Page 107 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

I didn't even feel it.

"Doesn't matter."

The words came out before I'd decided to say them. Low. Hard. Like I was trying to convince myself. Beside me Derek followed my stare.

"Well, shit."

A slow grin spread across his face. He looked back at me. Then at the crushed coffee cup. Then back across the street.

"Oh."

He laughed quietly.

"Oh, that's bad."

I ignored him. Collins reached out. Not enough to touch her. Close enough that his hand hovered beside her arm while he spoke. My stomach turned.

"You gonna arrest him," Derek asked,

"Or just beat him unconscious?"

"No."

A beat.

"You thinking about it?"

"...Maybe."

I couldn't stop watching. Couldn't stop counting the inches between them. Couldn't stop noticing how close his shoulder drifted toward the sleeve of her sweater.

Mason hadn't said a word. He stood with his arms folded, eyes moving from Collins… To Seraphina… To me. Then finally to the death grip I still had on the crushed coffee cup. He already knew.

"Don't."

One word. Calm. Certain. He'd seen this look before. Usually, five seconds before somebody got fucking hurt. I blew out a slow breath. Didn't answer. Because I wasn't entirely sure I could.

“Let’s get the fuck outa here before I kill someone.”

BANG.

The truck door slammed hard enough to echo across the station parking lot. Hard enough that both Collins and Seraphina turned their heads. I climbed into the car, jammed the key into the ignition, and twisted it harder than necessary. The diesel engine roared awake. Derek barely got his door shut before I threw the truck into reverse. Dust rolled behind us. I shifted into drive and pulled away faster than I should have, my eyes catching the rearview mirror one last time.

Collins was still standing there. Seraphina hadn't moved. I kept watching until the flash of that oversized sweater disappeared behind the bend in the road.

Only then did I force my eyes back to where they belonged. The steering wheel creaked beneath my grip. I told myself I was angry because Collins gave me bad instincts. I told myself I didn't trust him. I told myself a lot of things.

None of them explained why seeing her smile at another man felt like taking a punch I never saw coming. The gym smelled of old socks, dried sweat, and the bitter sting of liniment oil rubbed into bruises that never quite disappeared.

It sat beneath the old boiler house off Route 9, hidden below street level where nobody asked questions. Thick river-stone walls held the cold year-round, and the exposed pipes overhead rattled every time the ancient furnace kicked somewhere upstairs.

A heavy bag swayed lazily from an iron beam. Chains creaked. Leather groaned. Someone had left an old radio humming in the corner, country music crackling through static that was almost louder than the song itself.

This place made sense. No missing women. No politicians. No reporters. No Sheriff Walker. Just fists.

Derek tightened the Velcro around his gloves before bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"You remember Jalalabad?" he asked.