Page 9

Dirk is still in bed, sleep-mussed and dopey when I get up to leave for the station. I lean over to give him a quick peck. "I've got to go see if Needler will talk."

"No," Dirk muffles. "Stay."

Smiling, I straighten. "I want to get there before the protests build too much." And it’s true, fighting through the protestors is surely only going to be worse today, with more and more disdain building after the leaked Cocoon photo. And as their latest chosen villain, I'd much rather avoid them altogether.

The sun is only just starting to rise, and to my surprise, the street in front of the station is quiet, almost dead. Since the protestors trickled back a week ago, thereby renewing the marches with fresh vigour, that’s unusual. Something itches in the back of my mind about this, like the calm before the storm, but I yawn and make my way out into the freezing morning air between me and the station doors, instead of thinking about it as much as I should. Maybe the police cleared them off again last night. Who knows.

Being so early, sunrise just peaking over the lower buildings, it’s only me, the janitor and a skeleton night-guard crew as I make straight for the cells at the back. While the station is heated, the cold hours have sapped most of that away, and the air has the stillness of night about it still. I nod in tired greeting to the guard stationed outside his cell, an older man with skin the colour of rich honey. “You can go early,” I say. “I’ve got him from here.”

Smiling, he leaves, and I walk through the door to the interview side of the cell.

Needler, who apparently doesn't sleep, is sitting up in his bed with the case file I gave him yesterday in his lap when I walk in. His orange jumpsuit is pulled up over his shoulders, though unbuttoned down to the waist and revealing the clean white shirt underneath.

"Good morning, detective."

I squint at him. "Unless you have something useful to tell me, I'm not staying."

Tristan ignores me, coming to his feet and wandering towards the glass that I’m standing on the other side of, his focus on the file in his hands. "Late night?"

"Tristan…" Tiredly, knowing this isn't going to be simple because it never is, I pull the stool into the middle of my side of the room, sitting heavily.

"This file was very interesting," he's musing. "My first real kill, as Needler was a man like this."

Shaking my head, I point out, "Your first kill was the Highwayman." Discounting my husband, obviously.

Sparing me a glance as though remembering there are things I'm not privy to, Needler’s lips twitch and he tells me, "No, it was an older man, if you'd call him a man . He'd attacked multiple women. Not killed them but left his mark. He was found dead in the bay. Ryan something."

I stare at him, recalling the case. It had been just before I came back onto the force. "Ryan Ronard?" I ask, squinting, "Are you… confessing to a murder, right now?" Frowning, mind clearing, I press, "But he wasn't surrounded by pictures, he wasn't…" He was, in fact, very nearly a John Doe, only identified because his ex-wife reported him missing when he got behind on child support payments.

"I don't put the faces of the living to accuse the dead. The living have better things to look at." A killer with empathy, great . "His victims got to know that he was fish food, that it happened slow. That’s all they needed." Needler glances up as he flicks to another page, his green eyes startling this close. He might actually be insane, I realise, more than I've credited him with so far. Not a psychopath, but just plain old insane. "And yes, I suppose you could consider this a confession."

"I…" Closing my eyes, I take a breath. What did I come in here for again? "You are supposed to be telling me things about Cassandra, not…"

"This man is like that one. They know him."

"What?" I'd only skimmed the file. It wasn't my case, being not a homicide investigation but rather a violent assault one. Unfortunately, it was the bottom of the pile, as horrible as that was. Tregam is overrun with violence right now, more than usual. "They didn't see his face."

"They don't know they know him. But he'll be in their lives. Someone menial to them—a valet, a store clerk. Older, beneath their notice. He likes to watch how they fade after the attack."

"You got all that from…"

"I've seen it before. People who like to watch the victims as much as make the victims. Otherwise, he'd kill them. Violent enough to, but he doesn't." Putting the folder down on his desk, Tristan concludes, "Look for an older man, alone, not much luck with women, someone they all might know, who sees them in passing at least once a week, has an excuse to."

"I…" I jump at a loud bang. At first, I think it’s something Needler has done in the brief moment that I looked away, but no, he’s standing in the middle of the room, frowning softly. And besides, the noise came from behind me, back towards the front of the station. "That almost sounded like a…" And then I jump again, but this time the noise is just the phone on the wall behind me, ringing.

I glance at Tristan, but he's still frowning in the direction of the bang. Turning away, I pick up the receiver. "Yes?"

Dirk's voice comes through, accompanied by the kind of fade-in fade-out static that tells me he's calling from the car radio. My own pager, attached to my hip, buzzes. "El, thank god, you're inside the station."

"Yeah…" Another bang, softer this time. I tilt my head, craning to look through the glass of the door, but Dirk is speaking again.

"Don't go outside. There's a mob, a big one. It might get ugly."

"What? Why? From where?" I think of coming in this morning, the almost eerie emptiness of everything.

"There was another kill last night."

My mouth falls open. "Why aren't we there?"

Static, I'm not sure he heard my question. "A fake Cocooner, we think. But we've found out near to last. The asshole who found the body called the media instead of us. Probably got a nice paycheck out of it, too. There will be shit all evidence left that our friends haven't trampled all over. Point is, two kills in two days. They're pissed, and our favourite Conrad will be whipping everyone into righteous rage. So… what was that?"

The hair on the back of my neck is rising. If even he heard that sound, almost a crash, but closer, it’s got to be loud. "I don't know."

"Eleanor," Tristan is near the glass, not looking at me, but in the direction of my door, where it leads back into the rest of the station and the direction of the clamour.

"I'm on my way with the crowd control," Dirk is saying.

"I think they're inside the station," I say the words at the same time as I realise the truth of them, my heart leaping as another bang, this time louder, makes me flinch. That was a gunshot. And it was inside. I nearly drop the phone.

" Inside ?" I hear the edge of panic in his voice, the disbelief.

"Eleanor!" this time Tristan shouts my name.

At that moment, the power goes out, and the line cuts a second later. For a moment there is only darkness and silence except for the phone’s dead buzz in my ear. I’m still holding it. Then the emergency lights blink on, sharply red.

Tristan's hands are braced against the glass, and his expression finally instils the fear I should be feeling. He's worried, and if he's worried, what should I be? Terrified, probably. What about the janitor, the guards? I step towards the door, towards the sounds. They haven’t gotten louder, just more constant, hectic. I hesitate.

Tristan's fist thumps on the glass. "Eleanor, you need to get in here."

My head swivels to him, my heart in my throat. I don't know what to do. He’s cast in the red light, turning his eyes black and his hair white. More than he did when he wore that silver mask, he looks like a demon. "What?" For a moment, the possibility spikes in my chest. This is his doing, somehow. He’s not complacent at all. Needler blames me, just like they all do. I take a step back like he’s about to break through the glass.

"This is the most secure room in this place. I can protect you in here. Not out there." His every word grows more urgent as I stay frozen on the spot.

How are they inside? What’s happened? Are we truly so hated? Am I? I stare at Needler. They blame me.

They’re about to find me.

"I can't… It’s you they want to free." Wasn't I just thinking that he's more insane than I thought, didn't he just confess to yet another murder? The safest place can't possibly be locked in a room with him.

"Exactly." His palms are white against the glass. A door slams open, and heavy footsteps follow that. I don’t have my gun. Why would I? I’m inside the precinct. We’re safe here.

Needler yells, loud enough to make me jump, to wake me up from whatever shock I've fallen into. "For fuck’s sake, get in here now !"

My jaw clenches. It’s too late to hide somewhere else.

The short hall that connects the two halves of the cell intersects with the main corridor, and that’s where I first see them. No guns stand out, but one is holding a crowbar, the other a bat.

They see me.

One points with his bat, and they start running. Towards me. Turning, no longer breathing, I jam the rubbery buttons, praying they still work despite the power outage. I can feel the men as much as hear them, almost on me.

No sooner than I've put in the six-digit code, then the heavy door shoves open from the other side. Tristan grabs me and yanks me inside, slamming the door against the sudden thud that collides with it a second later. Not a body, but the heavy, angry strike of a weapon.

And that’s it, I’m inside. My breathing is short and shallow as I stare at Needler’s back, abruptly on the other side of the glass in this white room, the sounds dulled as voices shout from the hall that I was just in.

Needler turns to me, even more sinister in the red cast, and for a moment, I step back, not knowing what to expect.

He opens his mouth, but movement on the other side of the glass draws both of our gazes that way. I recognise Conrad immediately, and a beat later, the handgun in his grip. The glass is bulletproof. This whole room is practically a bomb shelter, but still, the sight of it sends a chill down my spine. Needler steps forward, reaching out to tug me back behind him.

Conrad's attention is on Tristan, however, not me. "It’s true, you are here." He smiles, almost a laugh. "We got here in time."

Needler says nothing, only staring back at this, his most adoring fan.

"Tell us the code. We can get you out of here now."

Two more men step in, the ones I saw with the bat and the crowbar. They're dressed so… normally. For some reason, I'd been imagining a mob in rags or some kind of homemade armour. This is almost worse, like they came here as a diversion from their day jobs.

"I don't know the code," Needler tells them evenly.

Now, Conrad looks directly at me, where I've backed up to the edge of the bed in the corner of the room. "She does."

Without so much as glancing back at me, Needler shakes his head once.

Conrad's brow darkens. "We're here to get you out. So, you can get rid of Cocooner."

"I won't kill Cocooner."

Ignoring this, Conrad steps closer. He's a tall man, if slight, and he can look Needler in the eye as the other man doesn't move. "Once they move you to whatever maximum-security hell they've got lined up, or that island for the insane, you'll never get out." When Needler doesn’t respond fast enough, his voice rises. "It'll be lethal injection. We're trying to save you."

"I can't let you in."

"For what? For her ?"

The look Conrad casts my way stills me. Such blame, such hate .

"I'm not your enemy," I say, and my voice, while feeling tremulous, comes out loud and even.

"You could have stopped Cocooner! Back when there was only one.” Right, when that one was my husband. As though I’d known. If only it was that simple. “You put the one who could help us in here while our people are being murdered!"

"I'm trying to catch Cocooner as much as anyone."

Conrad dismisses me, turning back to Tristan. "Get the code out of her and come with us.”

Shaking his head, Tristan steps back. "I won't."

Conrad’s face twists slowly into rage. He raises the gun and fires at the glass. The sound is muted on our side, but on his side, the two others yell and clamp their hands over their ears, deafened in the small space. Needler doesn't so much as flinch, and the glass is unbroken, though with a round in it like a tiny dent.

The burst of anger apparently spent, Conrad smiles, then spreads his arms. Despite it all, I can see even more strongly now, what’s so drawing about him, why he probably would have won the city if Cocooner hadn’t sent him into grief, and why the people are following him now. He’s the kind of person you can’t take your eyes off, whether they’re behind a desk or leading an army. Calmly, he sits on the stool in the middle of the room.

The power comes back on, casting us all into a harsh white light. Glancing at the ceiling, Conrad appears unconcerned, commenting, "Well, we've got the place surrounded, and we're not leaving until we have what we want." He smiles thinly. "You'll have to get hungry or thirsty, eventually."

"The riot squad is coming," I point out.

"Then this is where we make our stand."

Taking a breath, I understand reasoning with him, especially me reasoning with him, will do no good. I also know that, with us in here as hostages, and potentially others hurt in the rest of the station, it’s going to be hard for the squad to make its way through.

"You can't blame her for the reality of her husband," Tristan says.

"We can blame them for locking up the wrong guy. You could be helping us! Tell us the code, and this can all be over. Then, once you’re out, you deal with Cocooner. Then you can go free. Wherever you want. We’ll give you the means."

What 'over' means for me seems plain. "What have you done with the security, the cleaners who were out there?" I cut in.

"They're alive." I guess that’s the best we can ask for right now. And it’s all we’re getting. Conrad crosses his ankle over his knee, comfortable to wait out whatever comes this way. Glancing at his crowbar-wielding lackey, he says, “Tell the others we’ll be here longer than expected.” The man nods, stepping for the door, but Conrad catches his arm. “Remember what I said, we’re not here to vandalize cases. No evidence room, no destruction.” This time, the man leaves.

Conrad straightens his shirt like a politician, and the wait begins.

It could be an hour that passes, or three. I feel I’m about to chew right through my lip, every sound and shout upping my anxiety. While I sit on the bed, Tristan stays near the glass, leaning on the wall. Sighing, needing to do something with myself other than imagine them breaking through the glass, I step up to him, keeping my voice low. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry you’re in here. And I shouldn’t have hesitated before.”

He glances at me, eyes sparkling. “What did you think I’d do to you?”

I look away. “I don’t know. You can be… unpredictable.”

“You’re scared of me,” Tristan surmises, and I’m shocked to see that fact surprises him. “Think I can’t be trusted?”

I spread my hands. “You are a murderer,” I point out.

Gaze dropping, he keeps his arms crossed, but I see the slight tightening in his shoulders. All this, the cell, the high security, keeping him out of sight of almost everyone… it’s all fear. And maybe he thought that of everyone, I at least wouldn’t be afraid of him. But I am, because I don’t and never have understood him. Is that what he’s looking for? To be understood?

Conrad’s voice breaks my train of thought, and kills whatever lame reassurances I was about to try and give that Tristan surely would have seen straight through. "You saved her, and putting you in here is how she thanks you…" He’s frowning like he simply wants an explanation.

"Exactly, I saved her,” Tristan says, shifting his attention from me. “What makes you think I'd throw her to wolves now?"

Conrad’s mouth closes. To me again. "You could have told us something. You knew there would be more. You think we're too stupid to work it out for ourselves, that we need to be fed it by the fucking talking heads."

"We were trying to avoid this exact situation! You think you're harming Cocooner right now by raiding the precinct? You're fighting the wrong side."

Conrad frowns at me, then looks at Tristan. "Have you seen what’s happening out there since you’ve been locked away? Have they told you? No, of course they haven’t." Conrad murmurs to one of his lackeys, and a minute later, they're rolling a TV in from one of the disused rooms, plugging it in to turn to the news channels.

Even to me, who’s been seeing the riots all this time, the first images on the screen are dire. Burning buildings, mobs on the street, and sirens blaring to little effect among it all. A shaky camera follows someone throwing a bottle through a shopfront, and fire blazing out shortly after. Another one watches a woman being beaten with police batons, already on the ground and seemingly motionless. The sharp rapport of a gun sounds in the background, then more, popping like fireworks.

Now, we’re given a helicopter view over the station. I imagine I can hear it in real-time, hovering over the maroon roof of the precinct and the mass of featureless heads outside, crowding the street in a way that reminds me of a zombie flick. It’s two months of violence and vandalism all congealing into now, something Tregam might never crawl back from.

Needler stares at the screen, then looks slowly back at me with a look like, What the fuck happened?

I cringe. He guessed there would be protestors outside the station. I don't think he thought it had been this bad, the support behind him so great.

Abruptly, the imagery cuts away from the aerial views of what, for all intents and purposes, looks like a city in the deep throes of war, back to the neat, blonde newscaster. " An exclusive interview just in, watch Syr Evan live as he interviews the only person to have intimate knowledge of the infamous Cocooner ."

I frown, stepping forward. Who is she talking about? The footage rolls over to a quiet, tasteful room, darkly lit except for where two people sit facing each other on soft blue armchairs. One of the men is Syr, all combed back silver hair, and a perfectly pressed but somehow also casual-looking suit. And the other…

"Dirk!" I gasp.

My stomach lurches while he looks directly at the camera and introduces himself. What the hell is he doing there? And now , of all times?

"Detective Dirk Lancaster, you've said you’re ready to talk about your experience?" Syr asks in his calm, honeyed tones.

Dirk doesn't fidget, doesn't show any outward sign of nerves. But he must know everybody is watching, having been practically frothing at the mouth to know what really happened that night. They've made him up for the interview, brushed his hair so that it sweeps back glossy and wavy. Though they must have done it fast. "Yes."

"You are the only victim to have survived a Cocooner attack," Syr is saying. He knows we already know; he just wants to build the anticipation. "That must have been quite the experience. Being at the mercy of the most prolific killer in Tregam's history."

"That’s right."

Everyone here and I suspect, elsewhere with a TV turned on, has fallen to silence, watching.

No . Not like this, Dirk. What is he thinking? There's a riot going on, and he's giving away his privacy, telling a story he’s not ready to share, that still has him waking up at night in a cold sweat. They will only want more, they always do.

"The public has had many questions."

"Well, I'm here to answer them."

Syr folds his hands in his lap, looking closely at his subject with that discerning gaze he’s so known for emulating. "Shall we start from the beginning? We now know the Cocooner was formerly known as Olivia. What was your relationship with her?"

That question makes me feel sick. "There was none. She was the roommate of my partner. I'd seen her in passing only."

"I see. And now that we know the attacker to be a woman and not one who—by appearances—appears overly strong. There is the question of how she got you tied up in that warehouse?"

Dirk lifts his chin, taking a breath before beginning. "She came to my apartment, having tracked my partner’s movements, and figured out where I lived sometime before that night."

"And then what?" Syr presses, gently, as is his manner, but there's something more in this interview. He wants to know, as much as he wants the drama, the ratings. I've walked up to the glass, staring at the TV.

"She was behaving distraught, saying things that made no sense to me, that my partner was kicking her out, that she'd attacked her in a drunken rage. I got her some water and told her to go to my spare room and sleep while I found my partner and figured it out." Here, Dirk shifts, the first sign that he might be uncomfortable. "Instead, she tried to seduce me." There's a pause, and the image cuts to Syr, a subtly raised eyebrow, the most shock or abhorrence he ever shows. "Insistently. I told her no, and when she persisted, I told her to get the fuck out." The bleep doesn't quite cover his curse.

I breathe for what feels like the first time in a full minute, the corner of my mouth lifting. I wonder how much media training they managed to jam into the minutes before this interview.

Syr clears his throat. "But she didn't."

"No." Here, Dirk’s gaze drops for the first time. "That was when she came up behind me. I'd turned my back."

"Chloroform, is that right? That’s the only part of your ordeal that’s been made known to the public."

"That’s right. I thought it could be pertinent to finding her or warning people about that method."

"Did you know then what was happening?" Syr asks, empathy rich in his voice.

"No," says Dirk. "I didn't know until… I woke up."

"Tell me about that," Syr says. The man used to be a psychiatrist, and it shows at moments like this, the unflappability combined with questions that are just prying enough.

"It wore off earlier than she expected. In the warehouse, my hands were tied, but my feet were still free. That’s when I knew."

"Why were your feet free?"

"She likes her victims naked. She was trying to get my jeans off," Dirk says flatly, belying the slight drawing back of Syr. My vision blurs, and I realise I’m crying.

"I tried to attack her, but I was woozy, confused. Chloroform doesn't just wear off all at once. I didn't get her well enough. She was able to restrain me, fully this time."

"Then what happened?"

"Then…" Dirk shifts slightly. And here, his voice comes the closest to breaking it will this whole interview. "She tortured me."

The silence around me seems to expand. Not just this room, this building, but the whole city. If I've stopped breathing again, I don't notice.

Even Syr seems not to have an immediate next question lined up. Dirk's wounds were never publicised, privately his to bear. And those wounds, the dozens of tiny cuts, were never found on any other bodies. People thought they knew the extent of how screwed up Cocooner was. "Tortured you?"

Dirk takes a long, even breath. "Yes."

"Why?" Syr asks, and I have to respect that he doesn't jump immediately to how .

Shrugging, Dirk's gaze drops. "Because I'd made her bleed, or because I scared her just that little bit. Maybe she didn't take rejection well." He doesn't say the other possibility—that it was because of me, because of his connection to me and my life. I sway a little. "She's a psychopath. I can't know her reasoning. But she made me bleed."

"Made you bleed?"

And here, I know what he's going to do, even though I don't want him to do it, to give that part of himself away. But I see why now, why he's there. We've all forgotten the real enemy, and this is bringing her back out of the shadows, out of dark web forums and shadowy buildings the media tries to stick their cameras into. Away from landing on my head.

Standing now, Dirk is shrugging out of his jacket, revealing a long-sleeved sweater underneath. The camera pulls back as he takes the sweater off too, brushing his hair off his face before straightening up.

Then, the camera is close again, and he's shirtless, the scars still recent enough to be red. More than a dozen of them stand out, up his arms, all the way to the front of his shoulder, edging onto the side of his chest. The longest one cuts across his armpit, jagged for the way such stretchy skin heals. As he turns the inner side of his arms forward, more are revealed, worse, clustering around his wrists and the pale crook of his elbow.

I close my eyes. It’s different, seeing it here, outside the intimacy of closed rooms. This feels violating.

"She did that." Syr's eyes are wide.

"Over several hours," Dirk confirms, his sweater and his jacket in his lap as he sits back down. "I was… weakened, by the time of the rescue."

"I…" Syr closes his mouth. "I didn't know."

"No, few did." Now Dirk looks at the camera, sitting there half-naked but not diminished. "You wanted us to tell you the truth. Here it is: You all think releasing Needler will spell the end for Cocooner. It won't. Needler may be the hero of the city, and he saved my life, but he had a chance to kill the Cocooner that night. He didn't then, and he won't now."

"Why not?"

"For the same reason that we need him."

"And what is that reason?"

There's an audible pause. Syr waits.

And Dirk says it: "Cocooner is Needler's sister."

Abruptly, the TV cuts off, just a blank, dark grey screen. The silence is total, numbing.

I blink, as though coming out of a daze. Conrad hovers near the power button, frozen against what must be turmoil within. He looks at Tristan, who seems both uncharacteristically stunned and horrified at what Dirk has just done.

Because I can see what he's just done. He's outed the monster, and then connected the city’s saviour to her. What do people have to crusade for now?

I don't believe for a second that Needler's horror is for the potential of love lost from Tregam—he was never doing it for that—no, it’s for his sister. With a hundred thousand sets of hands and fresh minds now aware of the connection, the people could very well find Cassandra, and tear her apart before we can ever get to her. But what they’ll do in the process of finding her could be worse.

"Is it true?" Conrad asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"It is," Needler admits, staring back at the other man, perhaps estimating which direction he'll now turn his considerable motivation.

Conrad falls back onto the stool, its legs grating loudly one inch across the floor. "Did you…?"

"I didn't know it was her before she attacked the detective."

"But you let her go!" His face lifts, accusing.

"She's my sister," Tristan says, voice soft, almost apologetic, like even he knows it’s not enough anymore, not with everything she’s done.

"For loyalty !" Conrad takes a sharp inhale. "What about my loyalty? To my Broderick! She drowned him, suffocated him in…" His head falls into his hands, shoulder shaking.

The two lackeys in the room shift from foot to foot. One dares approach. "Are we still getting him out?"

Conrad stands so abruptly that the stool falls over. "He belongs here. Get out! This is over."

"What about—"

"I said leave!" Conrad screams, face twisting before he crumples back down, to the floor this time, where he'll stay until the riot squad clears the building an hour from now.

I sit on the bed, knees drawn up, blankly watching the crying man on the other side. This was all he had, what he hinged all his hopes for justice on. Tristan is in his chair, staring at the door, equally blank.

I open my mouth, then close it again. "Tristan…"

"They still won't find her."

My teeth press together. "Can you find her?" He still doesn’t answer. "This can't go on."

"No, it can't," he says, eyes still on the wall. There’s no emotion in his voice as he looks at me and adds, "They're going to find the homes, the carers, everyone who I was ever connected to." His jaw works. "Your boyfriend better know what he's doing."

This past hour, there’s been only quiet, the rioters sifting out of the building, and whatever is happening on the street is too distant to reach us here.

But now, the voices take on an authoritative volume, echoing through the station. Tristan straightens, and I stand up from the bed. On the other side of the glass, the door slams open and two men in heavy riot gear burst through. Even though Conrad isn't moving, there’s a gun by his side, and they tackle him, shoving his face down onto the hard floor. He doesn't resist, but still, the way they wrench his arms behind his back makes me cringe in sympathy, my hand coming to my mouth.

I want to tell them to calm down. The fight was outside, if indeed there was one. The threat has passed now.

Then, the clicking outside the heavy door on my right warns me before it’s opened, too. Tristan tugs me back, away from the door and behind him as I brace, expecting more of the over-zealous riot squad. Instead, I’m breathing a sigh of relief as Dirk rushes through instead. Tristan steps aside, towards the back wall, as Dirk’s eyes lock on me. I’m in his arms in an instant, his face buried in the side of my neck. "Thank God you're okay, thank God."

I've barely had time to squeeze him back, emotions warring inside me as I remember him on that TV, so exposed, and feel him here with me. I’m sinking into his relief, and my own elation that this is all over, when the door slams back and three of the riot squad rush the room.

Tristan lifts his hands to his shoulders, just standing there, but for whatever reason—blood running high, the fact that he happened to be standing nearer to the door, or maybe even what they'd just learned along with everyone else—the first one lunges and clips him in the jaw, knocking him sideways. He doesn't make a noise, just catches himself with a hand braced against the wall. He should have gone down, because the other two take this as a threat and kick him in the back of the knee, violently forcing him down to the ground, dealing more blows as they do.

"Stop!" I scream, breaking away from Dirk. "He protected me, stop !"

Dirk pulls me back before I throw myself in there and probably get a concussion, pushing between two of them himself. "Ease up!" he's shouting, and he catches an elbow to the jaw for his efforts. Stumbling back a step, hand to his chin, I have a second to see his brow darken before he lunges in again, grabs the first officer—the same one still throwing punches downwards—by the back of his vest and all but lifts and tosses the man into the wall.

He stands up immediately, slightly dazed but looking ready to charge while the other two hold Tristan—who still isn't resisting—down. Dirk points. "Step out of that corner, officer, and I'll break your fucking arm."

Thankfully, finally, there’s a pause in the room. No one moves, no one punches anything. I hold my breath. "We've got it from here, officers," I say evenly. Two of them look at me. "Get out. And send in the medics." They still hesitate, and it’s probably for the best that I don't have a gun on me to wave around. " Now !" I shout.

One by one, like fizzled sparklers, they march out, the one in the corner making sure to thump against Dirk's shoulder, in that age-old way of subtle violence men have for each other, on the way past. The door closes.

Crouching next to Tristan as he lifts himself tentatively off the floor, Dirk takes his shoulder and helps him sit up against the wall. Tristan grimaces, his lip cut and bleeding freely, locks of his blond hair darkened. One of his eyes is swollen near shut, and that’s just the injuries we can see. Jesus, how did this all happen so fast? The corner of Dirk's jaw is blooming dark red and angry.

"You sure know how to create an impact, detective," Tristan creaks, pressing his palm to his own temple.

Dirk rests back on his heels. "This wasn't exactly the outcome I was going for."

"There's probably going to be a lot of outcomes you weren't going for," Tristan says wryly. I come up beside him, offering a tissue from my pocket, which he holds to his lip.

"Well, I guess you're not going to be Tregam's poster boy anymore."

Tristan chuckles, though it seems to pain him, and I wonder if he's got a cracked rib too. "You can't still think I was doing all this for a fan club?"

"No," Dirk admits.

There's an urgent knock on the door, out of place, funny even, considering we're all locked inside a cell. "Medics!" The voice comes through muffled. Glancing towards Needler, ascertaining that he can't see, I put the code in, admitting the man and two women in protective gear and their first aid bags.

Needler looks up at Dirk as he steps back to allow them access, and asks him, "But if I'm not the poster boy anymore, who is?"

***

"He thinks it’s you," I say, wearing his wince as I smear the cream as gently as possible on his swollen jaw.

"Mm-hm," Dirk grunts, keeping his chin tilted up. We're on my couch, facing each other, the room dim. One of the longest days of my life has finally ended with the station reclaimed and Conrad locked up. The riots are quelled for now, the streets taking on a kind of sombre quiet. For now. "He can think what he wants."

"If it’s not just him…"

"El." Dirk catches my hand, grip closing around my fingers. "You know why I had to do it, don't you?"

I drop my gaze. "I just wish you’d told me any of that before."

"I know. I wasn't ready."

"But you told all of Tregam."

"Not because I was ready. Because I had to. You were locked in that station. I didn't know if you were safe or…" he breaks off, pulling me closer, into his lap. "It was all I could do."

I let my forehead rest against his. "I just… Cocooner…"

"Yeah, she'll be watching now. Even more."

Tears prick my eyes. "I'm so scared, Dirk, of her, for you…"

He holds me closer. "It’s okay. We'll be okay."

But I don't know if he believes that, or if I could ever believe that again.

We don’t turn on the TV that night, or the next morning, just stay closed away in the safe dark, wrapped around each other, putting off the moment that we need to face it all again.