Chapter 7 The Station
Violet
The police station smells like old coffee and disinfectant.
It’s not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just tired walls and flickering fluorescent lights and a front desk that looks like it’s seen too many people walk in hoping for answers they aren’t going to get.
I give my name to the officer at the desk. He looks me up and down once, then gestures toward a row of plastic chairs.
“Detective Calder will be with you.”
I nod and sit.
I don’t check my phone. I don’t fidget. I don’t rehearse what I’m going to say, because that never helps. Men like Detective Calder don’t respond to rehearsed. They respond to cracks.
I don’t plan on giving him any.
It takes twelve minutes before he appears. I count them without meaning to.
He’s taller than I expected. Broad shoulders under a wrinkled jacket, dark hair starting to gray at the temples. His expression is neutral in the way men learn to make it when they want you to project your own guilt onto it.
“Violet Pierce,” he says.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t shake my hand. Just turns and walks.
I follow.
The interrogation room is small. One table. Two chairs. A mirror on the wall I don’t bother looking at because I already know what it’s for.
He gestures for me to sit.
I do.
He sits across from me and sets a thin file on the table between us. My name is written on the tab in black marker.
He doesn’t open it.
“You work at Ashcroft Industries,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Front desk.”
“Yes.”
“Big company,” he adds.
“Yes.”
He watches me carefully. Waiting for something. I don’t give it to him.
“You’re very composed,” he says.
“I have a job that requires it.”
“That job,” he continues, “puts you in proximity to powerful people.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Is that relevant to my brother being missing?”
He smiles faintly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Everything’s relevant when people disappear.”
He finally opens the file. Slides out a photo.
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face still.
It’s Drew.
Not recent. Not new. Just the same picture I’ve already given them. The one where he looks alive.
“You said your brother didn’t have enemies,” Calder says.
“I said I wasn’t aware of any.”
“You said he didn’t have debt.”
“I said none that I knew about.”
“You said he wasn’t involved in anything illegal.”
“I said I didn’t believe he was.”
He looks up. “You notice the pattern here, Ms. Pierce?”
I meet his gaze. “That I answered honestly based on what I knew at the time.”
“Or,” he says mildly, “that you left yourself a lot of room.”
Room.
I almost smile.
“What do you think happened to him?” he asks.
“I think he’s missing,” I reply.
He leans back. Studies me. “You don’t speculate.”
“Speculation doesn’t help.”
“No,” he agrees. “But people usually do it anyway.”
I fold my hands on the table. “I’m not most people.”
“No,” he says slowly. “You’re not.”
He slides another paper forward. A printout. Phone records.
“Your brother’s phone pinged two nights ago,” he says. “Near the industrial docks.”
My chest tightens.
I don’t move.
“That area,” he continues, “isn’t exactly known for late-night strolls.”
“Did you find his phone?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then a ping doesn’t tell you much.”
“It tells me he was near a place where people go when they don’t want to be seen.”
“Or,” I counter, “when they’re meeting someone.”
His eyes sharpen. “Meeting who?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “If I did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Silence stretches between us.
Calder watches me like he’s waiting for me to slip. To cry. To beg. To say something reckless.
I don’t.
“You live alone,” he says.
“Yes.”
“No boyfriend.”
“No.”
“No husband.”
“No.”
“No one who’d notice if you didn’t come home one night,” he adds casually.
My jaw tightens. “I think you’re crossing a line.”
“I think,” he replies, voice still calm, “that you’re very good at staying in control. And people who stay in control usually have a reason.”
“Or a necessity,” I say.
He tilts his head. “That job of yours. Ashcroft Industries. You ever see anything… questionable there?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because companies like that,” he continues, “they intersect with politics. Money. Regulation. Men who think rules don’t apply to them.”
I think of Rowan Ashcroft. His office. His voice. The way he looks at people like they’re variables.
“I answer phones,” I say. “I schedule meetings.”
Calder smiles again. “That’s not all you do.”
It’s not a question.
I hold his gaze. “If you’re implying my brother’s disappearance is connected to my employer, you should say that plainly.”
“I’m saying,” he replies, “that you’re closer to power than you want to admit. And power has a way of dragging people into messes they didn’t ask for.”
I stand slowly. “Are you charging me with something?”
“No.”
“Then are we done?”
He watches me for a long moment.
“Not yet,” he says. “This is an ongoing investigation.”
“Then investigate,” I reply. “I’ve been cooperative.”
He stands too, stepping closer—not invading, but testing distance.
“Don’t leave town,” he repeats.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“And Ms. Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“If you remember anything—anything at all—call me.”
“I already have.”
He studies my face, then nods once. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Not breaking.”
I don’t respond.
I walk out of the room, past the front desk, back into the night air. The city hums like nothing in the world is wrong.
My phone buzzes.
A missed call.
Ashcroft Industries. Avery.
Of course it's her.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself.
The detective was cold. Calculating. Suspicious.
Just like Rowan.
Different uniform. Same pressure.
I can handle men like that.
I always have.
What I don’t know yet is which one of them is more dangerous—
The man who watches from behind glass.
Or the one who waits in the dark for me to slip.