“Yes,” I manage. My voice sounds strange, thin.
“I’m Detective Harris,” he says, voice gentle but practiced. He asks if I’m able to give a statement, and I hear myself agree before I actually decide to.
I follow him to a quieter corner of the waiting area, away from the sliding doors and the constant movement. I focus on the hard plastic of the chairs, the buzz of the lights overhead. Anything but what he's asking me to think about.
He asks questions. I answer them. Times, positions, what I saw, what I heard. My voice sounds calm, precise, almost professional. I keep my hands folded together so he won’t see them shaking. Hethanks me when he’s finished. Says someone may follow up later. I nod like I'm paying attention.
When he walks away, the quiet collapses in around me. For a long moment I just stare at my phone in my lap.
Then I unlock it and press Rafe’s name.
“Kasia?” His voice, low and rough from sleep or disbelief. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
For a second, I can’t speak. The words crawl up my throat like something foreign. “She showed up,” I whisper finally. “My patient. Or—what I thought was a patient.”
A beat of silence. “What?”
“The one who called me plain, that said my wardrobe was ugly. I told you that night, made a joke of it, remember? She… she came to the house. Mama and Tata's.” My voice barely sounds like me. “She mentioned the veils, the songs. Said you sang to her and that you’d stopped after I showed up.”
Rafe doesn’t answer at first. Just a rough inhale, like the air’s been knocked out of him.
“Jesus, Fuck.”
“She tried to stab me,” I say. “She was going to. Dominik stepped in.” The words come out flat, as if someone else is saying them. “He’s in surgery. He saved me. They said it's deep. What if he doesn't wake up? What if he dies, saving my life?”
Another pause. I hear the sound of him moving, the scrape of something, something slamming on a bed, maybe a hanger being stripped. “I’m coming out there.”
“No.” My voice is firmer than I feel. “You can’t. You’re in the middle of the album, the studio—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the studio.” His voice cracks. “You almost—Kasia.She could’ve—”
“I’m fine.” The words are automatic, meaningless. “We’re fine.”
He exhales, deep and raw. “There’s no point in arguing. I’ll get my manager to call a few firms they use for security, same people that handle our barricades and backstage coverage. They can send someone to keep watch. Just until I get there.”
“Okay.” It’s the only thing I can say. The only one-syllable word that still exists in my mouth.
“I’ll be there soon,” he says. “I swear.”
When the call ends, the silence is unbearable. My phone slides from my hand onto the floor, I don’t bother to reach for it. The fluorescent lights buzz, steady and indifferent. I look down at my hands. They’re trembling, pale, clean now, but all I can see is red. Dominik’s blood, warm and slick between my fingers. The way it wouldn’t stop. How my training, my precision, my whole life’s work, all of it wasuselesswhen it really mattered.
I press my hands together, like prayer, but there’s no god in the room. Only the echo of Rafe’s voice, promising something I can’t bring myself to believe in yet.
Chapter 65
Absolutely Fine
Rafe
Seattle looks half-asleep when I roll in, grey light leaking through the clouds, everything slick from the night before. I can’t sit still. The driver keeps glancing in the mirror, probably wondering if I’m going to throw up or bolt. Kasia texted that she headed home. That’s my next stop.
The second we pull up outside my place, I toss him some bills, grab my suitcase, and head for the garage. The motorcycle waits under its cover, dusted from disuse. I tear the tarp off, shove on my helmet and gloves, and kick it to life. The sound rips through the street. I don’t feel the cold; adrenaline burns hotter.
The ride to her place blurs, wet asphalt, traffic lights, the city’s heartbeat under my tires. Every red feels personal. Every turn is too slow. When I pull up, her lights are on, blinds half-drawn. I kill the engine, climb the porch steps two at a time, and knock once before the door opens.
She’s pacing. Arms folded tight across her chest, barefoot in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Dark hair loose, wild. Glasses sliding to the end of her nose. A version of her I almost never see, unarmored.
No tears, no collapse. Just that hollow, mechanical rhythm of back and forth, back and forth.
