𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝟎𝟑. 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝐧𝐝, 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟒

Your froyo uniform stuck like a stiff second skin to your body, the once-white fabric now crusted black with blood and littered with tiny stringy bits that you had no choice but to imagine had once been Ryan's brain. The police department was stuffy with cigarette smoke and dust, but you were still shivering. Nick's thick brown bomber jacket did very little to combat the chill that felt like it was coming from inside of you.

The matted fur collar smelled like subtly expensive cologne and dry pine needles. When no one was looking, you caught yourself with your face buried in the soft material but didn't instantly pull away. You'd been bundled up in that jacket more often than you'd like to admit, but no matter how many cold winter nights you'd spent wrapped up with that smell in the back of a patrol car, it only ever reminded you of safety.

If you could afford a therapist, maybe you would have tried to unpack that by now. But then again, maybe not.

When you first arrived at the Sunnyvale Police Station that night, the pudgy old lady sitting behind the reception desk let you borrow her chair to make a call with the big rotary phone. Your dad was still the first person listed on your emergency contacts so you were forced to endure the embarrassing handful of seconds that it took to reach the 'we're sorry, but the number you're trying to reach is no longer in service' message.

So you called your mom, who didn't pick up either. She was still in Aruba with her new sugar daddy, Bernard. He was a nice guy. You'd probably be friends if he knew that you existed.

Maybe if you hadn't just been painted with brain matter, you would have insisted that Nick took you straight home after they collected all of your things for evidence. You'd been secretly crashing with your friend Deena in a slightly nicer neighborhood while your mom was out of town. Deena's dad was way too drunk most of the time to notice the teenage girl sleeping on the sofa. And when he wasn't, he was still just drunk enough to mistake you for his own daughter and leave you alone.

If anyone in that police station caught wind of just how unsupervised you really were, you were really in for it. CPS, foster care, and everything Nick promised that you would never ever have to go through as long as he was in charge. But not even he would be willing to lay his job on the line for little old you if it ever came down to that.

Across the polished wooden desk, Sheriff Goode sighed audibly through his nose. He'd been studying you since you first sat down in his office but you'd been too trapped in your own thoughts to even notice. There was blood trapped under your fingernails from plucking at the stains on your shirt collar.

"I understand that this is a lot to process," Nick said, twirling a heavy engraved pen between his fingers. You stared down at his hands, wondering which finger had pulled the trigger that killed Ryan. Nodding, you let your gaze trail over to the golden name plate sitting at the front corner of his desk instead. Sheriff N. Goode. Nick—Nicholas, technically. You've never heard anyone call him that, though.

"Nicky," the tiny voice in the back of your head whispered, making you frown. Deena already teased you for being on a first name basis with the goddamn sheriff. You refused to assign him a cutesy little nickname on top of that. Nicky. Where did that even come from, anyway?

"Regardless, I need you to tell me everything you remember about what transpired tonight." His voice was gentle but it did nothing to ease the grief wracking your gut. There was a tape recorder spinning in the corner of the desk, making a little whirring noise that was close to driving you insane. This was your statement, whatever you said next. Permanent record and all that jazz.

"Before or after my friend was stabbed to death?" you croaked, swallowing thickly and finally meeting Nick's eye. It hurt to talk, it hurt to breathe. The dried blood flaked off of your face and pulled at the tiny hairs on your jaw, making you want to curl up and die right then and there. He shot you a look. Nick didn't want to be there either, in his office at 3 AM on a Friday morning. "Sorry," you grumbled, leaning back.