Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The police station smells like disinfectant, a sharp, sterile tang that makes my stomach tighten the moment we walk through the sliding glass doors.
The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, too bright, too white, like they’re trying to bleach every shadow out of the room.
I wish they could do the same to my thoughts.
Reeves stays close to me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel his steadiness like a hand at the small of my back. He’s wearing his old leather jacket, the one that smells faintly of cedar and soap, and for a second, I focus on that instead of the way my heart is slamming against my ribs.
A uniformed officer looks up from behind the front desk. His expression shifts the moment he sees my face—pale, eyes too wide, hands twisted together like I might wring them clean off.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“She’s here to file a restraining order,” Reeves says gently, his voice low and calm. “Against her ex.”
The officer nods, already reaching for a clipboard. “All right. Let’s get you somewhere private.”
We pass a row of plastic chairs bolted to the floor, a couple arguing in hushed, furious whispers, a man slumped forward with his head in his hands. A TV mounted high on the wall plays the news. No one looks happy here. No one looks surprised, either.
They lead us into a small interview room. Beige walls. A metal table scarred with old scratches. Three chairs, and a camera dome in the corner of the ceiling stares down at us, unblinking.
“Have a seat,” the officer says.
I sit, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else. Reeves takes the chair beside me, angling his body toward mine, a quiet shield.
Another officer comes in—female this time, older, with tired eyes and a voice that’s practiced but not unkind. She introduces herself, then clicks a pen and looks at me steadily.
“Take your time,” she says. “Tell me what’s been going on.”
I swallow. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been screaming for hours even though I haven’t made a sound.
“My ex,” I say. “Daniel. He won’t leave me alone.”
She nods. “When did you break up?”
“Two months ago or so.”
“And since then?”
I stare at the table, at a dark stain that looks like spilled coffee. If I look at her, I might fall apart.
“He sends me threatening letters. Shows up places.” My voice trembles despite my effort to keep it steady. “My apartment. My work.”
“Has he threatened you?” the officer asks.
“Yes.” The word comes out too fast. “He says things like… that I’ll be sorry, that karma’s gonna get me.”
She writes that down. The sound of pen on paper feels unbearably loud.
“Has he ever hurt you physically?”
“No,” I say, then hesitate. “Yes… he slapped me hard once… I knocked my head on a counter. And tonight…”
My breath stutters. The room feels smaller suddenly, the air too thick.
“What happened tonight?” she asks.
I force myself to keep going. “He cornered me at work. In the parking lot, as I was about to get into my car. I was alone.” My hands are shaking now, visibly. I press them together. “He held me against my will, covered my mouth… told me he loved me more than anyone else ever could.”
Reeves shifts closer. I can feel the warmth of his arm against mine.
“He leaned in,” I say. My skin crawls just remembering it. “He tried to kiss me. I pushed him away. I told him to get away from me.”
The officer’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“How did you get away?” she asks.
“I had mace on me. I maced him,” I say. “Then I ran back into the pool hall where I work. I heard Daniel scream, ‘This isn’t over,’ and he called me a bitch.”
The pen pauses. “Did anyone else witness this?”
“No.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, but it doesn’t bring relief. Nothing does.
She asks for exact times and locations. She asks me if I’ve kept the messages he’s sent.
She wants to know the exact words he used.
She asks if I’ve told him not to contact me, if I’ve blocked him, if there’s a history of controlling behavior.
Each question feels like reopening a wound, like I have to prove—over and over—that I’m not overreacting, that this fear lodged in my chest has teeth.
Reeves speaks only when I falter, gently reminding me of details, never putting words in my mouth. When my voice cracks, he slides his hand over mine, warm and solid, and I cling to that anchor like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Finally, the officer sets the pen down.
“Based on what you’ve told me,” she says, “you have grounds for a restraining order. We’ll file the paperwork today. A judge will review it, and if it’s granted, Daniel will be legally prohibited from contacting you or coming near your home or workplace.”
My chest tightens. “And if he ignores it?”
Her gaze doesn’t soften. “Then he’ll be arrested.”
The word arrest lands heavily, but it doesn’t make me feel safe. Not yet.
She slides a stack of forms toward me. “I’m going to need you to read and sign these. It’s a sworn statement.”
My hands shake as I pick up the pen. My name looks strange when I write it, like it belongs to someone else—someone braver, maybe.
About an hour later, as we stand to leave, Reeves squeezes my shoulder, firm and reassuring. “You did the right thing.”
I want to believe him. But as we walk back through the bright, humming station, all I can think is that Daniel knows where I work. He knows where I live. And even here, surrounded by badges, I don’t feel safe yet.
I just feel seen.
And for now, that has to be enough.
The next morning at work, I can barely steady my hands enough to pour a draft without spilling foam everywhere. My mind keeps replaying the day before—Daniel's breath on my neck, his hand trapping me against my car, the terrifying rage when I sprayed him.
Reeves wipes down the bar, his movements deliberate, controlled. Too controlled.
"Did you go see him?" I ask suddenly.
He doesn't look up. Just keeps wiping the same spot over and over.
"Reeves."
"Drop it, Liza."
My stomach turns. "You did. You went to see Daniel."
He tosses the rag into the sink. "Yeah. I did."
"Are you insane?" My voice rises, sharp enough that Greg glances over from the pool tables. I lower it to a hiss. "What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking someone needed to make it clear he can't pull that shit."
"Did you touch him?"
Silence.
"Reeves. Did you touch him?"
He finally meets my eyes. "I shoved him. He fell on his ass. That's it. The asshole deserved it."
"That's it?" I stare at him, my pulse hammering. "You put your hands on him? Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Yeah. I made sure he knows you're not alone."
"You gave him exactly what he wants!" My hands shake as I grip the edge of the bar. "You think shoving him scared him off? He's not scared of you. He's furious. And now he has another target."
"Good. Let him come after me instead of you."
"That's not how this works!" My voice cracks. "Daniel doesn't think like you. He doesn't back down. He escalates. He always escalates."
Reeves' jaw tightens. "You think I'm just gonna sit around while he stalks you? While he corners you in parking lots?"
"I think you don't understand how dangerous he is."
"I understand plenty."
"No. You don't." I'm shaking now, anger and fear tangled so tight I can't tell them apart. "He's not some drunk asshole you can intimidate. He's smart. He's patient. And now you've given him another reason to come after me."
"Or I've given him a reason to stay the fuck away."
I laugh bitterly. "You really believe that?"
He doesn't answer. Just stares at me with that stubborn, infuriating certainty.
I turn away, my chest tight, my breath uneven.
"That was plain stupid," I mutter. "So incredibly stupid."
"Maybe," Reeves says quietly. "But I'd do it again."
I needed to get out of Cumberland before I completely unravelled. Caine's and Jenna's penthouse in Portland feels like a different universe—one where Daniel doesn't exist.
It was Jenna's idea. She has a full house tonight; her son, her man, her friend Clara from out of town and Clara's son. Yet, when she heard me cry on the phone, she told me to come and see her. Now. With an overnight bag.
That's Jenna for you. She knows what I need, even when I don't even know it myself.
The place is ridiculous—all sleek black floors and industrial chic, exposed pipes and designer chairs that probably cost more than my yearly salary. Plants everywhere, guitars hanging on walls like art. The kind of space that knows it's too cool for you.
But tonight, it's exactly what I need.
"More sangria?" Jenna waves the pitcher at me, her pregnant belly brushing the edge of the kitchen island.
"God, yes."
She pours generously. Clara's curled up on the grey leather sectional, her son Christian asleep in her lap, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles.
Little Liam's playing on the floor nearby, one arm flung over a stuffed dinosaur.
I'm not sure what kind of game he's playing, but he's certainly having fun.
"Lightweight," Clara quips, nodding at Christian.
"He's young," I point out.
"So's Liam. Different breed."
And then there's their gorgeous cats, giant long-haired, Ron Pearlman-faced silver tabbies.
They are stunning, majestic even. And they seem to know it.
They both study me with an unnerving intensity—they are actually making me slightly uncomfortable—I've never felt judged by an animal like I do today.
Their intense green eyes fix me, as if to say: "Who are you, madam?
And why do you seem so perturbed? What has you so bothered? Perhaps we could help. "
Caine emerges from the kitchen carrying another pizza box—this one topped with prosciutto and arugula, because of course it is. "Round two. Who's in?"
I grab a slice even though I'm stuffed. Anything to keep my hands busy, my mind occupied.
We play charades. Caine acts out The Godfather with way too much commitment. Jenna guesses Frozen for everything. Clara nails Titanic in three seconds flat.
I laugh until my sides hurt, drain another sangria, and try desperately to drown the image of Daniel's face in the parking lot.
It doesn't work.
"You okay?" Jenna whispers when Caine's acting out something involving a lot of arm flailing.
"Fine."
"Liza…”
"I said I'm fine."
She doesn't push. Just squeezes my hand.
Later, when the pizza's gone and the kids are tucked into Liam's room, we sprawl across the sectional. Clara's scrolling her phone. Jenna's feet are propped on Caine's lap while he massages them absentmindedly.
I stare at the city lights beyond the massive windows, my head buzzing pleasantly from the sangria.
But even here—surrounded by friends, miles from Cumberland—I can't shake the feeling that Daniel's watching.
And waiting.