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We’re so fucking screwed.
I step behind the kitchen island, holding up the broken bottle in one hand and Chris’s knife in the other, suddenly realising the fact that I’m still only wearing a bra on top must serve as a good distraction as their gaze fixes firmly on my chest for a moment.
“Stay back!” I shout, praying Marcus hears me.
Both men freeze, hands raised. No weapons.
They’re dressed in button-down shirts and slacks.
What kind of gang dresses like that?
I stare harder. Iknowthem.
One is definitely the guy I spotted from the café this morning.
And the other –
Before I can fully place him, the second man pulls something from behind his back as I brace myself to attack.
“Police! Freeze!” he shouts, flashing a badge.
It hits me like a punch to the gut. They’re the two officers who took our statement on Friday night. Plain clothes now instead of uniforms.
No wonder I didn’t recognise them – Friday feels like a fucking lifetime ago. A time when I wasn’t Marcus’sgirlfriend.
“Oh my God, thank fucking God!” I cry, tears rolling down my face from relief.
I drop the bottle onto the floor, glass slicing the side of my foot, but I don’t react.
“He’s outside! Please!” I point to the open doors, heart pounding. “He tried to kill us!” My voice is a shaky cry, but it gets the message across.
They bolt outside and I follow, shards of glass cutting into my feet with every step, tears blurring my vision as pain sears through me.
The officer whose name I now remember to be Torres pulls Marcus back as the other one hoists Chris up off the ground, twisting his arms behind his back.
I flinch at the sight of blood streaming from Marcus’s arm, immediately followed by a wave of relief. It’s bad, but it’s not fatal.
He’s alive. And hesaved me.He savedus.
I look up at the stars and whisper ‘Thank you’ to whoever may belistening.
Both men are panting hard, but the officers’ grip on them holds firm.
“Alright,” the officer holding Marcus barks. “Someone explain what the hell is going on here!”
The voice confirms it. It’s definitely the officer from Friday, SIO Torres, the one who was mentioned in the article.
The last of my fear breaks, replaced by shaky gratitude.
“Get off me!” Chris shouts, trying but failing to wriggle free from the second officer’s grip.
Marcus looks spent, head dropped, chest heaving, so I speak up, wiping tears from my cheek.
“This is Chris Whitehead,” I say, trying to steady my breath. “He’s the one who killed someone in Manchester on Friday.”
“You’re fuckingdead, you whore!” Chris roars, struggling against the officer’s grip.
The officers exchange a look, confused.