Chapter 7 Behind blue lights

Moving on pure, primal instinct, I slipped quietly past the dining room entrance, moved into the foyer, and snatched my heavy jacket and car keys off the console table. Without making a sound, I pushed the front door open, stepped out into the biting night air, and ran to my car.

I threw the sedan into gear and backed down the driveway, the engine roaring as I sped out of the neighborhood and headed downtown toward the precinct.

Ten minutes later, I pulled into the visitor lot across from the police station.

I cut the engine. The silence inside the car slammed over me, heavy and suffocating.

Through the rain-streaked windshield, I stared at the bright glass entrance of the station. A knot of sheer, paralyzing panic tightened in my chest.

What am I doing?

My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I had no weapon. I had no physical proof. All I had was a blurry memory from a dark alleyway: a black hood, a cigarette ember, and a neck tattoo. If I walked through those doors and told them, would they even believe me? Or would they look at me the way Mom did, writing me off as a hysterical, grieving skater who was pointing fingers at a wealthy man's son?

And worse... what if the killer found out?

He had answered Maya's phone. He had listened to my breathing. He knew someone had witnessed him. If I went to the police and they couldn't hold him, he would come straight for me.

My breath hitched in my throat. Terror surged through my veins, cold and suffocating.

I can't do this. I should go.

I put my shaking hand on the gear shift, ready to throw the car into reverse and drive away.

Then, Emmett’s dark, calculating eyes flashed in my mind. The silver knife gliding against Ruth’s throat. His parting words were carried across the dark gravel: Bodies to bury.

If I drove away, where would I go? Back to the house? Back to the dinner table where Calvin was smiling, waiting for Saturday when Emmett would be moving in right down the hall from me?

Doing nothing was suicide.

I pulled the key from the ignition, kicked my door open, and stepped out into the freezing wind.

I took three rapid steps toward the station’s concrete walkway before my boots froze. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. I turned on my heel, taking two frantic steps back toward my car, my lungs screaming for air, torn in two by the blinding instinct to run.

Maya didn't get a chance to run.

The thought hit me like a physical punch. Maya’s lifeless face, her blonde hair soaked in blood on that cold concrete, flashed behind my eyelids. She deserved justice. And I was the only person alive who had seen the monster standing over her.

Gritting my teeth, I spun back around. I crossed the sidewalk in long, deliberate strides, grabbed the heavy metal handle of the station door, and shoved it open.

The warm, stale air of the lobby hit my face, smelling of old coffee, wet coats, and harsh industrial bleach. Bright white fluorescent lights hummed loudly overhead, buzzing against my pounding temples.

A tired-looking detective with dark circles under his eyes sat behind a scarred metal desk, a lukewarm cup of black coffee resting near his elbow. His badge read: Det. Riggs.

He looked up from his paperwork as I approached the counter, taking in my pale face, my red-rimmed eyes, and the violent tremor vibrating through my frame.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked flatly.

I pressed both hands flat against the cold metal counter, my fingernails digging hard into the steel edge to force my wrists to stop shaking. I dragged in one sharp, icy breath.

“I know who killed Maya Lin.”

The detective's pen stopped dead above his notepad.

I leaned forward across the desk, my voice dropping low, tight, and unyielding.

“He has a black crown and a barbed rose tattooed on his neck. And he was just under my mother’s roof.”

Detective Riggs didn't blink.

For three long seconds, the only sound in the precinct lobby was the electric hum of the fluorescent tubes overhead and the clatter of a printer down the hall.

Slowly, the detective set his pen down on the yellow legal pad. His posture shifted, the bored exhaustion in his face vanishing, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice dropping low.

He stood up, unlatched the swinging wooden gate, and led me down a narrow corridor into a small interview room.

The room was cold and stripped bare. A scuffed laminate table sat in the center under the harsh light, flanked by two metal chairs. On the wall, a two-way mirror reflected my hollow face and the dark circles bruised beneath my eyes.

He pulled out a chair for me, then sat across the table. He clicked on a small digital recorder, its tiny red light flaring to life.

“State your full name for the record,” he instructed calmly.

“Thea Malloway.”

“And you’re a student at the university?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked. I cleared my dry throat, pressing both palms flat against the cold laminate to steady my breathing. “I’m a sophomore. Figure skater. Maya Lin was my practice partner.”

The detective leaned forward, linking his fingers together. “Tell me what you saw in that alley, Thea. Every single detail. Start from the moment you realized she was missing.”

The words came out in a ragged, breathless rush. I told him about our practice debrief, the missed meeting at the fountain, and the tinny pop ringtone echoing behind the music building. I described the dark pool on the pavement, Maya’s twisted limbs against the brick, and her phone glowing on the stone.

Then I reached the part that had been burning behind my eyelids for twenty-four hours.

“There was a boy standing over her,” I whispered, my ribs locking up so hard it felt like an iron band was crushing my lungs. “He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black hoodie and dark boots. He wasn't running. He was just leaning back against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. And beside Maya’s phone, lying right in the blood, was a single-dried red rose.”

His pen stopped moving across the pad. His eyes narrowed with intense scrutiny. The police have never publicly released details about the withered rose. The news had mentioned a flower, but the press didn't know the exact placement, the condition, or the answered phone call.

“Did you see his face?” the detective asked, his tone dead serious.

“His hood covered most of it,” I said, shaking my head. “But when he tilted his head to take a drag, the orange light from the cigarette lit up his neck. Right beneath his dark collar, stretching up toward his jaw, was a tattoo. A black crown intertwined with a barbed rose stem.”

“Are you certain about the tattoo?”

“It was unmistakable,” I insisted, leaning across the table. “And he was at my house tonight with his father. Emmett Rhodes.”