Page 54 of Main Event

“Again tomorrow,” he says. “Same time.”

I’m unwrapping my hands at the bench when the gym door opens.

Two men in suits. I know exactly who and what they are before they say a word. Experience settles it faster than thought ever could. There’s a sameness to them that never quite blends in—the shoes too deliberate, the posture too ready, the way their attention sweeps the room before their bodies follow.

One of them is familiar. Detective Okafor, who took my statement at the gas station five weeks ago.

The other one I don’t know.

They walk across the floor toward me. Reyes clocks them and says nothing. Castillo finds somewhere else to be.

“Mr. Woods.” Okafor stops a few feet away. “You have a few minutes?”

Not really a question.

“Sure,” I say. I don’t reach for my phone. “What do you need?”

“Following up on the Peachtree incident. Some additional questions have come up in the review.” He glances at the other detective. “Routine.”

Nothing about this is routine. It’s been nearly five weeks since the gas station fiasco. Routine follow-ups don’t happen in the middle of a training session five weeks later. This is someone who wants to see how I answer questions when I haven’t had time to prepare.

“I’m happy to help,” I say. “I’d like to call my attorney first.”

Okafor’s expression stays neutral. “You’re not obligated⁠—”

“I know. I’d still like to.”

I call Bill. He tells me to say nothing substantive until he arrives. Twenty minutes.

I hang up and look at both detectives.

“He’ll be here in twenty. Can I get you water?”

The second detective—who hasn’t introduced himself—looks around the gym. At the ring. At Reyes. At the heavy bags.

“You’ve been training hard,” he says.

“Title eliminator in seven weeks,” I say.

“Right.” He looks at me. “That’s important to you.”

“Yes,” I say. “It is.”

The twenty minutes are the longest I’ve spent since the gas station. I sit on the bench, drink water, don’t say anything substantive, and think about Andi’s voice an hour ago. Stay in the gym. Finish the session. She knew something like this was possible. She told me to stay functional.

I’m staying functional.

Bill arrives at nineteen minutes. He shakes hands with Okafor, introduces himself to the second detective—Hargrove—and says pleasantly: “What can we help you with today?”

The questions take thirty minutes. The gas station sequence. My knowledge of the men’s identities. Whether I’ve had contact with anyone claiming to represent them. The man who died at Grady.

Bill handles the ones that need handling. I answer what I can answer directly.

When they leave, Hargrove pauses at the door.

“One more thing,” he says. “The man at Grady—the one with the medication error. The hospital’s internal review found anomalies in the care records. They’ve opened a separate inquiry.” He looks at me steadily. “Thought you’d want to know.”

He walks out.