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"You're not to have any contact whatsoever with either Mr. Ross or Mr. Ramirez for a minimum of forty-eight hours," Walsh continues, his voice taking on that official, rehearsed qualitycops get when they're reciting protocol. "That means no phone calls, no text messages, no emails, no social media contact of any kind. Additionally, you're barred from returning to the scene of the incident during that time period."
I blink at him, trying to process what he's saying. "But my car is still there."
"Make other arrangements."
"How am I supposed to—"
He carefully pushes a small, white business card across the metal table, its faint glossy finish catching the overhead lights. The embossed letters read: "Victim Services," stark and bold against the stark white.
I stare at it, numb. Powerless.
Then something shifts. A spark of rage cutting through the fog.
"Daniel's in your system. The restraining order. The harassment." My voice steadies. "He's also a person of interest in a missing persons case. Claudia McAllister. She lived in his building. They were involved."
Walsh's expression changes. Just barely.
"Go on."
"Ask Officer Anderson. We turned over evidence—texts between Claudia and her boyfriend. Daniel's name is all over them. He was controlling her, isolating her. Then she disappeared."
Walsh writes something down.
"This information could be useful in your friend's defense," Walsh says, his tone carefully measured as he taps his pen against the notepad. "We'll certainly look into it. Cross-reference the timeline, pull what we have on McAllister’s disappearance. If there's a pattern here, we need to know."
"Will it help Julian?"
He doesn't answer. Just stands.
"You're free to go."
I walk out out of the station, shoulders hunched.
Julian's not here. He's somewhere inside, locked up, alone.
And I can't even call him.
I stand on the curb outside the police station, hugging myself against the cold night air, phone screen glaring up at me with its harsh blue light. The Uber's seven minutes out according to the little car icon crawling across the map. It might as well be seven hours. Every second stretches out, endless and suffocating, while I wait here alone on this empty street corner.
My thumb hovers over Julian's name before I remember—no contact. The words feel obscene.
The car pulls up. Silver Camry. The driver doesn't say much. I'm grateful.
I slide into the backseat and the world blurs past the window. Streetlights. Stop signs. People living normal lives, unaware that mine just detonated.
Daniel's face surges up in my mind—the twisted rage I felt when he grabbed me in that parking lot, fingers digging into my arm hard enough to bruise.
Then the metallic click and cold bite of handcuffs against Julian's wrists, the officer yanking his arms behind his back while he didn't resist, didn't fight.
And before that—God, before that—Julian's fists connecting with Daniel's face again and again, the sickening sound of knuckles on bone, the spray of blood, the way Daniel's head snapped back with each impact until—
I press my palms against my eyes. Stop. Just stop.
But I can't stop it—can't shut it off, can't make it go away. The loop plays on repeat, relentless and merciless, each frame seared into my brain with crystal clarity.
Daniel crumpling to the ground, his body folding in on itself like a broken marionette. Blood spreading across the concretein dark, arterial rivulets that caught the streetlight and gleamed wet and obscene.
Julian's hands shaking violently as he pulled out his phone and dialed 911, his knuckles split open and bleeding, his voice oddly steady as he reported what he'd done, what he'd had to do.
