Brief Relief

Brief Relief
Rachael

The waiting room reeked of Lysol and dust. Six months ago, I sat here hungover and counting the seconds until I could get back out.
“Rachael Sinclair?” The nurse’s voice was monotone, barely lifting above the hum of the fan.
I followed her down the narrow hall, past faded posters about smoking cessation and flu season.

Dr. Parsons was already seated when I walked in, hunched behind a desk buried under charts. His hair was snow white and combed over thin patches. His glasses magnified his eyes so much that he looked perpetually startled. He adjusted them with two fingers and squinted at my file like it might answer for me.
“Well, Officer Sinclair,” he wheezed, “how’s the depression?”
“Fine.”
He hummed, scribbled something. “And the anxiety?”
“Fine.”
His eyes finally lifted over the rims of his glasses. Sharp, for an old man. “You’re sure? Last visit you—”
“It’s under control,” I snapped before I could help it. My hands clenched into fists in my lap.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Dosage is the same then?”
I hesitated, just long enough to make it look like I thought about it. “Maybe bump the Xanax a little. Nights are still rough.”
Another scratch of the pen. “I’ll increase it slightly. But be careful. Dependence...”
“I know.” I interrupted.
He didn’t look convinced, but he moved on. “Pain? Back, shoulder. Still an issue?”
I nodded, voice even. “Worse. Especially this month.”
His lips pressed into a line. “You’re young, Sinclair. This much tramadol, it’ll catch up with you.”

I nodded again, eyes fixed on the floor. He scribbled one last note, tore off a script, and handed it over like it weighed nothing.
It burned my palm as I walked out.

By the time I pulled into the precinct lot, the prescription paper still felt heavier than a gun.
The precinct was buzzing when I stepped in, and Roman at the center of it all, standing behind Marty’s desk like he owned the place. Staffed and reserve deputies moved in and out, dropping files and waiting for his nod before disappearing again.
Roman’s gaze caught mine instantly, eyes scanning me head to toe. His mouth curved. “You look worse than you did last night.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, brushing past him down the hall to my desk. I dropped my purse beside my chair, tucking it close to my leg. His eyes flicked down to the motion, too quick for most people to notice, but I saw it. He didn’t say anything.
“Come on,” he said, setting a file on my desk. “Got something for us.”
I flipped it open. Missing persons reports, a dozen faces staring up at me in varying states of grainy photographs. Mostly women, mostly blonde.
“Pulled from across the state,” Roman explained, leaning over my shoulder. His sleeve brushed mine, and I stiffened, forcing myself not to shift away. “I narrowed it down to ones that fit our profile. Blonde, twenties to thirties, history of drug use or sex work. Pattern holds.”

We worked side by side, flipping through pages, trading short observations. “This one’s too old,” I muttered, sliding a report aside. “Thirty-eight. Doesn’t fit the other two.”
Roman leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Good catch.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out without thinking.
Travis Hale. He’s not even hiding his number now. His name flashes across my screen.

My gut clenched. I pressed the screen dark and shoved it back in.
Roman’s eyes flicked to me again, sharper this time. He didn’t ask. Just waited.
It wouldn’t surprise me if he was the one creeping into my house. The tequila, the chocolate...things no stranger would know I liked. Travis had always been mean enough, drunk enough, vindictive enough. The restraining order was paper-thin. Men like him laughed at pieces of paper.

I see his actions as a pathetic attempt to lure me back, which won’t work again.
I forced my focus back to the files, nails digging into the folder.
Another buzz. Another missed call. My chest tightened.
“You gonna get that?” Roman asked, voice too casual.
“No.”
His brow lifted, but he let it drop. Filed it away.
We kept working. His knee brushed mine under the table once, and I pretended not to notice. He didn’t move away either.
I also pretended that his face hadn’t been buried between my legs. The memory was a drunken haze, but an orgasm I would never forget. Which is making working with him this closely difficult.

“These,” he said, tapping three reports, “stand out. All drug histories. All vulnerable. Easy prey.”
“Easy to forget,” I muttered.
His gaze lingered on me. “Not by everyone.”

I swallowed, throat tight, and looked back at the papers.
The faces blurred together, blonde hair, tired eyes, expressions frozen mid-smile. A tilt of a chin that looked like my sister’s, or the same hollow cheeks my mother had when she stopped eating, when she stopped fighting. The missing posters weren’t just paper; they were echoes of the women my father dragged into the cellar, women who screamed until their voices broke.

Part of me wonders if I should look back into my father’s case....I said I would never deep dive into it again. I almost didn’t survive it the first time. But what if he had an accomplice...
My mind races through news reports, prison interviews...my chest tightens. “Rachael....”
Roman’s deep voice cuts through the turmoil, and I dart my eyes to him, desperately pleading without words, to help me, but how can he help when I can’t tell him? Witness protection and my new identity were meant to be secret...a permanent one.

Roman’s hand closed over the edge of the file before I could flip to the next page. “Sinclair,” he said, quiet but firm, pulling my attention up. His eyes searched mine, steady where mine skittered. “You’ve been staring at the same photo for five minutes. You’re shaking.” I hadn’t even realized my hands were trembling. “You need air. Let’s get out for a drive. Show me the town, or take me out on your old patrol route. Doesn’t matter. Just...let me get you out of here for a while.” The certainty in his tone, the way he framed it as if I’d be doing him a favor instead of unraveling in front of him, unclenched something in my chest.

The air outside felt  better than sitting under fluorescent lights with missing-person photos eating holes through my skull. Roman leaned against the cruiser like he owned it, arms crossed, that little half-smile tugging at his mouth.
I climbed behind the wheel, more to get him off my back than anything else. He slid into the passenger seat, stretching long legs out like he’d been riding shotgun with me for years.
The radio crackled before we even pulled onto Main.
“Unit three,” dispatch drawled. “Complainant on Ashwood says neighbor’s rooster’s been crowing since four a.m. She wants it arrested for disturbing the peace.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Tell her we don’t arrest poultry.”
Roman leaned over and pressed the mic. “Copy. On our way.”
I stared at him. “Are you insane?”
He grinned. “I’ve never arrested a rooster before.”
“Because you can’t.”
“Then you’d better show me how it’s done, Sinclair.”

The rooster was, in fact, crowing its lungs out when we pulled up. A deep red bird strutted across the complainant’s front yard like it paid the mortgage. green and black feathers curled from its hind end. The neighbor, a woman in a robe, curlers in her hair, stormed out as soon as she saw us.
“Finally! I can’t live like this!” She pointed at the rooster. “It’s possessed!”
Roman, straight-faced, pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Ma’am, did the rooster threaten you verbally or just with noise?”
I almost choked. “Agent...”
“Noise!” she snapped. “And it’s constant. I work nights! I need my sleep!”
Roman nodded solemnly. “Understandable. And the rooster, does he belong to you or the neighbor?”
“The neighbor! That good-for-nothing drunk lets it run wild. It terrorizes me.”

Roman scribbled something that was absolutely not notes. He turned to me with the most serious expression I’d ever seen him wear. “Procedure says we should at least question the suspect.”
My lips twitched. “You’re not questioning a rooster.”
But he was already crouching in the yard, eye to eye with the bird. “Sir,” he said, voice grave, “you’ve been accused of disturbing the peace. How do you plead?”
The rooster tilted its head, blinked, and crowed loud enough to rattle the windows.
The woman screamed. “See! See! He’s mocking me!”
Roman looked back at me, deadpan. “Unrepentant.”

I lost it. Laughter burst out before I could stop it, sharp and shaking in my chest. The complainant gaped at me like I’d betrayed her, but Roman only smirked, triumphant.
“Ma’am,” I said once I caught my breath, “animal control doesn’t handle chickens. And Red Ridge PD doesn’t book them. You’ll have to file a civil complaint.”
She huffed, muttered something about useless cops, and stomped back inside. The rooster flapped onto her porch rail, smug as hell.

Back in the cruiser, I buckled up, still wiping at my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
Roman leaned back in his seat, arms crossed like he’d just closed a homicide. “I de-escalated a potentially violent standoff. You’re welcome.”
I snorted. “You interrogated poultry.”
He tilted his head, that smile curling again. “You laughed.”
I stared out the windshield, cheeks warm. He wasn’t wrong. For the first time all day, the weight in my chest felt lighter, and that terrified me more than any rooster ever could.