Page 22 of Mine To Hunt

“Start from the top.”

He glances up at me briefly. “Full names first. Yours, the boyfriend’s. Stalker too, if you’ve got it.”

The pen hovers over the paper. “Addresses for all parties. When did the abuse start? Any witnesses? And the camera? Where exactly was it, and how do you know it’s him?”

The questions come fast. Too fast. Each one feels like another layer of skin being peeled back, exposing something raw and humiliating beneath. I swallow hard.

“My name is Iris Mae Whitlock.” I begin, my voice thin but growing steadier with each word. Maddie stands beside me like a silent guard, her presence grounding me.

“My boyfriend is Ryan Matthew Reed.” I continue. “We live together at 214 Elm Street. Unit 3B.”

The sergeant scribbles quickly.

“The abuse…” I hesitate. “It’s escalated over months. But the worst was last night.”

I can still feel his hands. “He grabbed my neck. Shoved me. Hit me.”

The pen pauses briefly.

“No witnesses.” I add quietly. “It always happens behind closed doors.”

“And the stalker?” He prompts.

“I don’t know his name.”

My fingers curl tightly around my phone.

“It started with texts. Unknown numbers. He’d comment on what I was wearing. Where I was going.”

I force a shaky breath out. “Then a sandwich showed up in my class. Left on my desk. He knew I hadn’t eaten. And the video came today.” I finish softly. “Me in the shower.”

The words feel poisonous leaving my mouth. “He threatened to share it if I told anyone.”

The sergeant continues writing, his pen scratching steadily across the paper. When I mention Ryan’s workplace, Assistant Director at Reel Time Productions downtown, he gives a small grunt and flips to another section of the form.

“And your address again?” He asks. “Full thing for the report.”

“214 Elm Street.” I repeat. The words stick slightly in my throat. “Unit 3B.”

I know what comes next. The pity. The judgment.

Elm Street sits deep in the part of town most people pretend doesn’t exist. Rent is cheap there because safety is optional. It’swhere people like me end up after scholarships stop covering everything and the last of your family is lowered into the ground.

The sergeant’s pen stops moving. He looks up. Something in his expression shifts. The professional neutrality drains away, replaced by something uglier. A smirk tugs at the edge of his mustache.

“Elm Street?” He repeats slowly. He leans back in his chair. “That dump off the highway?”

He slides the form back toward me across the counter. “Look, sweetheart.” He says casually. “I can’t file this report.”

The paper stops inches from my hands. For a second I just stare at it, the words refusing to make sense.

“What?” I ask quietly. “Why not? You asked for everything. Names, dates, proof.”

I lift my phone slightly. “I have screenshots. The texts. The video file even.” My throat tightens again. “Please. This guy’s dangerous.”

The sergeant chuckles under his breath, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Dangerous?” He says. “In that neighborhood?” He shakes his head slowly. “Come on, sweetheart. What you’re describing? We hear versions of that every week.”

My ears ring.