Chapter 58
[Claire's POV]
I'd been waiting for Marcus's meeting to end for what felt like hours, watching detectives shuffle past with case files and coffee cups, their conversations a low murmur of police jargon and tired voices.
The arguments from the conference room had finally died down about twenty minutes ago, but there was still no sign of Marcus emerging. My eyelids felt heavy from the stress of the past few days.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, I was waking up somewhere completely different.
The first thing I noticed was how much warmer I felt. The second was that I wasn't sitting in that horrible plastic chair anymore. I was lying on something soft—a black leather couch, I realized as my eyes fluttered open. A gray police station blanket was draped over me, and the harsh fluorescent lighting had been replaced by the gentler glow of a desk lamp.
This wasn't the main office area. This was Marcus's private office.
I blinked a few times, trying to orient myself. Marcus was sitting at his desk about ten feet away, a case file open in front of him. He was reading intently, occasionally making notes in the margin, but every so often he'd glance up to check on me. When he noticed I was awake, he set down his pen and gave me a tired but genuine smile.
"Hey," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"
I rubbed my eyes, still disoriented. "How did I get here?" My voice came out rougher than I expected, thick with sleep.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, looking slightly embarrassed. "You fell asleep out there. I saw you when I came out of the meeting, and..." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "You looked uncomfortable, and I was worried you might catch cold sitting against that wall. So I carried you in here."
The image hit me like a bolt of lightning—Marcus carrying me through the busy Homicide Division, past all those detectives and officers, while I was completely unconscious. My cheeks immediately flushed with heat.
"You carried me? In front of everyone?"
"You were out cold," he said with a slight chuckle. "Dead to the world. I don't think anyone thought much of it."
"So," I said, trying to change the subject before my blush became too obvious, "is my 'interview' starting now?"
Marcus reached for something on his desk—a bottle of ice-cold Coca-Cola, which he opened and handed to me.
"You think you still need an interview?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Then he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a Silverwood Police Department Civilian Consultant Registration Form, and every line had already been filled out in Marcus's neat handwriting.
I stared at it, scanning the details he'd entered. Claire Coleman. Date of birth. Address. Emergency contact—he'd even put my mother's information. Under "Special Skills/Qualifications," he'd written: "Exceptional observational abilities and investigative instincts."
"So I'm here just going through the motions?" I asked, looking up at him. "I thought I'd actually earned my way into being part of the police department through my own efforts."
Marcus laughed—a genuine, warm sound that made something flutter in my chest. "How is having a special ability not your own effort? Even if that ability is sometimes..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Imprecise."
We both laughed at that, and I felt some of the tension in my shoulders release. He wasn't wrong. My dreams might not always lead us directly to the killer, but they'd been accurate about the crime scenes themselves. That had to count for something.
"So I passed the interview?" I asked, taking a sip of the Coke. The carbonation felt good against my throat.
"With flying colors," Marcus confirmed. "Now I need to get back to work. These next few days are going to be extremely busy. Want to come along?"
I sat up straighter on the couch, trying to project alertness and professionalism. "Since I'm now officially a civilian consultant, participating in the work is expected."
I was putting on my best "eager new employee" voice, but inside I was practically vibrating with excitement.
For years, I'd been throwing money around trying to buy fleeting moments of feeling important. Picking up bar tabs for people who'd forget my name by morning. Purchasing designer clothes that made me feel significant for exactly as long as it took to swipe the credit card. All of it had been hollow, temporary fixes for an emptiness I couldn't name.
But this—this was different. When Marcus looked at me, he wasn't seeing a rich girl with too much time and too little direction. He was seeing someone whose abilities could help solve crimes, could potentially save lives. Someone whose contributions mattered.
My overly earnest attempt at professionalism must have been transparent because Marcus started laughing again.
"What's funny?" I asked, slightly offended.
"You," he said, but not unkindly. "You're trying so hard to look like a serious investigator. It's..." He shook his head, still smiling. "It's actually pretty endearing."
I felt heat rise to my cheeks again, but this time it wasn't embarrassment. It was something warmer, more complicated. The way he was looking at me—like I was someone worth paying attention to, someone worth caring about—was completely foreign to my experience.
"I just want to do well," I said quietly. "This feels important."
The laughter faded from Marcus's expression, replaced by something more serious. "It is important, Claire. What you've been able to do, what you've shown us—it could make the difference between solving these cases and letting killers walk free."
He stood up from his desk, gathering some files. "Are you ready to get started? Because I wasn't kidding about things being busy. We've got the Swan Lake missing person case that needs immediate attention, plus Hannah Clark's murder is still open, and now with James escaped..." He trailed off, his expression darkening.
I pushed the blanket aside and stood up, smoothing down my navy blazer. "I'm ready."