Holding Grudges

File II

"Justice! Get your goddamn ass in my office, now!" Chief Walter roared, his voice so raw with fury it seemed to rattle the very walls. The words hit like a lightning strike, crackling with the kind of intensity that could leave a person physically stunned. It was a sound that sent shivers down my spine, like the aftermath of some brutal surgery—a kind of pain so deep, so visceral, it never quite heals. Hell, I don't even know what kind of surgery could match that level of agony.

"Ah, shit, man!" Officer Kingsley laughed, his voice laced with a mocking tone that never seemed to disappear. "You're in trouble now. What the hell have you done this time?" His grin was wide, unbothered, as if there was no consequence for anything, as if the very idea of responsibility was just a joke to him. He always had that charm, that devil-may-care attitude, like a man who never grew up and never intended to.

He had only been on the force for a few months, but somehow he'd already managed to build a reputation—one that everyone in the precinct whispered about. Some thought he was a rising star. I saw him for what he truly was—a narcissistic, image-obsessed kid, more concerned with being liked than actually doing the damn job. I wasn't in the mood for his antics.

"Yeah, yeah, weren't you supposed to grab the Chief his coffee this morning?" I shot back, voice sharp, biting, without an ounce of hesitation.

Our back-and-forth was almost a ritual now—a dance of words we did just to keep the air from becoming suffocating. But that didn't mean I wasn't ready to shut him down when I needed to.

Kingsley flicked his wrist, his eyes darting to his watch as he assessed the seconds ticking away with calculated precision. His gaze hardened, weighing his options. Could he still make it to the coffee shop before the flood of morning customers hit? Could he slip past unnoticed, a ghost in the chaos?

He was quick to rise, an abrupt motion fueled by that cocky, impulsive streak that always seemed to fuel his every action. His feet hit the ground with purpose, propelling him toward the key rack with a desperate urgency, the metal keys jingling like a countdown to his departure. I watched, my attention flickering between him and the wall clock looming above the cold steel casefile cabinet.

The clock was unforgiving, its hands sharp and resolute as they marked the exact moment—six-twenty on the dot. The seconds ticked by, deafening in their silence. The clock seemed to mock Kingsley's haste, its ticking slow and deliberate, a reminder that time never cared about the rush of a single soul.

Kingsley was too caught up in his own game to notice. I had already beaten him to the punch this morning, quietly gathering the warm, fragrant cups of coffee—the perfect blend for each officer. Two sugars, two cream. The ritual that kept us running. The steaming cups were ready and waiting, carefully balanced in my hands, as I stood there, still and unbothered by the chaos that buzzed around me. I'd known today would be different. Maybe it was the way the light slanted through the cracked blinds, or maybe it was the subtle shift in the air that made me feel like I should do something—something small, but meaningful.

Ridgefield, Connecticut, with its endless noise and unending deadlines, could use a moment of kindness. So, I did what I could. Two-dollar coffees for everyone. It didn't matter that it was a tiny gesture. The act was what mattered, the thought behind it, the way it could momentarily lift the weight of the daily grind. I hoped that, deep down, everyone would see it the way I did.

As I stepped into Chief Walter's office, a chill ran down my spine. The room felt... off. A silence, thick and uncharacteristic, hung in the air. Normally, Chief Walter was glued to his desk, buried in the mountain of paperwork that seemed to define him. But today, he wasn't there.

Instead, his broad frame was leaning against the window, his sharp eyes fixed on the parking lot below. His hands cradled his old, dark brown tobacco pipe, the one his father had owned—its worn surface etched with intricate initials that whispered of legacy and time. A thin plume of smoke curled around him like a ghost of the past.