Harry's POV

I've been sitting on this damn couch for nearly four hours.

I was never the type to sleep in past noon—I thought it to be a reflection of where my priorities were in life. Sperling, however, was a different case. I'm not quite sure what I expected when I initially observed her character at the bank yesterday. Upon searching Officer Sperling—first name, Clarine—up on the internet at the library, a plethora of pictures from what I assumed to be a bachelorette party popped up, and several pictures conveniently showed and a couple of friends outside of her house, which I recognized to be outside one of the stations south of Portland. Clearly she didn't bother removing herself from social media like most officers would have.

To my surprise (or lack thereof—I couldn't tell if it was situational irony or the product of foreshadowing), once I made my way there, the door was unlocked. I was starting to lose faith in the citizens of Oregon—it began with the prison, and now my doubts were making their way to the police force. Officer Sperling was clumsy and forgetful—that much I knew to be true, evidently.

I realized that she probably would've come home late, so I decided to roam for a bit. The inside of her home was, simply put, boring. I reckoned she was a minimalist that hated bright colours, because the only thing with colour in her home was the fruit on her kitchen counter. I helped myself to an apple before exploring the rest of the house.

The books on her shelves were mostly classics and compilations of poetry from the Victorian ages. She also had an essay by Virginia Woolf. I guess she wasn't as stupid as I thought she'd be, but she still didn't have my favour. Other than that she had quite a few fashion magazines strewn about, and I was determined to find out why.

After peering into the powder room, I headed up the stairs to find four doors. Starting with the one closest to me on my left, I pushed it open and stood before the master suite. The bed sheets weren't made, and a skimpy pajama set had been tossed onto an armchair by the window. I immediately assumed that she had someone over the night prior, though I felt pity for anybody who had to sleep with that woman—Bria was always someone who liked to keep herself orderly, and I admired that very much.

The second bedroom was a complete change from her own. Racks upon racks of clothes were hung up, waiting to be worn. I didn't even think it was possible to own so many articles of clothing. Oddly enough, they were all arranged by colour too. It suddenly occurred to me why she had so many fashion magazines on her dining table. In all honestly, I would've taken Sperling as someone who worked in retail, or a cupcake maker, or perhaps a character on a children's TV show. She didn't look like someone who would be on the police force, with her wispy, blonde hair, stylish front bangs, and a perfect flick in her eyeliner. She was petite with nearly no muscle mass on her upper body (all of her meat was on the bones of her legs)—why was she even an officer?

The third door led me to the bathroom, which wasn't all that exciting. She used expensive shampoo and was a fan of bath salts. The tiling that had been done on the shower wall was satisfactory. I didn't like the smell of the air freshener she left open on the counter top.

However, it was the fourth door that had me hold my breath a little. It was something I hadn't expected to see, especially not in her house.

Behind the door was a child's room, decorated with pink walls, a bed shaped like a pea pod (painted green and everything), and little drawings stuck up on the walls with tape. Automatically, I wondered if she had a child of her own. I really wished I had spent more time finding out more about her, because everything was hitting me at an ungodly rate. I was unlike Bria—I couldn't con people who had children that I knew of, and I definitely couldn't get Officer Sperling involved if it put her daughter in danger.

Without another breath, I stepped back out into the hallways and took a moment to think. Could Sperling have been a single mother? That would make my case a lot worse, considering that she really didn't have much else going for her.

To pass time, and with nothing better to do, I took a shower and used a fair amount of hair product at my own will. I really needed a hair cut. There were still hours before she'd likely come home, and I had to make my decision on whether I should stay or not.

Now, at 2:30 in the afternoon, my decision to stay was giving me nothing. I wasn't anywhere close to finding Bria, and I was getting restless sitting idle. I got up and headed towards the stairs, only to find Sperling—half awake and groggy eyed—venturing her way down the stairs.

"Morning," I said. Her eyes shot open, her balance gave way, a scream left her mouth and she tripped down the stairs, landing at my feet.

"Fucking hell," she cursed, swatting away the hand that I offered to pull her up with, "why are you up so early?"

"It's nearly three."

"What difference does that make?"

"They say that people who sleep in have a higher tendency—"

"I don't want your stupid sleep facts. God, get out of my way," she growled, picking herself up and pushing past me. She clearly wasn't a morning person, or an afternoon one either.

"Sperling? Hey, Sperling!" I followed her into the kitchen (and called her by her last name to ensure she wouldn't freak out more than she already had), where she already had a bowl of cereal in her hand and was shoving spoonfuls into her mouth. Despite the fact she looked feminine, she sure as hell didn't act as such. "I need to ask you something."

"What?" she glared at me with tired eyes and her cheeks filled with honey puffs.

"Do...do you have...are you married?"

"What? No! God, no, why would you think—?"

"Do you have a kid?"

She stayed silent and set her bowl down on the counter before swallowing what she had in her mouth and crossing her arms.

"And why, might I ask, do you think that I'd have one?"

"I...well I—"

"You snooped, didn't you? You sly—you know what? Fuck you, honestly—!"

"Well excuse me for wanting to check out who I was going to be dealing with!"

"You? Deal with me? You asked me for my help if I recall correctly," she said in a proud voice that held far more authority than mine, "so if you even want to come close to finding Evans—"

"Fine, fine. I'm sorry for snooping. Are you happy?"

"Hardly."

She was difficult to cope with, and would most likely drive me up the fucking wall if we were to work together. I assumed she didn't have a child of her own (who would want to be with her? God, they'd have to be deaf to put up with the awful horn that blared every time she spoke) but I was still curious as to whose bedroom it was, although it wouldn't have been a totally bizarre guess to assume it was the girl's in the photograph I pointed to yesterday.

"We're going to have to change up your look if you want to go out in public," Sperling remarked after a short while of thick silence.

"What do you suggest?"

"Well I'm not going to be seen outside with you if you have that horrid ponytail of yours. And we have to get rid of your tattoos. And your glasses."

My hair was getting annoying anyway, and I could do without the glasses. I wasn't going to argue about the tattoos.

"So whenever you're ready," she continued before trailing off, finishing her cereal. "Have you eaten?"

"I don't eat breakfast."

She tossed me an apple and left to grab her things. I had a feeling that this relationship between us would be silent, spiteful, and filled with unspoken hatred—only the best kind.

***

"Are you sure you're not going to make me look worse?" I asked, staring at her in the mirror as she pulled a comb through my atrociously outgrown hair. We sat in her bathroom as she concentrated on maneuvering her scissors around and mumbled something about shutting up. She cut nearly all of it off, leaving only a neck-length amount on my head. She worked quickly, evening out the strands, parting my hair on the left, and sweeping it across. Before long, I looked like I was eighteen again.

I thought of Bria, then forced myself to stop.

"How do I look?"

"Obnoxious," Sperling said bluntly. "Now for your tattoos—"

"What do you know about me?" I interrupted her. It was something that had been bothering me since last night. She set the scissors down and picked up a tube of makeup—what type I couldn't tell.

"Why does that matter?" she responded with little attention, squeezing a pasty liquid onto her palm and putting the tube back.

"Well I thought it'd be fair to exchange information, you know? You give me something about you, I give you something about me, yeah? You can start."

Sperling sighed and nodded her head, but I think it was because she was tired of hearing me talk.

"My favourite colour is yellow," she said.

"Why?"

The question took her aback as if she wasn't expecting me to question further.

"My uncle owned a farm inland and he'd always take me to see the baby chicks—shirt off. Your turn."

"I'm not a bad person," I replied, taking my top off. She didn't so much as pause to swoon at me—something I was unfamiliar with.

She raised an eyebrow and continued to smooth the makeup over the ink on my skin. "I think that depends on your definition of 'bad', don't you think?"

"You and I have the same definition of bad."

"Oh really?" her tone cynical and sarcastic. "Is that why you con people?"

"If it makes a difference, I only con people who have enough to donate a charitable amount to my cause."

"And what cause is that?"

"I'm still working on that answer," I grinned. She kept a straight face. It's either my conversation skills were getting rusty, or she was clearly unimpressed with my wit. She continued covering up my tattoos, her gentle hands working in the makeup layer upon layer until nothing could be seen—save the dark, bruise-like patch where the tattoo of a heart resided on my left arm—half an hour later. She pulled the glasses off my face, ruffled my hair a bit, then cocked her head to examine me. 

"How old are you?" she asked quietly.

"Twenty-five," I responded with the same amount of concern in her voice. She nodded, then left me the bathroom to examine myself. My vision was blurry, so checking out my new look wasn't really an option, but from what I could tell, I looked nothing like the man that was cuffed and sent to prison to rot three years ago. My hair was finally short, I could make out the green in my own eyes, and I looked like how I did before I had ever met Bria. 

She was the one that brought so much soul into someone that had nothing but a brain and a couple of failed attempts at making use of it. 

"We're going to have to get you some contacts sooner or later," Sperling called form the hallway. The sound of her rummaging through a closet was heard from where I sat, and I got up to see if she needed help before she stopped me in my tracks. In her hand she held a toothbrush, towel, facecloths and a cheap shaver. She gave them to me, not daring to make eye contact in fear that I may have ripped her to shreds if she did. 

"Thanks."

"The only shaving cream I have smells like berries—"

"My favourite kind—"

"—and you're only to come up here if you need to shower. Is that clear?"

"Absolutely," I said. She turned around and walked towards her room before I thanked her aloud again. She paused, her fingers in the process of turning the handle on her door, but continued on without looking back at me. 

I was starting to think that she was regretting her choice in doing this—whatever this was—with me. I reckon it was about time I show her the benefits of working with the one and only Harry Styles. 

***

Half an hour after cleaning up, showering, and putting on a clean set of clothes—jeans and a pullover—Sperling emerged from her closet—the second bedroom—with a rather fashionable ensemble put together. Her body was clad with a light pink sweater and a trench coat over top, and she donned a pair of dark, cropped skinny jeans. 

"Where are you going?" I asked. I assumed we would stay inside for the rest of the day, but apparently not. 

"To the precinct. I have to get those files."

"Let me come with you."

She snorted and shook her head, making her way down the stairs. I followed her and waited for her response as to why.

"It's dangerous."

"So you're going to keep me locked up here while you go out in the field and fuck everything up for the both of us? No thank you. Let me come with you," I tried to reason as she pulled on a pair of flats. She grabbed her purse off the coat hook and sighed, turning to me to try and get me to understand her point of view.

"The police are going to be on high alert. What makes you think that they won't recognize you?"

"I hardly recognize myself! Come on—you've got to test out my new look sometime, and where better than the precinct? If I can pull it off, we're good to go."

"And if they recognize you? Then I'll get canned—"

"Then I'll get canned. I won't sell you out. I promise."

"I don't believe in promises, Styles. That's one thing you should know about me," she said flatly, giving me a small smile. She left promptly only to return and nudge her head at me through the door. I grabbed my shoes and followed her out. 

I didn't know what caused her change of mind, but clearly she didn't feel comfortable waiting with me at the TriMet station (which I should've known we'd be doing—why would she own a car if she couldn't drive properly?). I felt the eyes of people burn into my skin, my entire being scrutinized for reasons I wasn't sure of. Sperling was aware of this too and talked to me about pointless things—coffee, road blocks, the lack of traffic cones in construction areas—to get them to look away and pay less attention.

"This isn't working," she whispered harshly, looking at the people around us. "Everyone's staring."

"Just play it off," I replied, shoving my hands in my sweater and keeping my head low. "And make sure you sell it."

She looked confused, but realized what I meant when I kissed her cheek—a light embrace upon soft skin that she hastily pulled away from. Nevertheless, people looked away and minded their own business. Something about their behaviours told me that they weren't staring at me because the recognized who I was—they were staring at me because the couldn't recognize me at all. The people who used this station were locals from the area—everybody knew everybody, and now there was a stranger in their midst. Not long after, the bus arrived and we stepped on and made our way to the very back.

She didn't talk to me. She didn't look at me. I didn't even think she wanted to breathe the air around me.

"It was only because they were staring—" I tried to explain in a hushed tone.

"I know," she said, cutting off my explanation. 

Sperling was an interesting character, and I hated her to such an extensive degree; her passivity and refusal to listen to anything I had to say irked me to no end. Sure, Sperling was hospitable and was skilled in unconventional things, but she wasn't Bria. She wasn't passionate or daring, and she definitely lacked the charisma that Bria always had. 

Sperling looked out the bus window as we pulled up a block away from the precinct, ushering us off at the stop. As the bus pulled away from the curb, she paused to look around and examine people's reactions. Nobody cared about me—they didn't even flinch.

"Right. Well I'm going to go inside and get the files—"

"Ask your supervisor to take on the case," I interjected. 

"What? No, he'd never let me—"

"Well how are you going to prove to anybody that you can be a cop if you don't get a chance to?"

She looked at me and rolled her eyes. She wasn't going to do it.

"Just wait here. And don't talk to anybody."

I nodded and she hastily ran over to the double doors of the detachment. Of course I had to follow her—as badly as she wanted to know my disguise was foolproof, I wanted to know too. My thoughts were often sporadic, and some scattered neurotransmitter that fired across a synapse told my legs to walk towards the precinct.

This was it—this was the moment of truth. I'd probably get tazed the moment I walked in.

But I didn't.

The vacuum-like woosh of the doors blew my hair into a mess, but I smoothed it out again. Some heads turned to see who I was, but slowly went back to what they were doing. The lobby was busy—from what I could make out from behind a blurry field of view, people were shuffling back and forth in a hurry with papers in their hands, some officers were drinking coffee, and something that looked like an illicit office relationship by the water dispenser—and I sat in the chairs closest to the exit. There were an abundance of my old picture photocopied and pinned up on the bulletin board, which made my heart race. I really didn't know what I was thinking when I waltzed in here. 

"Afternoon," said a voice from beside me. I jumped at the suddenness as a tall, slim man sat in the chair adjacent to myself. His black hair was in a comb over, and I assumed his name tag read 'Winston'. My heart was speeding inside my chest, but I knew that I had already won this battle—no one recognized me.

"Afternoon," I replied. I shook the hand he extended out to me and sent him a closed smile. He handed me a cup of water, which I accepted to be nice.

"You waiting for someone?"

"Yeah. Officer Sperling."

"Oh? Did she destroy a piece of your property? I'm sorry if she did—I don't think she can actually drive—"

"No, no," I stifled my guffaw, "I'm waiting for her to finish up."

"Oh, okay. I didn't know she had any family in town."

"Family?"

"Aren't you like a cousin or something? You're not her boyfriend, are you?"

"Oh, God no," I choked on the water I had in my throat. "I'm just a friend."

"Friend?" Winston smirked. He looked me up and down, then looked over to see if anybody would hear him. "Well, friend, if we keep it between us"—he dropped his voice low so I had to lean in—"I think anybody that gets to sleep with her is a very lucky man."

"Oh, I'm not—"

"I mean have you seen the pair of legs on her? God, when she's not in her uniform I could honestly bend her over a car and—"

"So did you hear about that Styles bloke? Massive disappointment, huh?" I couldn't stand to listen to Winston's banter about Sperling's legs, or any part of her body he was willing to talk about. I found it absolutely disgusting regardless of whom he was speaking of. 

Before we could continue conversing, Sperling and whom I remembered to be Tomislav came out from the back room. Sperling had a heavy box in her hands, and Tomislav looked like he was giving her advice—pointing in every direction with his hands.

"...You take care of yourself—going solo is tough work. And I swear to God, Sperling, if you so much as graze anybody—"

"I know sir. I won't let you dow—" Sperling stopped talking once she saw me. I got up and gave her a weak smile, but I could tell she was pissed. 

"Who's this, Sperling?" Tomislav asked.

"Yeah, man, I didn't get your name!" Winston added. 

"Trevor," I replied before Sperling could open her mouth, "Trevor Paxon."

"Sperling, you didn't tell me you were seeing someone!" Tomislav grinned, nudging her before she scoffed and shook her head.

"Trevor is an acquaintence."

"Harsh," I replied as she glared at me, "I'd say we were friends, Sperling."

"Thanks for the tips, sir. I won't disappoint you," she said coolly as she ignored me, storming outside without a goodbye to any of us. I nodded my head at Tomislav and Winston, who tipped their hats before I chased after her.

"My disguise worked," I huffed once I made my way across the street to the station. Sperling pursed her lips and kept quiet as she looked out to see if the bus was approaching. "That's a good thing, right?"

"I'd stay very, very quiet if I were you," she snapped. "Tomislav let me handle the case by myself. He gave me a tip on where to start."

I looked at her. Did she actually listen to me? I waited for her to continue—my search for Bria was finally kicking off, and things could not be better.

"They found out this morning that the person that conned the family in Hillsboro wasn't actually Evans. Whoever it was admitted that Evans paid her to take her name."

"What do you mean?" I questioned, getting a little concerned by the shift in Sperling's tone. She looked at me like she didn't really want to tell me.

"I have to analyze a few more files, but—"

"God damn it, Sperling, where is she?"

"Vegas."

***

this is the last boring chapter before the action starts ayyYYYY

also i still don't know who made the trailer someone plS TELL ME