Page 26 of The Hacker (Dominion Hall #5)

VIVIENNE

T he concrete was cold beneath my thighs. Not cold like winter. Cold like consequence. Like the echo of something once full, now hollowed out.

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.”

“And then?”

“And then she fell.”

I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t.

“She slipped,” I added after a beat, my voice a whisper now. “She was laughing two seconds before. And then?—”

My chest tightened, panic threading up my throat. I pressed my fist to my mouth.

He studied me. “Your statement matches what they saw on camera. Footage from a rooftop bar across the way caught part of it. No signs of foul play.”

“But?”

“But your name’s on a report connected to a high-risk group.”

My blood iced. “What?”

Norton didn’t blink. “Handle name was ShadyLady. You’re not listed as the poster, but the posts reference a meet. Same location. Same time.”

I shook my head. “That wasn’t me. I don’t even know what that is.”

“Someone does.” His voice didn’t accuse, but it didn’t coddle either. “And they made damn sure you were in the blast zone when things went sideways.”

I pressed my back against the cold wall, nails digging into my skin. “Jessa wasn’t—she didn’t have enemies. We weren’t playing a game. We were just—” I broke off. The words sounded pathetic now. Reckless. “It was just something we used to do. Back before everything started falling apart.”

He nodded like he expected that. Then added, almost offhand, “You know you weren’t supposed to be off the radar after the bridge stunt.”

I swallowed hard. “My whereabouts were supposed to be reported.”

“Exactly. Part of the terms of your suspension from the ballet. Mandatory check-ins.”

I went quiet.

He studied me. “That stopped happening the minute the Danes got involved. Quiet strings pulled. Certain departments told to back off. Ruffled more than a few feathers.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

Because I knew what he was really saying.

Someone had protected me. Covered me. Kept me from being flagged as a risk. And someone else had tried to make sure I looked like one anyway.

I swallowed. My throat felt like it had been sandpapered. “I’m not part of anything. I didn’t post anything. I didn’t kill her.”

“I believe you,” he said.

I blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “You’re grieving. Not faking. People faking don’t flinch when the words come out wrong. They try to control it. You’re not controlling anything right now.”

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. It hit my knee and sat there, trembling.

He didn’t say anything else for a moment. Just leaned back, arms folded, watching me like someone trying to decide whether I was a live wire or a victim.

“But belief doesn’t change protocol,” he finally said. “Right now, you’re being held until your story checks out completely. Cameras will help. Witnesses might help.”

I wiped at my face with the back of my hand. “What happens to me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He leaned in, the lines around his eyes sharpening. “On who else starts asking about you. On what else they find.”

“You mean the FBI?”

He paused.

“No,” he said. “I mean the people watching the FBI.”

A chill rippled down my spine.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

He nodded. “You’re not supposed to.”

My stomach curled inward, tight and nauseous. I looked away, eyes blurring against the sterile cinderblock.

“You said my name got flagged?”

He nodded once. “System pinged you when the arrest was processed. Not normal procedure. Certain tags do that. I check them when they come in.”

“And you just happened to be nearby?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said.

“Then what do you believe in?”

His gaze held mine. “Justice. When I can find it.”

I exhaled, shaky and slow.

“You know Elias?” I asked.

“I do,” he said. “And if he hasn’t already found out you’re in here, he will. I spoke with one of his brothers.”

My heart kicked at the sound of his name.

“I don’t want him seeing me like this.”

“Then you picked the wrong night to climb a rooftop.”

I didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

Norton shifted, pulling something from his pocket. “I can’t get you out tonight. But I can make sure no one touches you while you’re here. That your paperwork doesn’t go missing. That no stories get rewritten on your behalf.”

He held out a napkin, folded into quarters.

“You need anything,” he said, “write it down. Pass it through the door. I’ll make sure it gets seen.”

I took the napkin with numb fingers.

“And Vivienne?” he added, turning to go.

I looked up.

“You didn’t kill your friend. But someone was there when it happened. That’s not random. That’s design.”

He stepped out, the door groaning shut behind him.

I sat there, holding that napkin like it might save me.

And I let the tears come.

Because I wasn’t just grieving now.

I was afraid.

The tears came slow at first—silent and shapeless—but they didn’t stop. They dripped down my cheeks and soaked into my tank top, and I didn’t wipe them away. I let them fall. Let them remind me I was still human. That I hadn’t gone entirely numb.

But the fear that settled over me wasn’t just about jail. Or being alone. Or even being blamed.

It was about the truth—that the one person who’d always known how to talk me down, talk me through, was gone.

Jessa, who could read my moods before I even spoke.

Jessa, who would’ve known what to say. She’d have grabbed my hand, made a joke, stolen my keys, and ordered greasy fries on the way to the hospital or court or whatever fresh hell I’d gotten myself into.

And now, all I had was a napkin with a name and no one to call.

Or maybe … maybe there was someone.

Not someone who could fix this. But someone who used to make it all feel a little less broken.

I stood slowly, pressing my hands to the wall for balance.

A guard passed the bars, his boots echoing down the corridor.

“Hey,” I called, voice rasping. “I want my call.”

He didn’t stop.

“I want my one phone call,” I repeated, louder this time.

He paused, turned, looked me over like I’d finally remembered I was a person. “You processed?”

“Yes.”

He said nothing for a second, then nodded. “Five minutes. That’s all you get.”

He led me to a small, sterile room that reeked of bleach and regret. A metal stool sat bolted to the floor beside a grimy wall-mounted phone. I lowered myself slowly, picked up the receiver with trembling fingers, and dialed the only number I still knew by heart.

The memory care facility in New Orleans answered on the third ring.

“Saint Cecilia’s,” came a soft voice. “Evening shift, this is Martha.”

My throat tightened. “I’m—uh. I’m calling for Maureen Laveau. I’m her daughter.”

“Hold on,” the woman said, tone shifting. “She’s not usually up this late.”

“Please. Just for a minute.”

A beat of silence. Then muffled footsteps. A door opening.

Shuffling sounds.

Then her voice.

“Hello?”

It was barely above a whisper. That same delicate, singsong cadence that used to tell bedtime stories and yell at carpool lines. Only now, it wobbled. Like a thread coming undone.

“Hi, Mama,” I said.

Silence.

Then, slowly: “Who is this?”

“It’s me. Vivi.”

More silence.

“I had a daughter named Vivienne,” she said finally. “She was a dancer. Fierce little thing.”

My heart cracked down the middle. “That’s me, Mama. I’m your Vivienne.”

“Oh,” she said, like she’d dropped a teacup and didn’t know whether to mourn it or just sweep up the pieces. “I thought you were taller.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Mama,” I whispered, “I’m in trouble, and I’m scared.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, distant now. “Don’t tell me about trouble. I lived through hurricanes and decades of being misunderstood.”

I smiled despite the burn in my chest. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“It’s not what it used to be,” she said softly.

Neither of us were.

“Mama,” I said, voice trembling now, “Jessa’s gone.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Jessa … she was your friend, wasn’t she? The one with the loud laugh?”

I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. “Yeah. That’s her.”

“I always liked her,” she said.

“She’s dead,” I said. Just like that. Just two words that didn’t make sense together.

“Oh, baby …”

And that’s when I realized she was crying. Quiet, small cries that didn’t quite know where they belonged.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how to make it better anymore.”

I curled over the phone, sobbing now. “I don’t either.”

There was another pause. “Vivi?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to go.”

My stomach dropped. “Go where?”

“When the money runs out.”

Fresh grief knifed through me. “You’re not going anywhere,” I whispered.

“They told me I had until the end of the month. But I get confused. Maybe that already passed.”

“No,” I said. “No, it hasn’t.”

The sound of a door opening echoed faintly on her end.

“They’re telling me I have to hang up,” she said. “But I want you to come brush my hair again. Remember how you used to?”

“I remember.”

“You had little fingers. So careful. You were always so careful.”

I closed my eyes. “I’ll come, Mama. Soon.”

“I’ll wait,” she said.

Then the line went dead.

I held the phone to my ear long after the click, listening to the hum of emptiness, to the absence of a mother I’d already lost in pieces.

The guard knocked once on the glass.

I stood slowly and walked back to my cell without a word.

The napkin Norton had given me was still there on the bench.

I looked at it.

Then sat down beside it and cried like a child who just wanted her mother to come find her in the dark.