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20

THE PROTECTOR

I step through the glass doors of Maplewood’s sheriff’s office. The lights cast a sterile glow over the room. There’s a young deputy behind the desk, no older than twenty-five, with a badge too shiny to belong to someone who hasn’t been in the job too long. His light brown hair is neatly combed, and his uniform is pressed to perfection.

Behind him is another deputy, older and stockier, he leans against a filing cabinet, sipping from a chipped mug. I ignore everyone else in the department, because I only have one thing in mind, finding answers and not socializing with the local sheriff department.

I walk up to the deputy and introduce myself.

“I’m Special Agent Turner. I’m here about the personal effects of the deceased.”

I read his name badge. It says Hicks. His eyes flick up at me, then he rolls them as if he’s annoyed at seeing an agent—antagonized by my presence. I’m used to it. Most departments are, because they feel as if we’ve come to do a job they’re incapable of doing—and most of the time, they’re right.

His eyes flick up at me, briefly startled. He swallows hard, nodding. 'Right. You’re talking about… the John Doe, right?'

I have to play along, but the idea of him calling my brother a John Doe sets me on fire. He wasn’t a John Doe. He was a fucking hero. I keep my composure as I reply, 'Correct.'"

His chair creaks as he turns to grab a file from the stack behind him. As he opens it, his lips press into a thin line. I’m surprised that they have made a file in such a short space of time. Impressed even.

“Thing is,” he says, glancing back at me, “there weren’t any personal effects. Nothing on him when we found the body. Just his clothes.”

“Nothing?” I repeat, my tone is colder now. “No wallet, no keys, no phone?”

“No. Maybe he just… didn’t have anything on him.” His explanation is flimsy, and we both know it.

I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “You’re telling me someone walks around Maplewood with nothing? No ID? No trace of who they are? Come on, Deputy. It doesn’t add up.”

“Listen,” he says, lowering his voice to match mine. “I don’t know what to tell you. But you might wanna talk to Sheriff Colton. He was the first on the scene.”

I nod, straightening up, but I don’t recall seeing a Sheriff onsite. Maybe he left after I arrived at the scene. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I want to get this cleared up as soon as possible.

“Where is he?”

“In his office. Down the hall, last door on the right.”

I walk away, but not alone, as Hicks follows me. I don’t care if it’s a three-way conversation. I just know no one walks around with not even a set of keys, it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make any fucking sense at all.

As I arrive at the sheriff's door, I knock twice out of courtesy, and when he cheerfully tells me to come in, I don’t hesitate to open the door. Sure enough, Hicks is behind me.

Hicks opens the door, and then I indicate for him to go in ahead of me. He does without hesitation. The sheriff is sitting behind an old, cluttered desk, his chair creaking under his weight. He has papers scattered on it and I clearly interrupted him eating a donut, which is in front of him on a plate with crumbs dusting the front of his uniform. He looks up at me with the same dark, suspicious eyes as Hicks, chewing slowly, as if sizing me up before even saying a word.

“Turner is it?”

He knows my name, because clearly the coroner told him I was coming and he was already expecting me.

“I’m glad that you could make it. Sorry about your loss,” he has a smirk on his face which instantly makes me want to punch the living daylights out of him. It’s annoying. He’s acting as if we’re old friends, if I had friends he would be the last person I would contact. I have an instinct dislike to him and my instincts are never wrong.

“Yes. It’s just that Deputy Hicks says that there were no personal belongings on the …deceased and you were the first person on the scene.”

He nods his head. “Correct.”

“Well, I just find it hard to believe. Do people here walk around with no keys? Nothing on them. Everyone carries something nowadays, especially a phone.”

“Sit down Agent Turner. Let Hicks get you a coffee or something, you seem tense. I heard that you lost a relative tonight.”

The coroner definitely filled him in, and if I wanted a coffee or a donut, then I would definitely go to a diner, and not the sheriff’s department. I feel as if I’m going to explode, erupt if my trip to the sheriff’s department has been a waste of time.

“Yes. But you never answered my question.”

He smiles, and then takes another bite of his donut before answering.

“You see the Deputy is my son,” he points in the direction of Hicks who, like a Cheshire cat smiles at his father acknowledging he is his son.

“He, like me, doesn’t see anything wrong here. You see at times people go for walks, just to go out and get some fresh air. They want to get away from their busy lives and leave home with nothing. They don’t need keys, because well we live in a safe neighborhood.”

If it were true, then the town could save money by getting rid of the sheriff’s department and all the deputies, if there’s no such thing as a crime here.

“We need to sleep on it. In the morning, we can question the little lady again, the witness and see if we can get any answers.”

“You see, she sees a therapist, so she already has issues. I’m not even sure if she is a viable witness really?” Deputy Hicks says.

How the heck does he know that she sees a therapist? Then again, he probably goes to the diner where she works, and he’s most likely one of her friends.

“She’s not from here like you. She has unusual features. Brunette with green eyes. It’s amazing!” He beams and then for a second I see an exchange of looks between the sheriff and his son.

The sheriff clears his throat before saying, “maybe a good night’s sleep will refresh her memory,” he says as he stands up and smiles at the Deputy, his son and then at me.

The sheriff not interested, because he’s probably the type who wanted to be local sheriff, because his grandpa was the sheriff, and so was his daddy, so he naturally took up the role with limited skills and next to no talent. They probably gave him the job out of pity, to save him the shame of not following in his bloodline’s footsteps.

“Maybe we should get her therapist. After all, she saw someone being killed, and then maybe they chased her,” Hicks raises his voice.

As if he does this on a daily basis. He repeats the evidence and case for his Pa, because he enjoys solving cases whereas his dad only enjoys the title and status.

The Sheriff shakes his head, as if the idea of having to do an investigation is too much for him. But yet, I can sense the excitement in his Deputy. I imagine not much happens in this town, which is a bore to his son, but suits someone like the Sheriff just fine. I’ve met his type so many times, and I know what goes through their minds, as much as he’s pretending that he doesn’t want me here. The Sheriff knows he doesn’t have the capacity nor the bandwidth to solve this case or any other.

We all know it.

“Look, I will talk to her. I’m used to interrogations. Maybe Hicks, you can come in too.”

“Deputy Hicks,” he corrects me as he broadens his shoulders and stands up straight.

I don’t give a fuck if it’s Sergeant Major Hicks. I just want to speak to the witness.

“No. It’s fine, Agent Turner. If you want to speak to the witness, Deputy Hicks has business here to attend to. You can do it alone.”

At last, progress. I don’t need anything more from them because they’re just going to get in the way anyway. I ask for directions to the interrogation room and then head there. For sure, Penelope will give me answers—I’m sure about it.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here in this small room—but I feel the weight of every second pressing against me. The chair’s uncomfortable, digging into my spine as I try to keep still, my hands folded in front of me. Then the door opens again, quietly, and my stomach twists. My breath catches in my throat before I can stop it. The moment I see the figure in the doorway, I freeze.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a long, dark coat—so dark it looks almost black under the fluorescent lights. The faintest trace of stubble clings to his jawline, and his eyes are hidden beneath the brim of a worn-out baseball cap.

I blink, hard. I can’t see this right.

I know him. I know his face, his posture, the way he walks. And yet… it can’t be him. It can’t be.

My heartbeat speeds up. I can’t catch my breath. The room is suddenly too small, too hot, and the air smells thick almost as if it’s suffocating.

I stare at him, my mouth dry. I can feel my pulse in my throat, every beat a loud thump in my ears. My hands tremble at my sides, my skin tingling like I’ve been hit by an electric shock.

He can’t be the cop. He’s dead.

I saw it happen. I watched him die, and then I sat by my bedroom window on the floor, hoping that the killer never saw me.

But this—this man standing in the doorway, looking so damn real, so alive —is the same person.

I have to be imagining things, but I can’t shake it off. Nor look away. They need to lock me up again, I’m seeing things just like my aunt said I used to do. Those monsters. The asylum told me that the monsters I used to see in my nightmares, were the men who raped me.

I don’t know what’s going on? If this is some kind of cruel joke? Or a dream, and I need to wake up from it. I pinch myself, hard, expecting to wake up, but, a sharp sting shoots through my skin. I flinch, sucking in a breath as the pain lingers, real and undeniable. My heart pounds.

This isn't a dream.

It’s real.

The officer by the door doesn’t move from her position, and she doesn’t acknowledge him, not yet. It’s like they both know something I don’t, like this moment is something I’m not supposed to understand.

He steps into the room, his gaze flicking to the officer first, then turning slowly toward me.

I’m frozen in place, unable to tear my eyes away. My hands are ice, my mind swirling with disbelief. It’s him . But it can’t be him. My throat is tight, a knot in my chest that I can’t untangle.

He opens his mouth, his voice low and steady.

“I need to speak with her,” he says. The words come out smooth, controlled.

I feel the blood drain from my face, because I don’t know if I want to scream or cry or run. My whole body is trembling, as if I’m about to fall apart. But I don’t make a sound.

It’s not possible.

I can hear my breath, shallow, unsteady. I glance at the officer, her eyes narrowed, not at all surprised by his presence, but I can’t seem to pull my gaze away from him. From the ghost standing in front of me.

The room feels colder. The door to the station feels so far away now, like the whole world is closing in.

The cop looks at me again, his eyes still hidden beneath that cap. And as my mind races to catch up, as he puts on his skull mask and then draws closer toward me.

I blink, wondering if all this is a figment of my imagination.

He sits opposite, putting his mask on, adjusting his cap. This time I close my eyes shut, I don’t want to see him again, because he’s supposed to be dead. But he’s sitting in front of me, very much alive.

P enelope has grown into a beautiful swan, with her dark hair curled and piled on top of her head, which exaggerates the slope of her neck.

Even if she is beautiful, I still don’t understand why my brother was obsessed with her—so obsessed that it cost him his life. I watch as her chest rises and falls as she sits, with her eyes firmly shut, unable to acknowledge my presence let alone look at my face.

My brother wasn’t the type to want a woman who would want to stay at home, cook, and clean, nor did he want an independent woman.

Then again, the more I think about it. I have no idea what type of woman he wanted—apart from the one sitting in the interrogation room. The one he was addicted to, but the moment her eyes meet mine, there’s no denying it…. She knows!

She remembers my face, well it wasn’t mine, but my brother’s but we look identical so she’s quiet. From the moment, I stepped in here her eyes widened and no more was she calm and collective like she’d been moments ago as I watched her on the other side of the mirror, but nervous as she taps her foot on the ground still with her eyes firmly shut.

“Thanks for waiting. I’m Agent Turner with the Bureau. Hazel Stevenson, is it?” She nods her head. Avoiding my stare.

Her eyes, though… they’re the part I can’t shake. Striking green, that they almost seem unnatural. The kind of eyes that don’t just look at you; they trap you. And she’s scared. I can see it. Not in the obvious way. She doesn’t tremble. She doesn’t cry. But it’s in the way she holds herself too still, the way her jaw tenses. Me walking in here, knowing this might happen... was a mistake.

I’m making mistakes, and now I understand what my brother couldn’t explain. The addiction. The pull. I didn’t get it until I saw her for myself—until I stepped into the same room and felt whatever it is she carries under her skin.

When I was standing outside, observing her through the glass, it wasn’t enough. I’d stare at the shape of her mouth when she spoke, and I’ll be completely caught in the curve of her lips. Her hair—long, red, bold—like a signal fire against the gray mess of her world.

She’s the flame—small, but fierce—dancing at the tip of my fingers. I could extinguish her with one breath. It would be easy. But I don’t want it to be easy. I want to watch her burn. I want to see her flicker and fight, her light resisting me, resisting the night that presses in, because her beauty caused my brother’s death. I want her to struggle—because I am the darkness, and I’ll wait for her to tire, to dim, to flicker out.

And when she does, I’ll be the only thing left.

In her fire, I see my power, because her beauty may have ended my brother’s life, but it’s not going to do the same thing to me.

Because from this moment onward… her life. Her fear. Her story… is mine.

I warned him, more times than I can count, that his addiction to her would destroy him. Maybe he thought that he was stronger than whatever force she had over him, that he could love her at a safe distance, like a moth dancing near a flame without ever touching it, but no one gets that close to fire without getting burned.

And maybe I didn’t believe it would happen. Or maybe I did. Maybe I watched him slip further into her orbit and knew—quietly, deeply—that he was already dead long before they found his body. She was the slow poison he drank willingly, one trembling sip at a time.

Now he’s gone, and she’s still here.

And somehow I’m the one left standing in the ruins of what he couldn’t walk away from.

Some part of me wonders if he wasn’t the target at all, just the breadcrumb trail leading to what they were really after. Penelope.

But if that’s the case, why him? Why go after Hunter? Why tear him apart if she was the one they wanted?

My head starts to throb, so I rub my temples, slow and useless, knowing it won’t help. Knowing this headache isn’t about pain—it’s about guilt, grief, and something far more dangerous growing just beneath the surface.

I didn’t protect my brother while he was alive. I let him spiral. I stood at the edge and watched. Maybe I even resented him for how far he fell. But I won't—I can’t—fail him now that he’s gone.

I’m sitting this close to her, breathing the same air, is a kind of madness all on its own. She hasn't said much, but she doesn’t have to. I hated her once, or I thought I did, because of what she did to Ruslan she did to him. Hate has a funny way of turning soft when you’re too close.

“I just need you to start at the beginning—and tell it exactly how you remember it.”

My phone rings.

I know, deep down, that the second I pick it up, the moment will be broken, but still, my hand moves on its own, lifting the phone to my ear.

In that moment, I realize something terrifying: I’m not just repeating my brother’s mistakes. I’m starting to understand them.

“We need to talk!” Then Noah hangs up.

Maybe he has the answers. I should have gone to see him first, before coming here. My head is spinning and as much as I want to stay with Penelope. I already know coming into the interrogation room was a bad mistake, I’m taking on a case in which I have no business messing with.

From the time I headed straight to the coroner’s office, I knew it was a mistake, yet I just followed it through all the way to being in the same room as Penelope and freaking her out. It’s as if for a split second I forgot myself and I did the thing that both Ruslan and I used to do as kids, I switched roles with him even in death. His addiction. The woman he’s obsessed with, is in the room and somehow I had to be in the room too. Maybe his spirit still lingers inside of me, and I can’t shake it off, even if he’s not physically still in this world.

“I need to leave,” I announce. It’s as if it’s a relief to Penelope as I don’t keep an eye on her.

Maybe Ruslan and I were more alike than I’d ever given myself credit for. I used to think of him as the darkness—my alter ego, the part of me I kept hidden and locked away. He was the one who would be me and do the things I never had the guts to do. But maybe that was never the case. Maybe it was the other way around—maybe he was the light, and now I’m the darkness.

His death is messing with my head, and it’s only been a few hours.

Why is it that he had nothing on him?

When it comes to cases involving family members it is better for agents not to be involved, because we end up making mistakes.

Slipping my phone back into my pocket, taking a long, steadying breath before I turn to leave the station. I’m so confused and wonder if I should take a step back before I completely lose my mind.

My brother is dead.

My twin.

I don’t know how to bury him, because he didn’t fucking exist. This has something to do with the woman he has been following, so maybe this is all a little too close for comfort and I should let the good law officers of Maplewood to handle it, while I go and drown my sorrows.

I don’t know how to feel right now as I head into the parking lot which feels as if it’s suffocating. There will be no acknowledgement about him being a great man who saved thousands of kids from being killed by predators and men who were willing to take away their childhood.

He did that.

I never gave him the credit he deserved. He saved Penelope and stopped the kids from being tortured. I never told him that he was brave or anything. Now, he’s just going to be buried like a John Doe unless I sort it out.

Who's going to attend?

Me and Noah? Maybe Frank? Should I tell him? Shit, maybe Noah has done that already.

There should be hundreds attending, telling everyone that he’s a hero, but he’s going to be buried as a nobody.

I pull my coat tighter around me, the cold evening air biting at my skin, but it doesn’t help. I don’t know if I’m trying to stay warm or just trying to make myself feel something.

My car is parked near the back, the headlights cut through the dark as I approach and then I do something I’ve only done once in my life once I get to the car. I fucking cry. I let all my frustration, all the words I should have said, come out. I don’t care who hears or sees me, because you can’t turn back time and I fucking wish I could.