Page 21 of Mine To Hunt

“Anyway,” he continues, straightening, “you two go ahead to the station without me.”

“What?” I turn in my seat to face him.

“File the report.” He says. “Get the ball rolling.”

He points between us.

“And text me every update. Hell, live-stream it if you have to.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “I’ll catch up after I play peacemaker.”

“You sure?” I ask. “We can wait.”

“Nah.” He reaches forward and squeezes my shoulder.

“This creep’s had you cornered long enough. Go kick some doors down.”

I hesitate.

“I’ll be fine.” He adds. “Dad’s bark is worse than his bite.”

Then he smirks. “Just promise me you’ll protect Mads from her own mouth if the cops get mouthy.”

Maddie snorts and flips him off over her shoulder. “As if. Drive safe, statue boy.”

“And tell your dad if he cuts you off,” she adds, “you’re crashing on our couch permanently.”

Al laughs. An actual laugh this time.

The car slows at the next light, and he hops out, jogging back toward his car parked a block away. I watch him disappear down the pavement.

A small knot forms in my stomach. Splitting up suddenly feels like tempting fate. Maddie’s hand finds mine across the console, warm and steady.

“He’s right.” She says softly. “We’ve got this. One step at a time.”

~

The police station looms a few blocks later, all fluorescent buzz and echoing voices as we push through the doors. The desk sergeant, a burly guy with a mustache that looks like it belongs in a bad cop movie, looks up from his paperwork, eyeing us with the bored skepticism of someone who's heard every sob story twice.

“Help you ladies?” He asks, pen tapping lazily against the clipboard tucked under his arm.

I step forward, my mouth suddenly dry as sandpaper. For a second the words stick in my throat, refusing to come out, but Maddie nudges my elbow gently, a silent push of support that steadies me just enough.

“Yes.” I say, forcing the word out. My voice wavers at first, then steadies. “I need to report two incidents. Two separate files, actually.”

The sergeant’s pen pauses mid-tap.

“One’s about my boyfriend.” I continue. “He’s been abusive. Physically and emotionally.”

A beat passes.

“The other… is about a stalker. Someone’s been harassing me for weeks. Texts. Photos. And now…”

My throat tightens. “He installed a hidden camera in my flat. He has videos of me. Private ones.”

The sergeant’s eyebrows shoot up, but to his credit he doesn’t react beyond that. Instead he grabs a form from a stack behind the counter, flipping it open and setting it down with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s filled out a thousand like it.

“Alright.” He says, clicking his pen.