The bus ride back to the precinct was, without a doubt, one of the most surreal monts of my life.
I was still half-covered in pink paint—dried in streaks, crusted along my collar and sleeves like so deranged abstract art piece. My coat reeked of synthetic pignt and adrenaline. And beside sat the girl I’d just tackled into a sidewalk. Calm. Arms crossed. Not cuffed—yet. She was technically arrested, but I had nothing on . I didn’t have a police cruiser nor did I have handcuffs with . Despite this she didn’t try anything. Likely because she was too tired, but either way one wrong move, and I was ready.
The people on the bus were quiet at first.
Then the whispers started.
Then the phones.
A few clicks. A gasp from the front.
And soone murmured, just loud enough:
"Is that Mr. Dusk?"
The girl turned her head toward , then toward the window, then let out a soft snort.
"Public transport?" she muttered. "Really? What did they forget to give you a car or sothing?"
I didn’t respond.
She leaned a little closer, her voice mock-genuine. "Like, what’s the protocol here? ’Congratulations on your dramatic tackle, sir—please enjoy this cramped bench and soone’s leftover gum?’"
I shot her a side glance. "Considering you tried to blind with paint and run over with a car, you’re not exactly in a position to critique transportation logistics."
She grinned. "That’s not a no."
I exhaled through my nose. "Keep talking. I’m sure the judge will appreciate the transcript."
That shut her up. Briefly.
We rode the rest of the way in silence. Sort of. I could feel her watching people watch . One kid up front stared open-mouthed the entire ride. His mom tried to shush him, whispering that the man in the coat was soone important. I doubted she had the full picture. Then again, who did?
The second I stepped off the bus, pink-coated and flanked by a mouthy teenager, I heard the whispers follow down the sidewalk. Phones rose again. I tugged the collar of my coat up and kept my grip firm on her arm.
"Hey," she said as we neared the precinct. "Can I at least pretend I’m the cool one here?"
"You hit with a paint bomb."
"And?"
I didn’t dignify that with an answer.
We walked up the precinct steps and through the glass doors. The front desk officer stood up imdiately, eyes widening like saucers.
"Oh my—Mr. Vale?"
"I need a room and a charger," I said, not stopping. "And probably a mop."
Grant was halfway out of his chair when he saw us. His jaw dropped, his gaze flicking between the paint on and the smug, unbothered expression on the girl at my side.
"...What the hell happened?"
"She’s the girl from the video," I said simply, letting her arm go now that we were inside. "Down to the hairline. Sa shoulders. Sa bag. Sa posture. She just didn’t expect to be followed."
The girl made a dramatic little bow. "Hi."
Grant didn’t laugh. His brow furrowed deeper.
"You’re serious?"
"She assaulted with a paint bomb, ran, evaded arrest, and tried to drive through a structural pillar. Also swung a baton at . She’s not exactly subtle."
He nodded, jaw tight. "Alright. Let’s get her processed."
"I’m not under arrest," she said sharply, turning to Grant. "He never even handcuffed ."
Grant looked at .
"She’s under arrest," I said dryly.
"For what?"
"Assaulting an officer. Attempting to flee a cri scene. Reckless driving. Take your pick."
Grant gestured for two officers nearby. "Take her to Room 4. Hold her until I give the go-ahead."
The girl rolled her eyes but didn’t resist. As they led her away, I watched her deanor finally falter. Just a little. The eyes weren’t cocky anymore. Just alert. Guarded.
Once she was out of earshot, Grant motioned into his office.
"She looked familiar the second she walked in," he said. "You’re not wrong. She’s a match for the girl in the school footage. Her na is Mary Steward."
I blinked. "You’re sure?"
"Almost too sure. It’s eerie. We ran facial matching on that video, but nothing definitive. She vanished for months before reappearing. Said she ran away. Social services flagged her, but no charges were pressed. Her family dropped the kidnapping claim after she ca back."
"And no follow-up?"
"There was talk. But nothing concrete. No signs of abuse, no criminal record. Then she just... reintegrated."
"Until now," I muttered.
Grant opened a file on his desk. "Also—preliminary footprint results ca back. From the soil sample outside Jacob’s building."
I leaned in.
"The depth, stride width, and angle all confidently point to a male suspect between five-eleven and six-two. Roughly 120 to 150 pounds. Lea said he had pale skin."
"That’s not her, then," I said, thinking fast. "Mary Steward might be part of this, but she’s not the intruder. There are two suspects."
Grant looked at . "You sure? She could simply be related to sothing."
"I’m positive. Trust ."
He studied for a second. "You want to write it up?"
"I want you to file a full report. We have to treat this as a two-person operation."
He nodded, pulling out a report form and flipping to a new page. "Alright. Two suspects. You get so rest—"
"I’m going to interrogate her."
"Reynard, you’re still dripping paint. And technically bleeding."
I looked down at my ribs. The elbow she’d landed had left a slow bruise spreading beneath my shirt.
"I’ll survive."
He sighed. "Room 4. I’ll send a second officer in ten if you need backup."
I nodded once and left his office.
The hallway felt colder now. Quiet. Just the hum of the ventilation, the distant ring of a phone, the muffled sound of keys typing behind glass.
When I reached Room 4, the lights were already on.
Mary sat at the table.
Hands folded.
Expression calm.
No restraints.
Yet.
She looked up when I entered—and to her credit, didn’t flinch. But her mouth twitched ever so slightly.
"You clean up nice," she said, glancing at the dried pink still crusting my shoulders.
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t sit either.
Just closed the door behind and stepped forward.
"You’re not going to be able to hide anything this ti," I said quietly.
Her smirk faltered.
Slightly.
And I pulled out the chair.
Ti to find out who she really was.
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