Page 22 of Little Author

H e lived in a single-level house at the edge of the city, tucked behind an overgrown hedge and a chain-link gate that creaked when he pushed it open for me.

The porch light was on, but it was dim. It was like he was inviting me in without trying to scare me.

But I already felt jumpy, completely wrecked, if I was being honest.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered as I stepped inside. “No one followed us. I checked as we went.”

I didn’t believe that. Not really.

Roux would find me when he wanted to, but I wanted to believe the copper could protect me…from Roux, and my own damn destructive self.

His house smelled like cedar and dog fur. There was a jacket draped over the couch, a dog bed in the corner with no dog, and a half-drunk cup of tea on the counter. It felt lived-in…very human, which was everything I didn’t feel right now.

I sat on the couch without asking. My legs barely worked.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

He knelt in front of me like I was something fragile.

“Elodie,” he said gently, not at all matching the gruff tone from before in the streets. “What happened?”

I looked at him and watched his badge swing from his neck. It reminded me of a heavyweight, a noose before the rope tightened and silenced you for good.

His hair was still slightly damp from a shower. There was stubble on his jaw and something kind in his eyes. He didn’t flinch when he saw the bruises on my neck. He didn’t ask why there was blood on my ripped nightgown or why the buttons were missing.

I didn’t know where to start.

So I stood up and walked to his front door, where his coat hung, and grabbed it.

He watched me as I brought it back to the couch and pointed at the buttons.

“It was a black button,” I stated, remembering how heavy that small object felt in my hand. It was streaked with something dark, and now my hands felt stained. I already felt too dirty ever to be completely clean again.

“He’s been in my apartment,” I whispered. “He leaves these. He watches me. I write things and then they happen, and I don’t know if I’m off my trolley or if he’s…if he’s making me do things.”

The cop’s brow furrowed. He took the coat from my hand carefully, like I was holding a bomb in my grip. He turned it over in his hand. “A…button?”

I nodded.

“Who?”

“His name’s Roux,” I said. My voice cracked. “He was in prison. He’s…he’s done things. I went back to the pub, and he was there, and I…I knocked over the bevie’s shelf onto him. I think I hit him. He was bleeding, but he didn’t go down.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

He shook his head. “No. I think you’re scared. I think you’ve seen something terrible and you’re unable to process it.”

Tears stung the corners of my eyes. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I was just writing a book. I shouldn’t have. I should never have written his story. It was never mine.”

He sat beside me, but not too close and not in a creepy way. His action was just comforting. It was like it was his way of letting me know he was there.

“Start from the beginning,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

I opened my mouth. Shut it, and then the words finally came.