Chapter 45 The Police Station
I didn’t look back, but the small tug of a smile betrayed the corner of my lips anyway.
He sighed with mock-defeat. “Fine. Lead the way, forest expert.”
I kept walking.
He walked slowly behind me, quiet, hesitant, like someone mentally rehearsing the right sentence and failing to find it.
He knew I was upset. Really upset. But I wasn’t.
Until—
“You’re going the wrong way,” he said, voice calm but firm, lifting a hand slightly to point to his right. “Gravenmoor Town is this way.”
I didn’t look. I just marched right past him, eyes locked forward like the path itself offended me.
He turned in place, watching me take sharp, dramatic steps like someone in a tragedy performance no one asked for.
“You can’t stay like this forever!” he yelled.
I didn’t flinch.
“Come on! We can’t be fighting!” he added, scrambling forward now, legs eating the distance until he was right beside me again.
“I’m sorry, L,” he muttered, breathing unevenly from speed, not emotion.
Still no eye contact from me.
“I said I’m sorry,” he repeated, louder now. “So sorry.”
He reached for my hand, slow this time, cautious, but I pushed it farther ahead, almost like I was offering it to the wind instead of him.
“I hear you, Oliver,” I groaned, words falling out of me like an unwilling confession.
He stopped walking.
I expected footsteps beside me again. Instead, silence.
I turned my head just enough to see him still standing there, bag strap drooping slightly over his shoulder, watching me with a face that looked offensively young and pleading.
Not angry. Just baby-faced guilt.
I exhaled and turned fully this time, storm deflating from my posture.
Then I walked back to him.
I took his hand. Willingly.
And immediately—immediately, a crooked grin tugged up his mouth, like someone pulling up curtains after a long monologue.
“Apologies accepted?” he asked, voice embarrassingly childish.
I chuckled softly, shaking my head once. “Not yet.”
He huffed, lifting his chin, then pressed my hand flat against his chest like he was making a vow out of a handshake. “Whatever,” he said. “The hand is what matters.”
I laughed, finally. “Let’s go,” I whispered.
He nodded, satisfied, turning back around, hand still locked in mine.
Oliver looked… happy. Comfortable.
He walked without rushing now, a slow rhythmic stroll, thumb brushing the side of my hand absentmindedly. He didn’t talk much anymore. In fact, he didn’t talk at all.
He was smiling all through the walk, like holding hands was the plot and everything else was just background noise.
Until—
“We’ve arrived at the police station,” he finally announced, letting go of my hand only to gesture forward like a tour guide clocking out of emotional labor.
And yes, it was a long walk.
The building stood ahead, bricks older than the academy gates, windows tall and unblinking, the kind that made you suddenly aware of your heartbeat.
I adjusted my backpack strap, exhaling once more.
It was time to see Marcus.
“Who did you say you want to visit again?” the police officer asked, already reaching for his glasses.
“Marcus,” Oliver replied, standing beside me, hands casually in his pockets like the whole situation was only a minor inconvenience.
The officer adjusted his glasses properly this time and skimmed through a thick, worn notebook. His pen hovered mid-air.
“Marcus who?” he pressed. “He doesn’t have a last name?”
Oliver leaned toward me, lowering his head just enough so only I could hear him. “What’s Marcus’ last name?” he whispered.
I raised my chin, eyes drifting upward as if the ceiling might offer assistance. My index finger tapped lightly against my lip while I chewed the inside of my cheek, thinking. Then, without confidence, I pinched my bottom lip between my teeth, and finally mumbled, “Uh…”
I lifted one hand and bit the tip of my index finger in a panic-thinking gesture. “I don’t know… Lane?” I guessed, more like a prayer than an answer.
Oliver’s eyes widened, offended on Marcus’ behalf. “Seriously?” he hissed under his breath. “You forgot that?”
He turned back to the officer with an exaggerated sigh, shoulders dropping dramatically. “Lane,” he declared, louder, like it was the final answer in a game show.
I nudged him quickly with my elbow, whisper-yelling this time, “What? No!”
Then I stepped forward, waving both hands lightly toward the officer in apology mode. “Please, Officer—”
“Officer,” Oliver corrected instantly under his breath, still staring at the ground like it personally disappointed him.
The police officer slowly lifted his gaze, expression blank, then leaned back slightly. He looked young, composed, annoyingly calm, and very much done with us.
He raised one brow as if issuing a silent memo: Do not stress me, children.
“Sorry, Officer,” I tried again, my voice softening but still earnest, “for stressing you out, but—”
“What’s the matter?” came a deep, masculine voice from behind us.
The officer straightened at once, closing the notebook. “Oh, Sheriff.”
Then he pointed at us with his pen, shaking his head once, almost smiling. “Looks like these high school kids came to rescue a friend they don’t even know his last name,” he said, openly amused.
Oliver and I turned around at the same time, like synchronized swimmers of bad decisions.
The Sheriff recognized us instantly. He crossed his arms, one foot shifting forward in disbelief.
“You two again?” he asked, dragging a hand slowly down his face.
Oliver gave a small, awkward wave, weak, guilty, automatic. “Hi… again?”
I nodded once, tight-lipped, shoulders stiff. “We’re… visiting Marcus.”
The Sheriff sighed, eyes drifting to the ceiling for strength we clearly did not inherit from him.
“Of course you are,” he muttered, already walking past us.