38. Calliope #2
“Dr. Monroe,” the officer says, his voice calm in the practiced way of people who have learned not to sound alarmed around frightened women.
“This is a serious complaint involving an Omega within an active heat window. It can’t be fully assessed right now because Mr. Mehra is currently in heat and can’t provide a formal statement.
Until he’s medically clear and the complaint can be reviewed, temporary protective restrictions are being put in place. ”
My ears ring around the word complaint. “A complaint from Theo?”
The officer glances at Garrett, then back at me. “Filed on his behalf.”
“No.” It leaves me too fast, too loud, but I can’t pull it back because the room is already tipping. “No, that isn’t what happened. He told me it was the noise. The café got loud, a mug broke, and he cut his hand. Nothing happened.”
Garrett steps toward me with his hands open, stopping before he gets close enough to touch. “Callie, I know that’s how it looked in the moment.”
“That’s not how it looked.” My hand closes so tightly around my phone that the case bites my palm. “That’s what happened.”
The officer shifts his weight. He doesn't look cruel. That somehow makes it worse. “This isn’t a finding of guilt, Dr. Monroe. The restriction is temporary, based on the reported incident, Mr. Mehra’s biological status, and the risk assessment provided by the pack’s legal representative.”
“Protected from me?” I ask, because the room has become a language I don’t speak.
“Protected from further disruption,” the officer says.
His tone is careful, but the words sound rehearsed.
“That is the language in the filing. You aren't permitted to return to the residence during the active heat period. Any attempt to enter the property or contact Mr. Mehra directly may be treated as interference with a protected heat space.”
I look at Garrett because he is pack, because he is supposed to be the person in this room who can translate the horror back into something survivable. “Tell him that’s wrong.”
Garrett’s face folds around sympathy so neatly that my stomach twists. “I’m trying to keep this from getting worse.”
“No.” My voice cracks hard enough that the officer’s eyes flicker. “Theo asked for lunch. He was okay when he left with you. He told me it was the noise. Nothing happened.”
“After he got home, he became increasingly distressed,” Garrett says. “Once his heat opened, the situation changed.”
“That doesn’t make the truth change.”
“No,” he says softly. “But it changes what we can safely assess right now.”
The envelope on the table draws my eyes again. My name. My whole name. Calliope Monroe, printed like a label on something already removed from the living. Garrett follows my gaze, then picks it up and holds it out.
“This includes the temporary restriction, the pack-space notice, and the provisional release language,” he says. “It’s not the final conversation. It can’t be. Not while Theo is in heat and Sloane is reacting physically. But for now, you can't come home during the heat.”
My hand doesn't lift for the envelope. “That’s my home.”
“I know.”
“My clothes are there. My books are there.” The stupid detail almost breaks me. I see my small bookshelf of curated things in the corner of the room I barely use because I’m always in Sloane or Idris’ bed. “My pack is there.”
Garrett’s mouth tightens around the split. “And right now, the house is an active heat space with an open safety concern attached to you.”
“I didn’t hurt him.”
“I know you don’t believe you did.”
The sentence lands like a slap because it is almost gentle. My eyes fill, and I hate that they fill in front of the officer, in front of Garrett, in this cold room where my joy from ten minutes ago is still somewhere inside me with nowhere to go.
“Why would you tell me this if it wasn’t true?” I ask, and the question comes out smaller than I mean it to. “Why would any of this exist if nothing happened?”
Garrett’s expression shifts. Not victory. Nothing that clear. Only a kind of weary sadness that makes me want to claw through my own skin for needing him to be kind while he hands me a closed door.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says. “I can’t fix this today. Not while Theo’s heat is active. Not with Sloane losing control. Stay away until I can untangle it.”
The officer slides a clipboard toward me. “I need you to acknowledge receipt of the temporary notice.”
“I’m not signing a release from my pack.”
“This is acknowledgment of receipt,” he says. “Not agreement.”
The distinction feels obscene. I sign because my hand is shaking and the officer is watching and Garrett is looking at me like refusing will prove a point I don’t understand. My signature crawls across the line, ugly and uneven, and the second the pen leaves the page, I reach for my phone.
“I’m calling Sloane.”
Garrett’s face tightens. “Callie.”
“I’m calling my Alpha.” I'm already tapping his name, already lifting the phone to my ear while the room watches me become a problem in real time. “He’ll answer me.”
The call rings until voicemail.
I hang up and call again. Voicemail. I call Idris, and his calm recorded voice tells me to leave a message while I stand in a conference room with a police officer, a bruise on Garrett’s jaw, and a legal envelope with my name on it.
I call Theo, even though the officer’s warning about direct contact is still in the room, and the call doesn’t connect at all.
“This isn’t right,” I say. I’m not sure who I’m saying it to anymore. “Something is wrong. Sloane would answer me.”
Garrett’s phone buzzes in his hand. He checks it, then looks toward the door. “I need to go back to the house.”
“Take me with you.”
“I can’t.”
“Garrett.” My voice breaks on his name. “Please.”
He closes his eyes for half a second, like this hurts him too. When he opens them, he is composed again. “Stay here until you’re calm enough to drive. I’ll tell them you were upset. I’ll try to make sure this doesn’t become worse than it already is.”
Then he leaves.