the narrow space. The numbers ticked upward - one, two, three - each floor bringing with it a pressure I couldn’t name.
When the doors opened, the air changed.
It was cooler, sterile. The faint smell of disinfectant and paper. A woman at the front desk looked up as we approached, her smile polite and practiced.
“Cate Larkin?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Trevor shifted beside me, just a half step forward, subtle but unmistakable.
“She’s Cate Reeder now,” he said, his voice calm, polite. Corrective.
The woman blinked, fingers pausing over the keyboard. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“It’s recent,” Trevor added easily, like he was smoothing over her mistake rather than marking one.
I nodded, even though something tight brushed the back of my ribs at the sound of my old name being replaced so quickly. So completely.
“Detective Marshal is expecting you,” she said, glancing between us. “You can both head down the hall - second door on the left.”
Trevor’s hand settled at the small of my back, guiding me forward.
The hallway was quiet, lined with closed doors and framed certificates I didn’t stop to read. My shoes sounded too loud against the tile, every step announcing me like I was late to something I didn’t want to attend.
The door was already open.
Inside, the room was smaller than I expected. A plain table. Three chairs. A box of tissues placed carefully in the center like an offering. No mirror on the wall - at least, not an obvious one.
Detective Marshal stood when we entered, his gaze pausing on me for half a second.
“Ms. Larkin,” he said, his voice calm, professional. “We met briefly before,” he said, not unkindly, but without familiarity. “I’m sorry we’re meeting again under these circumstances.”
He didn’t sound the way he had that night.
Then, he’d spoken softly. Carefully. Like he was delivering news he wished weren’t his to give.
Now, his voice was flatter. Measured. Like everything had already been decided except the paperwork.
Trevor’s jaw tightened, just enough for me to feel it before I saw it.
“It’s Reeder,” he said evenly.
The detective paused. “My apologies. Mrs. Reeder.”
Trevor nodded once, satisfied.
He turned to the detective before I could speak. “Trevor Reeder,” he said smoothly. “Her husband.”
The detective acknowledged that with a brief nod. “Of course.”
Trevor pulled out the chair beside mine and waited until I sat before taking his seat. Close enough that our arms brushed. Close enough that I could feel the heat from him, steady and grounding.
The detective closed the door behind him, the sound echoing louder than it should have.
He sat across from us, folding his hands on the table, studying us for a brief, unreadable moment.
Trevor’s hand brushed my knee beneath the table, a small, anchoring touch.
I took a breath.
And waited.