Chapter 99 Paints A Different Picture
Violet
By the time five approaches, Camille and I are both running on fumes. The office around us is quieter now, but that’s mostly because half the building has locked themselves in their offices trying to figure out how to handle the fallout.
I’m staring at my monitor when the break room door bursts open again.
One of the new interns, one of the nervous ones from HR’s morning orientation, hurries in like she’s late to something important. Her hair is half falling out of its clip, her tablet clutched to her chest like it might run away if she loosens her grip.
She spots Camille immediately and rushes toward her desk.
“Camille,” she whispers urgently.
I barely glance up at first.
Then I notice the look on Camille’s face.
The intern leans close and whispers something quickly, her voice too low for me to catch, and Camille’s reaction is immediate.
Her eyes widen.
“What?” she whispers back.
The intern nods rapidly.
Camille stands up so fast her chair nearly tips over.
Before I can even ask what’s happening, she’s already grabbing the remote from the desk.
“Camille,” I groan immediately. “Don’t.”
She ignores me.
Forty-five minutes into this morning’s chaos I had begged her to turn the television off because I couldn’t handle seeing that same clip on repeat anymore.
Rowan carrying me.
Over and over.
Every network playing it like it was the most scandalous thing to happen in this city in ten years.
Camille flicks the TV on anyway.
I brace myself for it.
For that moment again.
The camera zooming in on Rowan’s arms around me, the reporters speculating about power dynamics and influence and everything else they could twist into something ugly.
But that’s not what appears on the screen.
The image that fills the TV is a press conference podium.
Microphones.
News banners.
And standing behind the podium with his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows is Councilman Ricki Merci.
Camille slowly lowers the remote.
“…oh my god,” she murmurs.
My eyes narrow slightly.
“What is he doing?”
The room goes quiet as the news broadcast volume fills the break room.
The reporter’s voice fades out just as Ricki steps forward to speak.
“Good evening,” Ricki says into the microphones, his tone steady but sharp in that controlled political way that makes every word sound deliberate. “I’m sure most of you are already aware of the situation surrounding Mr. Rowan Ashcroft and the ongoing Internal Affairs investigation involving Detective Thomas Calder.”
The reporters in the background shift slightly.
Cameras flash.
Ricki rests his hands lightly on the podium.
“I want to make something very clear before we go any further,” he continues. “Over the past twenty-four hours the public narrative surrounding this case has shifted in a direction that raises serious concerns for me, not only as a councilman, but as someone responsible for public oversight.”
My stomach tightens.
Camille grabs my arm without even looking away from the screen.
Ricki nods toward someone off-camera.
“If the media is going to speculate about this situation,” he says calmly, “then I believe the public deserves to see the full context.”
The screen behind him flickers.
Then the footage appears.
My breath stops.
The camera angle is unmistakable.
Security footage.
The hallway outside the bathroom at work.
There I am walking down the hallway with my phone in my hand, completely unaware of the figure behind me.
Then—
Detective Calder appears in frame.
He follows me.
Every step.
The footage shows him glance around the hallway before pushing through the bathroom door seconds after I disappear inside.
Someone in the break room gasps quietly.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
The footage cuts.
Then the second video begins.
This one is shakier.
Phone camera footage.
The bathroom door opening.
Calder stepping out first.
His hand wrapped tightly around my upper arm.
My stomach twists as I see the angle clearly now.
The bruises forming along my skin even in that grainy recording.
Calder’s face is furious, his jaw tight as he drags me forward.
Then the frame shifts again.
And Rowan steps into view.
Everything inside the break room goes still.
The way he moves in the video is unmistakable.
Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
The moment he sees Calder holding me, his entire posture changes.
The footage cuts again before the confrontation fully plays out.
The camera returns to Ricki Merci at the podium.
His expression now looks far less polite.
“What you have just seen,” Ricki says slowly, “is footage that raises serious questions about the conduct of Detective Thomas Calder and the apparent failure of both the police department and Internal Affairs to act on that conduct in a timely manner.”
Reporters immediately begin shouting questions.
Ricki raises a hand slightly to quiet them.
“I want to be absolutely clear about something,” he continues, his voice carrying across the room. “The narrative currently being pushed, that Rowan Ashcroft somehow manipulated or coerced this woman into making accusations, is not only misleading, it is deeply irresponsible.”
My throat tightens.
Ricki gestures toward the screen behind him.
“The evidence you’ve just seen paints a very different picture,” he says. “A picture of a woman who was being followed, harassed, and physically assaulted by a detective who was supposed to be investigating her brother’s disappearance.”
The reporters go quiet.
Ricki continues, his voice sharp now.
“And according to the timeline provided to my office, the police department had knowledge of these concerns well before the public ever heard about them.”
A murmur spreads through the press room.
Ricki leans slightly closer to the microphones.
“If someone in this city is looking for a villain in this situation,” he says calmly, “they should be looking at the system that ignored this behavior, not the man who stepped in when no one else would.”
My hands slowly curl around the edge of the table.
Camille squeezes my arm again.
On the screen, Ricki finishes with one final sentence.
“Based on the evidence currently available, I stand behind Rowan Ashcroft one hundred percent. And if the institutions responsible for protecting people failed to act, then I fully understand why this woman sought help from the only person she believed would actually do something.”
The reporters erupt into questions.
But I barely hear them because suddenly, Rowan is standing beside me.
I didn’t hear him come in.
I didn’t hear his office door open either.
But he’s there now, tall and solid beside the table, his eyes fixed on the television screen with a calm intensity that feels almost dangerous.