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Another tense silence.
“What do you mean?” I start to stand up from my chair. “He finally finds the strength to come forward with this, and you won’t let him file a report?”
“Fucker, sit down,” Zane mutters, rubbing his hands over his face.
“Rafe.” Megan tugs me down, and I sink on my chair, my pulse pounding in my ears. “We’re all very tense,” she tells the officer. “Apologies.”
She sighs. She looks tired, although her uniform is crisp and her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. “The main issue here is the big time lag between now and the incident. Do you have any evidence of what happened? Any witnesses?”
We all turn to Zane.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Okay. I will open a case, but before I do, please answer this and consider your answer carefully: Do you swear this happened? Are you sure? It’s a long time. Could your memories of the time not be accurate? It’s not that I don’t believe you,” she rushes on to say. “But I want to be as sure as possible that we won’t be accusing an innocent man of a serious crime.”
“He’s not fucking innocent.” Zane’s hands curl into fists and his nostrils flare, and the anger in his eyes is good. Much better than the cold blankness I’ve seen there so often lately. “I am sure. And I have the burns and scars on my back to show for it.”
She pales. “May I see?”
Dakota opens her mouth to say something, but Zane surges to his feet and unzips his jacket. Then before any of us can move, he whips off his sweater and shirt and turns around.
“Oh my God.” The officer lifts a hand to her mouth, but I’m not sure what shocked her more—the scars or the swirling tattoos covering the whole of Zane’s back and arms.
In fact… “Can you see the scars?” I stand up, prepared to point them out to her. They’re hard to see in the lines and colors of the tattoo—as intended.
“I can see them,” the officer says, her voice hushed. “Please sit down, both of you. Thank you, Mr. Madden. We will, uh.” She waves a hand. “We will ask to take a photo of your back for the report, later.”
I make as if to sit down—again—but he doesn’t move.
“Zane.” Dakota gets up and grabs his hands, then his face. “Hey. Come sit down.”
He still doesn’t move.
Fuck. I knew this would happen. In two strides I’m there, helping her to steer him to his chair, then to put his shirt back on.
“Talk to him, Koko,” I tell Dakota. “Ground him.” Gripping his arm, I hold him down when he tries to get back up. “Z-man. Snap out of it. You’re safe.”
“You’re all right,” Dakota whispers to him, and cups his face. “We’re at the police station. Megan is here, and Rafe. You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” Zane rasps, blinking slowly. “Yeah.”
Megan leans over, takes his hand. “We’re with you, Zane. You know who I am.”
“Meg.” He frowns, looks back at Dakota. “We’re okay.”
The of
ficer produces a muffled sound, and I turn to find her with a hand over her mouth, her eyes glittering. “Let me bring you a glass of water,” she says, and bolts from the room.
Oh boy.
“You all right now, man?” I slap his shoulder. “Where did you go?”
He licks his lips. Maybe that glass of water was a good idea. “Back. Back there.”
Goddammit. “Well, you’re with us, and we won’t let you tumble down that fucking rabbit hole, okay? Remember we’re here. Tell yourself that. Don’t you forget it.”
He nods, but he looks like shit, and I’m damn glad when the officer reappears with the water.
