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I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just sat there, in shock.
Long after the yelling stopped. Long after the paramedics took her away. Long after the cop with the too-tight belt and too-loud voice said, “You need to come with us now, ma’am.”
Ma’am.
I almost laughed.
They hadn’t cuffed me right away. Maybe they thought I’d break if they touched me too hard. Maybe they just didn’t see a threat in a girl with shaking hands and a bloodstain on her tank top that wasn’t hers.
But later—downtown—they did. They patted me down, took my phone, and told me I could call someone “after processing.” I didn’t know who I would’ve called anyway. Emmaline? Elias?
Jessa would’ve known who to call. But Jessa was gone. And it was my fault.
They put me in a holding cell on the second floor of the sheriff’s station. A metal bench, a bolted toilet, a flickering light overhead. I sat in the corner, arms wrapped tight around my legs like I could fold myself small enough to disappear. My body still trembled from the impact of that final jump, and the one after it—Jessa’s fall—played on repeat every time I blinked.
Her scream hadn’t been loud. Just a breath ripped from her lungs. But I heard it. God, I heard it.
And her eyes. I couldn’t stop seeing her eyes.
Hold on, I’d shouted.
She tried.
She didn’t.
The cell was quiet. Too quiet. No drunk women shouting. No crying. Just me and the buzz of fluorescent lights that felt like a punishment.
Somewhere past midnight, the steel door clanked open.
I didn’t look up right away.
“Vivienne Laveau,” a voice said, low and rough.
My head snapped toward the sound.
He stepped into the light—tall, lean but built like he’d wrestled more than his fair share of chaos. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms corded with muscle and the kind of weariness that didn’t come from paperwork. He didn’t look at me right away. His gaze swept the room instead—methodical, practiced. Like a man who never trusted what was in plain sight.
I sat up straighter. “Who are you?”
“Deputy Norton,” he said, voice low, worn smooth by years of bad news. He finally looked at me. “Eric.”
I waited for more.
“Your name flagged something in the system,” he added. “Connections like yours don’t go unnoticed.”
“Connections?”
“The Danes,” he said simply. “That family casts a long shadow in this state.”
I didn’t know if I was supposed to feel comforted or exposed.
He stepped closer to the bars. His voice was lower now. “Tell me what happened.”
I laughed. It came out jagged. “Which part? The stunt? The fall? Or the fact that my best friend is dead and everyone thinks it’s my fault?”
He didn’t flinch. “All of it.”
I exhaled through my nose. “We were running rooftops. It wasn’t a suicide attempt. It was … a stupid thrill. She brought sandwiches. We planned it like we used to. Like before.”