Bound By Sin

"It Can't Be Him."

As the door clicked shut behind Ron, the room fell into a heavy silence. Detective Blackwood stared at the empty chair, his thoughts spinning in circles, while Detective Caldwell remained by the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her sharp gaze was fixed on nothing in particular, but Blackwood knew exactly what she was thinking.

Neither of them wanted to say it. Not yet. But the weight of what Ron had just described hung in the air like a dark cloud. Blackwood tapped his pen against the notepad, his fingers restless, though his face remained unreadable. Caldwell, usually the first to speak, seemed uncharacteristically quiet. She shifted her stance slightly, but didn't uncross her arms.

Finally, Blackwood broke the silence. "You know what this means."

Caldwell's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah," she muttered, though there was no satisfaction in the agreement. "I know."

The words felt too dangerous to say out loud, but there was no point in pretending they weren't thinking the same thing. Blonde. Tall. Cold. The way Ron had described the killer's mocking tone, his casual cruelty—it all felt too familiar, too close to home. And it fit.

Nicholas.

Blackwood leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, heavy sigh. "It can't be him, Caldwell."

Caldwell pushed away from the wall, finally moving to the table where Blackwood sat. She dropped into the seat across from him, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her eyes dark with a mixture of frustration and concern. "You don't want it to be him," she corrected. "Neither do I. But we can't just ignore this because it's inconvenient. Nicholas fits the description. Ron didn't pull that out of thin air."

Blackwood shifted uncomfortably, the tension gnawing at him. Nicholas had always been quiet, but smart—too smart to be reckless. And yet... the details from Ron's story gnawed at him. The mocking tone, the coldness in the killer's words—it felt like something Nicholas might say, especially when he was backed into a corner.

"Look, we've been questioning all of them for months," Blackwood said, though even he wasn't sure what point he was trying to make. "Genevieve, Ashton, Isabella, Theodore... they've all been on edge. Nicholas is frustrated, sure, but we haven't gotten anything out of him that suggests—"

"Suggests what?" Caldwell interrupted, her voice low but firm. "That he's a killer? That he's been playing us this whole time?" She let out a bitter chuckle, shaking her head. "You've seen the way he reacts when we bring him in, Will. He's defensive. He's angry. And now we have a witness describing someone who sounds exactly like him. We can't pretend we don't see it."

Blackwood pressed his palms to the edge of the table, trying to steady his thoughts. "He's just... scared, like the rest of them," he insisted, but his voice lacked conviction. "He's young. He's been questioned over and over—anyone would be frustrated."

"But not everyone fits the description, Will," Caldwell shot back. Her voice was tight, but there was a trace of something else there, something almost like disappointment. She didn't want this to be true either. "We've known Nicholas for years, sure. But think about it. He's been edgy from the start. And the way Ron described the killer... it's like something Nicholas would say when he's cornered. You can't tell me you haven't noticed how he gets when we push him."

Blackwood's stomach tightened. He had noticed. From the beginning, there was something just beneath the surface with Nicholas. A tension, an anger that always seemed to be held back by a thread. But that didn't mean he was capable of this. It didn't mean he was a murderer.

"You don't know what's going on with him," Blackwood argued, his voice more defensive than he intended. "Maybe something's bothering him, but that doesn't make him guilty. We don't have solid proof. We don't even have enough to bring him in again for more than a conversation."

Caldwell exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her short hair. "I know we don't have solid proof. But Will, we can't afford to wait anymore. What if he slips up? What if someone else ends up dead because we didn't act fast enough? You saw how Ron described that alley. Nicholas knows these streets, knows how to keep his head down."

Blackwood shook his head, pushing the idea away, but it was harder now. The pieces were beginning to slot into place, and it made his stomach churn. He hated thinking it. He hated imagining Nicholas as someone capable of this kind of violence. They'd watched him grow up. He wasn't... this.

But the facts were there, staring back at him in his own handwriting: Blonde. Tall. Cold.

"It's all circumstantial," Blackwood said, his voice quieter now. "We need more. We can't ruin this kid's life based on a feeling."

Caldwell's expression softened, just for a moment, and she looked away, out the window where the sun had started to set. "I don't want it to be him either," she admitted. "But I don't think we can lie to ourselves about the possibility." She met his gaze again, her voice firm but tinged with something like regret. "Nicholas isn't the same kid we knew five years ago. People change. He's changed."

Blackwood didn't respond immediately. He just stared down at his notepad, the words blurring together as the weight of it all pressed down on him. Caldwell was right, and that was what terrified him most. Nicholas wasn't a kid anymore. He was a young man now, and the truth was, Blackwood didn't really know who he'd grown into.

For a moment, the silence in the room felt suffocating. Blackwood couldn't bring himself to look up at Caldwell, because if he did, he knew he'd have to admit it—to her, and to himself.

After a long, heavy pause, Caldwell stood up, breaking the stillness in the room. Her voice was quiet, almost gentle, but there was no wavering in her tone. "We need to keep an eye on him, Will. We can't ignore it, no matter how much we don't want to believe it."

Blackwood nodded slowly, still staring down at the notepad. His heart felt heavy, like a stone in his chest. He wanted to say something, to push back against the sinking feeling that was wrapping around him like a vice. But no words came.

"It can't be him," he whispered, more to himself than to Caldwell.

But as he said it, even he didn't believe it anymore.