Chapter 15 — The Report
The station was bright and too warm.
Everything smelled like disinfectant and stale air.
They sat me in a small room with a metal table.
A camera in the corner.
A cup of water that tasted like the building’s pipes.
I gave my statement in pieces.
The alley. The hands. The knife.
Julian’s voice shouting my name.
The officer typed steadily, eyes flicking up only to confirm a detail.
When they pulled the suspects’ photos up on a monitor, I recognized them immediately.
Same hollow cheeks.
Same restless eyes.
The officer’s mouth tightened.
“Prior record,” he said. “Drug charges.”
His partner added, “They likely ran when they sobered up.”
I stared at the screen until the faces blurred.
“Julian,” I said softly. “Is he going to be okay?”
The officer nodded.
“Two stabs. Not deep enough to hit anything vital. He’s lucky. You’re lucky.”
Lucky.
The word didn’t fit.
If luck existed, it had been sleeping.
They told me to call family again.
I didn’t call Daniel.
I didn’t call Marianne.
I couldn’t bear the sound of Daniel’s guilt turning into rage.
So I waited.
Hands folded in my lap, forcing myself to stay still.
When Noah finally arrived, the officer at the desk looked relieved.
“You her brother?” he asked.
Noah’s voice was flat.
“Yes.”
He filled out the paperwork with steady hands.
Name. Address. Relationship.
He didn’t look at me until the officer finished explaining what happened.
When Noah’s eyes finally met mine, something in his face shifted.
Not sympathy.
Not warmth.
Grief.
Sharp and immediate, like he’d been punched in the throat.
“Why didn’t you call earlier?” he asked, voice rough.
“I did,” I said. “I texted.”
He blinked.
As if the idea hadn’t occurred to him—that his silence had consequences.
His jaw tightened.
He turned away abruptly, signing the last form.
On the way out, Noah walked half a step ahead of me.
Not beside.
Not behind.
The position of someone guarding a door they don’t want you to enter.
Outside, the air was cold.
The streetlights made pale pools on the pavement.
Our shadows stretched forward.
Two long shapes, close but not touching.
I stared at them anyway.
A habit I hadn’t learned to kill yet.