Ava POV
The police station smelled like stale coffee and bureaucratic apathy.
I sat on a hard plastic chair, my fingers digging into the leather of my purse. My shoulder throbbed in sync with the erratic flicker of the fluorescent light overhead. I had been waiting for an hour.
Finally, a heavy-set officer with a mustache thick enough to sweep a floor walked over. Officer Miller. I knew him. He had worked security at our Christmas party last year.
"Mrs. Phelps," he said, not bothering to sit down. "We reviewed your statement."
"And?" I asked, standing up. "She stole family heirlooms. She assaulted me in my own home. I want her arrested."
Miller sighed. He looked at the scuffed linoleum, then at the wall-anywhere but my eyes.
"We checked the security footage from the hallway, ma'am."
"Good. Then you saw her attack me."
"The files were corrupted," he said. His voice was flat. Rehearsed. "A technical glitch. Happens sometimes with those high-end systems."
I laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that made Miller flinch.
"Corrupted," I repeated. "Harrison got to you already."
"Mr. Phelps is a pillar of this community," Miller said, his tone hardening. "He informed us of your... condition."
"My condition?"
"Post-traumatic stress from the bank robbery. The miscarriage. He said you've been having episodes. Violent outbursts."
The door to the precinct swung open.
Harrison walked in. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened. He looked every inch the weary, devoted husband rushing to save his sick wife.
He walked straight to Miller and shook his hand. Then he turned to me.
"Ava," he said softly. "Let's go home."
"I filed a report," I said, recoiling from his reaching hand. "She stole my father's dog tags."
Harrison looked at Miller with a sad, knowing smile. "See? She's fixated on these objects. It's part of the grief."
"I'm not crazy, Harrison."
He closed the distance between us. He smelled of Brooke. Her perfume was faint, clinging to his shirt like a second skin.
"Drop the charges, Ava," he whispered, low enough that only I could hear. "Or I will have you committed tonight. I have the doctors on payroll. Do you really want to spend the next year in a padded room?"
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
I saw the emptiness behind his eyes. There was no love. There wasn't even hate. I was just a malfunction in his well-oiled machine. A loose screw he needed to tighten.
"You're right," I said loudly, forcing my voice to tremble. "I'm not feeling well."
Harrison blinked, surprised by my sudden surrender. He turned to Miller. "I'll take her from here. Thank you for your discretion, Officer."
He guided me out of the station, his hand firm on my lower back. To anyone watching, it was a protective gesture. To me, it was a shackle.
We got into the car. He started the engine.
"You did the right thing," he said, glancing at me. "Brooke is family now. You don't call the cops on family."
"She's not family," I said, staring out the window at the blurring city lights. "She's a cancer."
He slammed on the brakes at a red light. "She is carrying my son. Something you couldn't do. So you will respect her."
I didn't answer. I didn't cry.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A single, sharp vibration.
I slid my hand in and checked it surreptitiously.
Dustin: Extraction team is green. Midnight. Be at the dock.
I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. 8:00 PM.
Four hours.
"I'm hungry," I said, keeping my voice hollow. "Can we get takeout?"
Harrison relaxed. He thought he had won. He thought he had broken me.
"Sure, Ava," he said, patting my leg. "Whatever you want."
He didn't know he was feeding a ghost.
