The neon light burns my eyes, so I keep them closed, waiting.

I already gave my initial statement to the police, so I was left alone in an interrogation room with only the metal table and the clinically white walls keeping me company. 

At some point, the rhythm of my heart slowed down, and I could breathe again. That didn't mean I wasn't still terrified, though. I could hear the chatter outside the door, the endless questions with no answers and the panic. The panic, which I shared, was completely justified. After all, who in their right mind would spread blood over a windshield as if it were butter? Where had it come from? I think they are still testing it, trying to see if it's human or animal. I hope to God that it's animal, even if my heart would break at that, too. But it would be better than the alternative.

My mind somehow drifts to my job. I am beyond late, and since the police took my phone, I wasn't able to call in. It shouldn't matter, but for some reason, it does. I see this as a strange nightmare I've been plunged into, so normal life goes on beyond my drama. There will be consequences eventually. But I won't consume myself with them now. I have other matters to handle, at least for now.

The door opens, and the detective who interrogated me before enters the room, this time holding a file in his hand. His tweed suit seems very inappropriate in the sterile environment, but I appreciate the bit of color. When he sits, he lets out a heavy sigh. His light blue eyes move from the papers to me.

He is a handsome man, with his angular jaw and dirty blond hair. I noticed that from the moment he questioned me the first time. I'm not sure why it matters, but it does make me feel a bit more comfortable. Seeing the concerned look on his face brings me a strange sort of solace. It makes me feel as if someone cares about my fate, as if I matter. As if I'm important.

The man who makes me feel this way should be Steve, but at the moment, I'm not sure if he's not the one responsible for all my fears. I wish I could scream that he isn't, but I don't know. His wounds, his strange attitude this morning... It sunk doubt into my heart.

"So, Mrs. Romney," the detective says. "Are you sure you don't need a lawyer?"

"I am a lawyer," I answer, even if I specialize in M&A and haven't touched criminal law since college. It doesn't matter, the principles are the same. I'm innocent until proven guilty, and I didn't do anything anyway.

He nods, though he doesn't seem to find my words reassuring. "Can I see your hands?"

That's an odd request, but I don't see the harm in it, so I reach them forward. He takes them, and the warmth of his skin sends a shiver through me. He turns them over as he begins to speak.

"We've spoken to your husband, too. He denies any implication in what happened."

I nod because I do hope with all my heart that Steve isn't involved. The detective - I unfortunately forgot his name - continues to turn my hands, analyzing every inch of them. His scrutiny flusters me, and I do my best to keep things professional.

"He, however, claims that you did that number on his face."

I stiffen, and he has to pull my fingers to turn them. "What? I did no such thing! I told you, when I came down from the bedroom, he was already gathering the shards, and I didn't even see those scratches on his face until we were out in the street. Surely, one of our neighbors would've mentioned me clawing his face off."

"Clearly." He finally releases my hands. "His scratches indeed appear new since he was still bleeding when we picked him up. You wouldn't have had time to scrub yourself clean. Not that well. Your nails are perfect."

"Thank you!"

"We will, however, need your fingerprints."

His affirmation startles me. "But you said..."

"You're part of an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Romney. We are going to need your fingerprints."

In the back of my mind, I understand this. My body convulses, though, and I know I look guilty. But I draw in a deep breath and nod. He stands and walks to the door, signaling to someone outside to bring something in. Mere seconds later, he returns to the table with a fingerprint kit.

"You mentioned you are a lawyer," he says as he prepares the ink. "You then must know that this in no way means we think you're guilty, or even a suspect."

Suspect.

The word echoes inside my strained mind. I don't like it. It's uncertain, something that doesn't violate my rights but torpedoes my reputation.

"Even if you did think that, it doesn't make me guilty," I say. "Or a suspect." I sound huffy, and I hate it, but the situation is beyond uncomfortable.

He ignores my affirmation as he presses my little finger to the printing paper. "What do you believe happened to your husband?"

His calm demeanor drives the indignation out of me. I consider his question for a moment as he continues with my ring and middle fingers. I haven't thought about it, but now, an explanation comes to mind.

"Everything feels like a sort of revenge."

"What do you mean?"

My heart sinks the tiniest bit, but not as much as it should have if what my brain cooked up were true. "Someone hurt him and then vandalized my car. Not his. Mine. Doesn't this sound like a jealous mistress to you?"

The detective halts for a moment, tilting his head at me. I can see it in his eyes that he considers my idea a very good one. I'm not sure why I'm not more distressed about the possibility. Maybe because a big part of me seriously doubts that Steve could ever have a mistress. He promised me forever, and I still believe him.

"Were there any clues to point to an affair?"

I think long and hard. "Not really. But I think Steve is smart enough to properly hide it if need be."

"He's a teacher, isn't he?"

"College professor," I correct automatically.

"Are you suspecting an affair with a student?"

"God no!" The words are out in all their honesty, even if this is the scenario which makes most sense. A student would explain the violence and immaturity of this response. "At least I hope not."

"I see..." The detective falters and stares at my fingers. "Mrs. Romney, why don't you have any fingerprints?"

"What?" I stare at the paper, too, where four nondescript black blobs reside where my fingerprints should. There are no trenches, no pattern, no nothing.

The detective is more interested in the tips of my fingers than the ink, and his expression shifts into one of deep suspicion. "Did you burn them off?"

"No, of course not."

He doesn't seem to believe it as he keeps glaring at my fingertips. "You would've had to do this days ago. You don't have any blisters."

"Of course I don't, because I didn't burn them off. Who would be insane enough to do that?"

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. The answer is clear. Someone who planned on committing a crime.

But I didn't do anything! My panic subsides as a logical explanation presents itself.

"They could've burned up when I was struck by lightning."

His eyes widen, and he drops my hand. "You were struck by lightning?"

"Yes, last night."

"Did you go to a hospital?"

"No, because I was fine. I am fine."

"You're obviously not." He indicates towards my hand as if to prove a point. "Does your husband know about this?"

"No. He was on his PlayStation when I came in, and I didn't want to bother him."

"You got struck by lightning, and you didn't want to bother him?" 

I just shrug. Now that he mentions it, it sounds odd, but at the time, since I was fine, I didn't see the point in making a big deal out of it.

"I'm sending you to the ER. Now. You could have internal damage."

"Okay." I see no point resisting, and I don't want to be in this room any longer, so I let him lead me out into the hallway.

Just as I reach the main hall, Steve shows up from another interrogation room. The blood on his face coagulated, but he still looks eerie. He halts as he sees me, his eyes filled with fear. I don't care, not really, and the realization scares me. I'm supposed to rage, to throw something at him, to at least question him about his potential affair.

"Is this it?" I force myself to say. "Did an angry mistress do this to us?"

His expression shifts into one of confusion. "An angry... Is this what you've been telling people? That I cheated on you, and that's why you attacked me?"

"I didn't attack you, Steve! I didn't even see you until I came down, and you were already with your hands in the caserole. The one I made for you last night, even if I was exhausted, and you didn't even bother to eat." There's no anger in my voice, just sadness. "Don't lie to people about me, please. I was always a good wife to you. A good person."

He doesn't reply because he knows it's true. "It goes both ways, Eva. I was always a good husband to you, and I definitely didn't cheat."

"Then what happened?"

"I'd like an answer to that question, too."

My sadness only grows. I've been nothing but honest through this whole thing. I can believe that he had nothing to do with my car, so the least he can do is respond in kind and stop claiming that I hurt him in any way. I want to feel like he's on my side so badly, it hurts when he doesn't take it back.

The pain seems to shimmer inside me for a moment, but then, it disappears, and I can no longer be bothered with it.

The neon lights in the station suddenly flicker. I glance upwards, just like everyone else around. And then I hear it.

A raspy hiss in my ear.

The hair on the back of my head raises as an unnatural chill fills the air. In the corner of my eye, I see a shadow passing, but when I turn in that direction, there's nothing there. I feel just like I did in the forest, when I was convinced that someone was just out of reach, watching me.

"Did you--" I turn towards Steve, but stop when I notice the vapor coming from my lips.

I glance down at myself and see that my hair glitters with frost.

"Eva?"

Steve's voice sounds like a distant echo. I raise my hands and study them. My fingers have narrowed into bird-like claws.

"Eva!"

His hand is on my shoulder and squeezes. I turn to him startled. He's frowning at me as if I'd gone insane.

"Did you see that?" I ask.

"See what?"

I breathe out. I look at my hands and pat my hair, but the ice is gone. Everything feels normal again. Except I still feel as if someone is watching me.

"I... I really think I should be getting to the hospital," I breathe.

"I'll take you," the detective says, pushing me along.

Right before we leave the station, he throws me a glance that convinces me of one thing.

Whatever just happened, he saw it, too.

👥️

WC: 1977
Total WC: 5690

More creepiness as Eva tries to piece together what happened. All logical alternatives seem to rush out the window, don't they, when shadows are at play.

I hope you're enjoying the story so far and looking forward to more.

Thanks so much for your support!