Chapter 1: The Chill of Old Regrets

The air inside the police station was sharp and cold, the kind that seeps right through your skin. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing faintly, casting harsh shadows on the scuffed linoleum. Even before the cuffs snapped shut, I could taste the metallic tang of fear and antiseptic.

The metal clicked harshly against my wrists—a sound I’d never forget. He was in full police uniform, tall and upright, the kind of posture that said he owned the room. His new girlfriend—young, gorgeous, with movie-star hair—stood off to the side, watching everything with big eyes. The fluorescent glare bounced off her flawless skin, making me feel even smaller, even less real.

At the station, he was all business, his face cold and unreadable. “Tell me what you did. Don’t lie to me.” The badge on his chest caught the light, sharp and blinding—a reminder of everything I’d lost. His voice sounded nothing like the man I’d once loved; it was clipped, professional, steel-edged. It stung more than the cuffs.

The one who arrested me was Derek Shaw.

Everyone called him Captain Shaw, and in this town, that title meant something. He moved with the confidence of a man who never had to second-guess himself—broad-shouldered, clean-cut, and as unyielding as the city’s old brick courthouse.

This man didn’t cut me any slack. The cuffs bit into my wrists and my eyes stung with tears. “Can you go a little easier...?”

I tried to catch his eye, desperate to find some flicker of the boy who used to walk me home from school—the one who once stepped between me and a couple of bullies in the hallway, daring anyone to mess with me. But he didn’t even look at me. His voice was flat as ice: “I’m following protocol. Hope you understand.”

He really didn’t care about the past. Not anymore. The way he set his jaw told me he’d buried those years deep, locked them away and thrown out the key.

A wave of sadness crashed over me. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, struggling to hold it together. The smell of burnt coffee and disinfectant—classic police station—suddenly felt suffocating, like I was choking on all the things we’d never said.

At the station, another officer asked, “You reported Marcus Evans?”

I nodded, forcing myself to focus. My voice came out shaky, barely more than a whisper. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, desperate not to sound weak in front of him, like someone who had nothing left to lose.

“What’s your relationship to him?”

“He’s my husband.” The words felt like gravel in my throat. Even now, they sounded foreign, like I was reading a stranger’s story.

“Were you involved in what he did?”

That... The question hung between us, heavy as storm clouds over Lake Erie.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, the lens of the recording device caught every twitch of my face. I could feel it—every little tremor, every flinch—broadcast, recorded, permanent.

I hesitated, glancing at Derek, who stayed silent.

His face was still cold: “Just tell the truth. Don’t try to lie.”