Page 162 of Fault Lines
The apartment was empty now, except for me and the mess and the echoes of a thousand choices gone wrong.
I took a shaky breath and called Rachel.
She answered on the first ring. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I said. “But I think it’s over.”
She was quiet for a long time. “Do you want me to come get you?”
I looked around the ruin of Nate’s life, then at my own hands, smeared with rain and blood from the banister.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
By the time she arrived, the cops and EMTs were gone, the only evidence of what happened a patch of blood on the steps and the broken yellow tape, flapping in the wind.
Rachel drove me home, slow and silent, the radio turned low. She didn’t ask questions. She just kept one hand on my knee, squeezing tight every time my breathing hitched.
At the house, she made me tea, helped me out of my wet clothes, and tucked me into the guest bed. She stayed until I fell asleep, then sat in the armchair by the window, keeping watch like some avenging angel.
I dreamed of water. A sea with no shore, waves pounding and retreating, never letting me rest.
When I woke, the rain had stopped. The light was thin and watery, but the sky was clear.
Rachel was gone, but there was a note on the table:
You survived. Again. Call if you need backup.
I stared at the words for a long time, wondering if I deserved to survive. Wondering if any of us did.
I made coffee, watched the street fill with normal people living normal lives, and tried to imagine what happened to a story when all the main characters were broken.
I was still trying to figure it out when the phone rang, a new number lighting up the screen.
I hesitated, then answered.
“Olivia James?” said the voice on the other end, calm and official.
“This is she,” I replied.
“This is Detective Morales, with the city police. We have some questions about last night. Can you come in?”
I thought about saying no. About disappearing, starting over. But I was tired of running.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
When I hung up, I looked out at the city—my city, for better or worse.
I’d lost everything. But I was still here.
Chapter Forty-Two
The morning was so clear it was almost offensive, sun scraping the city raw and shadows melting off every inch of concrete. I put on my best attempt at business casual, layered on some foundation to cover the purple-and-black bruise that surrounded the cut above my ear, and walked the ten blocks to the police station.
The station was tucked between a laundromat that doubled as a day care and a bail bonds office with a sandwich board out front advertising “Jail, Divorce, or Both? We’ve Got Your Back.” A pair of uniformed officers stood near the entrance, talking about last night’s game, their laughter bouncing off the glass doors. I hovered at the entrance for a full minute, pressing my palms to the rough seam of my jeans, before stepping inside and following the blue tape arrows up the stairs to “Interviews & Intake.”
It smelled like old coffee and bleach, a combination I’d come to associate with hospitals and losing. The lady at the desk barely looked up when I said, “Detective Morales? Nine-thirty?” She waved me toward a row of plastic chairs, and I sat, staring at the same corner of the tiled floor for what felt like an hour.
Eventually, Morales appeared. Mid-forties, neat bun, skin the color of caramel ice cream, an expression stuck somewhere between “I’ve seen worse” and “you’re wasting my time.” She offered a nod and motioned for me to follow her. Down a shorthallway, through a locked door, into a tiny, windowless room painted a shade of gray that made my teeth ache. Morales gestured to the chair on my side of the battered metal table.
