Page 131 of What We Don't Say: Part One

Dash is still watching when I look back.

The admin wing is colder than the humanities building. The halls are newer, with glass partitions and carpet that swallowsfootsteps. The officer leads me to a conference room near the back, and the moment I see Garrett standing beside a real police officer, every harmless explanation leaves my body.

He is still in his suit, but the tie is looser than it was this morning. A bruise darkens along one side of his jaw, ugly and blooming beneath the skin, and the corner of his mouth is split where it must have bled and been wiped clean. For one second, all the fear in me changes shape around the injury.

“What happened to your face?” I ask.

Garrett’s expression tightens, then smooths into something tired and contained. “Sloane happened.”

The words don’t fit together. I stare at him with my phone clenched in my hand, waiting for the sentence to become less impossible if I give it another second. “Sloane?”

“He’s upset,” Garrett says, glancing toward the officer before he looks back at me. “Everyone is upset. Theo’s heat started harder than expected, and the incident at campus made an already unstable situation worse.”

The heat in my chest becomes a drop through empty air. “Theo’s heat started?”

“He’s being cared for,” Garrett says quickly. “He’s safe.”

“Then why are you here?” My voice rises before I can stop it. “Why aren’t you with him? Why didn’t Sloane call me? Why didn’t Idris call me?”

Garrett looks at the officer again, and that is when I understand the officer isn’t there for Garrett. He’s there for me. He’s older, broad through the shoulders, with a close-cropped beard and a notepad open on the table in front of him. Beside the notepad is a thick envelope with my name printed on it in a font I recognize from legal letters I’ve never wanted addressed to me.

“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 anOmega 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.”