Page 11 of Under His Protection

The news of Freddy’s death had hit me hard, bringing back memories of the dark side of this city, the hidden corners where despair and addiction festered. I wonder if the drugs that killed him had come in on one of Alexander’s ships.

“Yeah, I remember Freddy,” I say, a shiver running through my body. “You got a letter from a dead person? What did it say?” I raise a suspicious eyebrow.

“That’s the thing.” Sarah’s eyes grow distant, a flicker of fear passing over them.

“There was no letter. There was just a black feather inside.”

Feather, my body starts to shake.

A black feather. The Raven? I was so caught up in my own fears I hadn’t considered the possibility that the Raven was out there targeting my friends, still playing his twisted games.

I stand, and my stomach lurches. My need to find Harvey, to get answers, overrides my need for Sarah and coffee.

“I have to go,” I stammer, pushing back my chair. My coffee spills, a dark stain blooming on the crisp white tablecloth.

“Ava? What’s going on?” Sarah says, feverishly dapping the stain with napkins.

“I’ll call you—” I say, my voice is a little too high-pitched and forced.

As I turn to go, something catches my eye. Out of the corner of my vision, I see a figure standing near the entrance. Their back is to me, their face hidden, but I feel a tingling of apprehension.

I pull my coat closer around me, feeling the chill from the open window, and head towards the door. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched as I walk. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s nothing there.

I need to get to the police station, to Harvey, as quickly as possible. I glance over my shoulder again, but there’s nothing there. I keep looking back, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and I pick up my pace, racing towards the familiar imposing presence of the police station. The shadows are closing in, and I don’t know who is watching me.

I push open the heavy double doors of the police station, and the scent of sweat and stale coffee hits me. I scruff up my nose, but it’s still a comforting scent, a smell of authority and order. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz, creating a harsh, sterile ambiance.

One elevator ride and several hallway turns later, I stand in front of Harvey’s desk. It’s a chaotic mess. Papers spill from overflowing files, coffee cups litter the surface, and a half-eaten bagel sits on a plate beside a stack of unopened mail. The air carries a faint metallic tang.

He looks up from his desk, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Dark circles underscore his tired eyes, and his gray hair is scruffier than usual. He’s aged in the past year, the lines on his face etched deeper, as if he’s been carrying the weight of the city’s secrets on his shoulders.

He has Ava.

“Ava,” he says, his voice husky, like gravel grinding against stone, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

“I need to talk to you, Harvey,” I say, trembling slightly. “I need your help.”

He gestures to the chair across from his desk. It’s a worn leather chair with a spring that gives way with a squeak when I sit down.

“So what can I do for you? I pulled out some files in case you wanted to take a trip down memory lane.” He gives me a tired smile, the lines around his eyes crinkling further. His right finger points to a thick paper file, its cover emblazoned with the word “Veles” in bold, black lettering.

I shift my weight, my gaze drawn to the file. Its worn cover seems to stare back at me. When I look up, Harvey's eyes meet mine, a tired weariness in their depths.

“I wanted to ask you about something else— Well, maybe it’s connected, I don’t know.”

Harvey nods and yawns, a deep, rumbling sound that seems to shake the entire room. “I’ll get us some coffee, alright?”

“Yeah, sure, thanks.”

As he leaves the room, I glance around his office, and my eyes land on his desk. The files are a jumble of dates and names, most of the contents unknown to me. Another file, though, catches my eye. It reads “Ava Parker,” and the date is old, a date I recognize—the year my parents died. Why does Harvey have a criminal file on me from back then?

I shiver. I want to look closer, to see what it says, but I stop myself. It feels wrong, like a violation of his trust.

Harvey returns with two steaming mugs of coffee, his brow furrows. “You’re looking a bit pale,” he says. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit —tired,” I say.

“Tell me about it,” he chuckles and sips his coffee.

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