Page 145 of Played
I've been here too many times before—in rooms just like this one, answering questions, giving statements, trying to explain myself to people who don't know me.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting harsh shadows that make everything look washed out and sterile.
I shift in the uncomfortable plastic chair, its legs uneven against the worn linoleum floor. My hands rest on the metal table between us, cold against my palms. Everything about this place is designed to make you feel small, guilty, uncomfortable—even when you've done nothing wrong. Even when you're the one trying to help.
The officer questioning me is young, maybe late twenties. He goes through everything. How I knew Claudia. How I knew Daniel. Why we broke into his apartment.
I answer every question. No hesitation.
When he asks about the phone—Dylan's phone—I pause. Then I tell him everything. The party. The kiss. But nothing about Raine.
"You stole evidence," he points out. "And not to mention the break-and-enter."
"I know."
He taps his pen against his notepad. "You realize that could complicate things."
"I don't care. We found her. She's alive."
He studies me. Then writes something down.
It's past midnight when we finally get to leave. We are driven back to our car left at the apartment building parking lot.
Julian drives us home in silence. The engine hums low beneath us, the only sound filling the space between us. His jaw's tight, muscles visibly working beneath the skin, and his eyes remain fixed on the road ahead—unblinking, focused, like he's driving on autopilot while his mind churns through everything that just happened.
I watch the city lights slide across his face, highlighting the tension etched into every line. His hands grip the steering wheel at ten and two, knuckles slightly pale. He doesn't look at me, doesn't speak, and I don't push him. We're both running on fumes now—physically, mentally, emotionally drained. The adrenaline that kept us going is finally starting to ebb away, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that settles into my limbs like lead.
When we get inside, he heads straight for the kitchen. Opens the fridge, pulls out roast beef, mustard, bread.
"You want one?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I'm not hungry."
He builds his sandwich slowly, methodically. Cuts it in half. Takes a bite.
I lean against the counter, watching him.
"We did it," I whisper.
He nods, chewing.
"She's alive."
"Yeah."
My throat tightens. "What happens now? With you. The charges."
He sets the sandwich down. "I just spoke to my attorney. He says it'll help. The fact that we found Claudia. That Daniel was keeping her prisoner."
"Good."
He finishes eating. Washes his plate. Turns off the lights.
In bed, we don't speak. The sheets are cool against my skin as I slip beneath them, and Julian follows a moment later. The mattress dips under his weight. He reaches for me without a word, his hand finding my hip, gently turning me so my back faces him. He pulls me against the solid warmth of his chest, fitting his body to mine like pieces finally clicking into place. His arm drapes over my waist, heavy and reassuring, his palm settling against my stomach. I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade—steady, grounding. His breath stirs my hair. Neither of us says anything. We don't need to.
I close my eyes.
For the first time in what feels like months—maybe even longer—I don't feel that suffocating weight pressing down on my chest, that invisible hand squeezing the air from my lungs. That constant, gnawing fear that's been my shadow, following me through every door, every conversation, every moment of quiet. That buzzing panic that's lived just beneath my skin, humming in my veins like a live wire ready to spark at the slightest touch—it's not there anymore.
