❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ EDGE OF CONTROL ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ if she ever knew the way he felt when he watched her walk away after a shift, she'd probably transfer to a new precinct. but she's already too close to his heart ❜

𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑅𝐿𝑂𝑇𝑇𝐸 𝐵𝐴𝑅𝐸𝐿𝑌 took two steps towards the car before an urgent voice reached her ears. "Excuse me, excuse me!" called an older woman, her voice somehow managing to carry over the low hum of the morning traffic around the station.

Charlotte turned, meeting the woman's gaze—a pair of sharp, gray eyes framed by strands of silver hair and deep lines etched by time and worry. The woman held something small and fluffy cradled in her arms, wrapped in a worn yellow blanket that looked as though it had seen better days.

The bundle stirred, and Charlotte's brows lifted as she recognized the shape—a small, white dog, a little ball of fur that looked more like a weathered cotton puff than a living creature. "What a cutie," Charlotte murmured, reaching out gently to pet the trembling creature's head. The dog gazed up at her, eyes wide, a hint of nervousness in its tiny body.

"Oh, well, lost dogs are usually an Animal Control issue," she added, glancing up to meet the woman's steady gaze. "I can give them a call for you if you'd like."

The elderly woman shifted the blanket, her expression darkening as she pulled back a fold to reveal the dog's paws, crusted with fresh, dark blood. "I thought maybe this made it an LAPD issue," she said in a grave whisper, looking back at Charlotte with a knowing expression. "There isn't a scratch on her."

The sight of the blood caught Charlotte off-guard. She blinked, her brow furrowing as she gently took the dog from the woman's arms, carefully examining its fur and paws. There was something so out of place about the small, uninjured creature smeared with blood, and an unsettling thought crawled into her mind. "Where did you find her?" she asked, her voice a bit quieter, more serious.

"In the middle of Wilshire Boulevard," the woman replied, shaking her head with a mix of pity and disbelief. "She was frantic, running in circles like she was lost... nearly got herself squashed a dozen times over. Poor thing."

Charlotte was nodding, lost in thought, when she felt a familiar presence beside her. "What's the holdup, boot?" Nyla's voice broke through, her tone sharp and impatient as she stepped up next to them, arms crossed and eyes fixed on Charlotte.

Without looking away from the dog, Charlotte explained, "We need to swing by a vet. Check if she has a chip." She glanced up, showing Nyla the dog's blood-caked paws. "Could be she came from a crime scene,"

Nyla's expression softened, just a little. She gave Charlotte a short nod, her eyes flicking to the dog with a hint of concern, but her posture stayed firm, as if keeping her sympathy in check. "Alright, let's get it done. But don't get too attached," she muttered, before leading the way toward the cruiser, leaving Charlotte to follow with the tiny, trembling creature still cradled in her arms.

Leaving the dog nestled in the back seat with the windows cracked just enough to let in a breeze, Charlotte and Nyla walked toward the house with a mixture of purpose and subtle tension.

Charlotte pulled her radio to her lips, her voice a soft murmur as she reported, "Control, show us Code 6 at 819 Rivera." She clipped it back onto her belt, the quiet click sounding sharper in the still air. Nyla's footsteps were steady beside her, arms swinging as she led the way, her eyes sharp and focused.

Nyla stopped short in front of the door, giving it a solid, no-nonsense knock. "Police! We've got your dog!" she called out, her voice echoing through the stillness on the other side. They waited, but the silence stretched on, thicker with each passing second.

Charlotte shifted, casting a glance toward the curtained window beside the door. "I'll check through here," she whispered, moving quietly towards it. She placed her hand on the window frame, trying to angle herself to get a view inside.

Maybe they were dealing with someone who was hard of hearing, or someone who'd fallen asleep in a room down the hall. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, her breath hitched.

Something pale lay slumped just inside, barely visible but unmistakable—a body.

"Ma'am," she murmured, nudging her partner's arm, her voice a quiet urgency, "Body. Inside."

Nyla's face tightened, her jaw clenching as she peered through the glass to confirm. Without missing a beat, she grabbed the doorknob, jostling it firmly. Locked.

She took a step back, planting her feet solidly before delivering a swift, powerful kick to the door. The sound of wood splintering cut through the silence, and the door burst open. They were in.

Weapons drawn, they moved with swift, silent precision, a practiced dance of careful steps and alert glances. The air inside was heavy, faintly tinged with the coppery scent of blood and something else, something stale.

Nyla took the lead, heading into the living room, her eyes scanning for signs of anyone else or anything out of place. Charlotte knelt by the woman on the floor, her gloved fingers pressing against her neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. She shook her head, murmuring, "No pulse."

A sudden, faint noise prickled at the back of Charlotte's neck—a shuffling, the sound of something moving, too subtle for comfort. She met Nyla's eyes across the room, her hand steady on her weapon as they nodded to each other.

Moving toward the hall, Charlotte took one side while Nyla took the other, each sweeping the narrow, dim corridor with practiced care.

"Clear," Charlotte whispered as she checked a small bedroom, the bed neatly made, no signs of disturbance.

"Clear," Nyla echoed from another room, her voice a low murmur. They regrouped just outside a closed bathroom door, the air thick with the quiet tension of the unknown.

Charlotte's hand tightened around her weapon as she reached out, inching the door open. She let her gun enter the room first, scanning the dim space.

Her eyes adjusted to the faint light filtering in, and then she saw him—a young boy, no more than twelve, curled up in the corner of the bathtub, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, his small body rocking slightly. His gaze was distant, unfocused, like he was seeing something far away, locked in his own world.

Nyla appeared behind her, taking in the sight with a quiet intake of breath. The boy didn't seem to register their presence at first, his movements rhythmic, mechanical, his small fingers gripping his knees tightly as if they were the only things tethering him to reality.

His cheeks were streaked with tear tracks, now dry, and his clothes—messy, wrinkled—hinted that he'd been there for a couple of hours at least, caught in whatever had happened here.

Charlotte lowered her weapon, her voice soft as she crouched down just outside the tub, keeping her distance but making herself visible in his line of sight.

"Hey, sweetheart," she murmured gently, the compassion in her tone a warm contrast to the cold, tense air of the house. "It's okay. We're here to help."

The boy's rocking slowed, his eyes flicking to her face with a glimmer of awareness, as if he were only now noticing he wasn't alone.

Charlotte knelt beside the bathtub, keeping her movements soft and steady as she extended her hand toward the boy. "We found your dog," she murmured, her voice gentle, carrying warmth like a lullaby.

"Come outside with us. We'll have a little talk, okay?" Her open palm hovered in the space between them, an invitation as much as a promise.

The boy's gaze lifted, his eyes a dull, haunted blue, shadowed with exhaustion and too many emotions to sort through. For a moment, he just stared, as if his mind were still trapped somewhere else entirely.

But then, slowly, like a flower unfurling in reluctant sunlight, he reached out, placing his trembling hand in hers. His grip was weak but held a fragility that felt like trust.

Carefully, she helped him up, supporting him as he swayed slightly, his legs stiff from sitting so long. In the background, Nyla's voice murmured into the radio, requesting backup, her words brisk and efficient, contrasting the fragile moment between Charlotte and the boy.

As they made their way past the room where his mother's body lay, Charlotte subtly shifted her body, guiding him so he couldn't see the scene. She felt his hand tighten in hers as if he knew, on some level, but he kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the floor.

Outside, she opened the squad car's back door, easing him into the seat. The boy slumped down, his shoulders hunched, and his face almost expressionless. But then the little dog, whom she'd left in the car earlier, perked up, scrambling eagerly into his lap.

The boy's face softened just a bit as he ran a hand over the dog's scruffy fur, feeling the warm weight of the creature he had, perhaps, come to depend on. The dog licked his chin, then his small, ink-stained fingers, and the boy's hand stilled momentarily before he resumed petting, his touch both habitual and tender.

Charlotte leaned against the open door, watching him for a beat, her voice low and steady. "That was a really good hiding spot," she said softly, not needing him to look up to know he was listening. "You thought fast, kept yourself safe." Her words lingered in the air, gentle as feathers, but the boy only continued stroking the dog, his gaze far away.

Just then, the rumble of arriving cars broke the silence as backup pulled up, and crime scene investigators started filling the yard. Charlotte left the boy in the car for a moment and walked over to Nyla, who was murmuring with one of the detectives. Her face was set, her mouth a tight line as she took in the new information.

"The kid's name is Malcolm Trucker," Nyla murmured as Charlotte approached, barely looking up. "The woman... that was his mother." Her voice was somber, tinged with a rare softness.

Charlotte's eyes darted back to the car, where Malcolm sat with his dog nestled in his lap, his expression a blank canvas. Her heart clenched. "Poor kid," she said quietly, watching him. "He's in shock. We need to get him to the hospital, make sure he's okay. Mentally and physically."

Just then, a figure appeared behind her, casting a shadow over them. "Officers," he called out, his voice steady and commanding, "I heard there might be a witness?"

Charlotte turned, the familiarity of the voice sending a shock through her. There stood Nick Armstrong, grayer than she remembered but with the same easy, dependable presence she'd known all her life. Her eyes widened, a bright smile spreading across her face.

"Nick!" she exclaimed, feeling the relief and warmth that only an old friend could bring. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him, the scent of old leather and a hint of cologne bringing her back to her childhood.

He chuckled, pulling back with a grin, his hands resting on her shoulders as he looked her over, visibly amused. "Charlotte," he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You've grown up on me. I can barely believe it." His grin widened as he turned his gaze to Nyla, who watched them with an arched brow, equal parts curious and unimpressed.

"This one here," Nick said with a playful pinch to Charlotte's cheek, making her laugh, "I used to babysit Dove back in the day. Got wrapped up in a big case with her dad and his company, ended up becoming her part-time babysitter." He laughed, giving Charlotte a gentle nudge.

Nyla folded her arms, smirking a bit. "Dove?" she asked, her eyebrow lifting in amusement. "Where does that come from?"

Charlotte gave a soft laugh, glancing at Nick before answering. "I had almost-white blonde hair as a kid," she explained, her eyes glinting with the nostalgia of the memory. "In certain lights, it looked like dove feathers. Eventually, people started calling me 'Dove,' and well... it stuck."

Armstrong cleared his throat, his fingers grazing his chin as he gathered his thoughts. His eyes held that steely focus that told Charlotte he was piecing together a puzzle. "Alright, back to the case," he murmured, his voice low and steady.

"I ran a record search. Between us and social services, this house has been visited half a dozen times over the past year. Domestic complaints filed, mostly involving the victim and her boyfriend, Carson Gomes. Got officers on their way to his place and his work site as we speak."

As Armstrong spoke, Charlotte glanced over, catching sight of Tim and John making their way across the yard toward them. It looked like they'd been in the area and decided to check in after hearing about the call.

She met John halfway, his familiar presence a comfort in the middle of the chaotic scene. His arms wrapped around her in a quick, firm hug, one that said more than words could.

"You good?" he asked, his voice softer, filled with concern. "Heard there was a kid involved."

Charlotte nodded, feeling the weight of the situation settle deeper in her chest. "Yeah," she replied, her voice tinged with sadness as her gaze shifted toward the car where Malcolm sat, clutching his dog.

"He's in shock. I think he might've seen... everything." Her brows knitted together, and she swallowed, the bitter taste of sorrow catching in her throat.

Meanwhile, she overheard Tim speaking to Armstrong. "I think Rachel was the caseworker for the Trucker family," he said, his voice casual but with an edge. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added,

"We're dating."

We're dating.

We are dating.

Dating.

Charlotte's stomach twisted at the words.

It was like a cold, unwelcome weight dropping into her gut, the type of feeling that made her want to fold in on herself, hide somewhere dark and quiet. She felt her gaze drop to the ground, the sting of jealousy sharp and immediate. John must have noticed because she saw his eyes widen slightly, knowing full well how she felt.

Did he get a divorce? The question burned, a dull ache beneath her ribcage. She'd heard whispers about him and Isabel, the rumors swirling through the precinct like a silent undercurrent that no one dared address.

But Tim was a closed book, his private life carefully guarded behind layers of stone walls and barbed wire. She knew better than to ask, but the unanswered question lingered, heavy as a cloud before rain.

Was he over Isabel already? She tried to imagine it—the intensity he'd once had for his wife, extinguished just like that. It seemed impossible, knowing him. She could still remember the way his voice softened, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he'd spoken of her back then.

And yet, here he was, speaking about dating someone new, resolute and stoic, as if that chapter had already closed.

She shook her head slightly, torn between wanting to know and fearing the answer. Her gaze dropped to her own hands, clasped together to steady herself. Her thumb brushed the edge of her wrist, tracing the same spot he'd pressed three months ago in the hospital, during a moment that had felt both fragile and monumental.

That kiss. It had been tentative and fleeting, the kind of kiss that made promises without words, a secret etched only between them. And now, staring at him, she wondered if it had meant anything to him at all—or if he'd neatly filed it away, another unspoken memory to lock behind his guarded walls.

And what about the gym? she wondered, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve as the thought took hold. That was only two weeks ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

She could still feel the weight of his gaze when they finished their wrestling session, the silent recognition that something hung heavy between them. She had convinced herself that he had felt it too—that pull, that tension—but here they were, still teetering on opposite sides of a line neither dared to cross.

Armstrong, though, didn't seem to notice Charlotte's reaction, instead nodding as he scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, that's good. Give her a call, then. Have her meet you at the hospital," he instructed Tim, his voice steady. "She can brief you on the family history in person—there's bound to be something that didn't make it into her reports."

Charlotte forced herself to look back up, pushing down the complicated knot of emotions in her chest. She watched Tim pull out his phone, dialing, his expression unreadable. As he stepped away to make the call, her mind spun, torn between her role as an officer and the ache of her personal feelings clawing at her.

It felt as though the scene around her blurred, the sounds of voices and distant sirens dulling into a background hum.

She found herself watching Malcolm again, his small figure slouched in the backseat of the squad car, his dog nestled close as though sensing the boy's unspoken need for comfort. The scene was somehow both heart-wrenching and grounding, pulling her back into the moment, into the role she had to play.

"Come on, boot," Tim's voice came low and steady, his words barely louder than the breeze, yet carrying an unmistakable weight. He didn't even glance back as he started his stride toward the patrol car, his movements as deliberate as always.

The fabric of his uniform creaked slightly as he adjusted his grip on his belt, his hand lingering near his radio, almost as if bracing himself for what lay ahead. Charlotte hesitated, her gaze following his every step, torn between the gravity of his tone and the subtle pull of her own emotions.

Just then, a gentle squeeze at her arm pulled her attention away, and she turned to find John standing beside her, his expression soft and knowing. He gave her one of his signature warm, reassuring smiles, the kind that had a way of cutting through her anxieties. Lifting his hand to his ear, he made a quick 'call me later' gesture, his fingers shaping an invisible phone as he mouthed the words with exaggerated clarity.

Then, in an easy, familiar way, he patted her arm, a silent promise of support and understanding. She watched as he turned, his footsteps quickening as he jogged to catch up with his own T.O., the two of them merging with the flow of the bustling crime scene.

Charlotte stood there for a moment longer, absorbing the details of the scene around her—the smell of rain-washed asphalt lingering faintly in the air, the faint hum of engines, the steady chatter of radios crackling with codes and updates.

She let her gaze drift to Bradford, now standing by the driver's side of his patrol car, his hand resting on the roof as he waited for John, an unspoken command in the tilt of his head.

Her mind raced, catching snatches of memories, lingering on fragments she barely let herself acknowledge. It was in these quiet pauses, these wordless moments, where all the lines blurred, where he became more than just her T.O.

The weight of everything unsaid felt palpable between them, a tether that kept drawing her back to him, even now. She swallowed, feeling the hint of a bitter ache that gnawed at her resolve, that uncomfortable realization that she cared more than she let on.

"𝐼 𝐾𝑁𝑂𝑊 this is painful. I promise I'll make it as quick as possible, okay?" Armstrong's voice was low and steady, barely louder than a whisper, as if he understood that the weight of his words might break if spoken any louder. He sat across from Malcolm, leaning forward slightly with an open posture that seemed to invite trust.

Next to him sat 'Rachel', Tim's.. whatever, her calm presence a silent but solid support. Malcolm, his blond hair tousled and his face pale and drawn, gave a faint nod, his eyes flitting over to where Nyla and Charlotte stood nearby. He lingered on Charlotte, his gaze meeting hers with an expression that made her heart twist.

There was something in the boy's eyes—an unguarded vulnerability that pulled Charlotte to her feet almost instinctively. She felt Nyla's sharp, questioning look, her T.O. clearly on alert, hoping her rookie wouldn't overstep or disrupt the flow.

But the look in Malcolm's eyes told Charlotte that maybe, just maybe, he could use a little comfort right now.

She approached slowly, her steps measured and soft, and knelt beside him, her voice low as she leaned in just a little, offering a steadying presence. "Malcolm," she murmured, her tone gentle, almost like a whisper of reassurance. "Would it help if I sat here with you? Right here by your side?"

Malcolm's head bobbed in a small nod, and Charlotte gave him a soft smile before taking the seat beside him, close enough that he wouldn't feel alone, but far enough to respect his space. She caught Nick's eye across the table, giving him a quick nod to continue.

Armstrong offered a quiet look of gratitude before turning his focus back to Malcolm. His gaze was calm, steady, holding the weight of someone who understood how to navigate these difficult conversations. "Did you see what happened?" he asked, his voice just as gentle as before.

Malcolm hesitated, his eyes flickering with the shadow of some terrible memory. But then, a flicker of courage sparked, and his voice came, hesitant but gaining strength as he spoke. "They had a fight—Mom and Carson," he murmured, his words clear but his tone wavering slightly.

He kept his gaze on the table, his small hands clenched tightly in his lap, the knuckles white. Charlotte could feel the tension radiating off of him, the way he tried to keep himself together while recounting something he should never have had to witness.

Nick leaned in a little closer, his voice gentle but probing, "About what? Do you know?" he asked, keeping his gaze steady on the boy, his pen ready but hovering just above the notepad, giving Malcolm all the time he needed to gather himself.

Malcolm's mouth opened slightly, a stutter at his lips as he tried to form the words. His eyes flicked down to his lap, where his hands twisted together nervously, each finger pressing into the next in a rhythm that spoke of his nerves.

Charlotte leaned in slightly, a soft hand rubbing slow, reassuring circles against his back. She could feel the tension in his small frame relax just a bit at the warmth of her touch. "Take your time," she murmured quietly, her voice barely a whisper, like a soft cushion for him to fall into.

The boy took a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling with a controlled determination. He gave her a small nod, a wordless 'thank you,' before her hand slipped away, and he was ready to try again.

"It was about...me." His words came out in a thick murmur, his gaze still fixed down at his fingers as if they held the answers. "Mom was mad... 'cause I left out the peanut butter."

The way he said it was almost too normal, like he was telling them something he felt he'd be scolded for again. "She yelled at me, sent me to my room." He frowned, the memory of her anger darkening his face as he replayed it. "But... we were supposed to play Xbox."

Armstrong's brow furrowed slightly, the sympathy in his eyes tempered by the professional curiosity he maintained. He jotted a note, then looked back up. "We who?" he asked, his voice gentle but tinged with a curiosity that probed deeper than the words alone could convey.

Malcolm's frown deepened, his lips pressing together for a moment before he answered, "Me and Carson." He hesitated, his fingers now picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "Carson was nice to me," he added quietly, almost like he was reassuring himself. "He spent time with me."

His voice softened, and his brow knitted together. "He yelled at her, told her she was being... a bitch." The word came out in a murmur, almost a whisper, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to say it but felt he had to repeat it exactly as he'd heard.

Charlotte's heart ached at the sadness in his voice, and she could feel Nyla shift slightly beside her, folding her arms a little tighter, her jaw clenching. Malcolm continued, voice low and hoarse, "She... she started screaming."

Nick nodded, noting everything with quiet precision, his pen scratching softly against the paper as he pieced the story together from Malcolm's halting words. He kept his tone measured, never pressing, just giving Malcolm the space he needed. "Had he ever hit her before?" he asked.

The boy's eyes widened slightly, and he shook his head with the vigor of someone who wanted desperately to believe what he was saying. "No. Never," he insisted. "He's never hit her."

Nick gave a slight nod, acknowledging the answer as he paused, giving Malcolm a moment to settle. "Tell me more about the fight," he prompted softly. "Did you see it or just hear it?"

Malcolm swallowed, his hands shifting nervously again, palms pressing into his pants in a desperate attempt to relieve the dampness that had built there. "I heard it," he replied, his voice growing quiet again, a faint tremor running through it. "A door slammed, real loud." He stopped, his eyes flicking to Charlotte as if seeking some kind of understanding. She nodded, a small encouragement for him to continue. "

Then... my mom threw a plate." He looked down again, a hint of something almost like shame crossing his features as if, by hearing it, he had somehow been a part of it. "She was so mad when he left."

"Uh—when who left? Carson?" Armstrong's brow knitted in mild surprise as he asked the question, his pen hovering mid-air. Malcolm nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, the lines of his young face drawn with a seriousness that weighed heavily in the dim, clinical light of the interrogation room.

"Mm. And she was still alive?" Armstrong's voice had softened now, his tone carrying the gentle coaxing of someone who knew they were treading on fragile ground.

Malcolm nodded again, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, as though he were replaying the memory piece by piece, each fragment hitting him anew.

Nick leaned forward just a fraction, his voice steady as he continued, "Did Carson come back?"

A pause hung in the air, and then Malcolm shook his head slowly, his blond hair falling slightly into his eyes. "She chased him away," he murmured, his voice almost lost in the stillness of the room.

There was a faint tremor in his words, something that tugged at the edges of Charlotte's chest, making her heart tighten in empathy. She glanced over at Nyla, who remained still beside her, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and attentive, as if her steady presence alone could shield the boy from the pain he was dredging up.

Armstrong's eyes flickered with surprise, a flicker of something wary and cautious passing over his face. He took a breath before asking, "Did anybody else come over?"

Before Malcolm could respond, a soft voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent. "Um, we should stop." Rachel's words were a whisper, a thin line of tension wrapped around them, her face taut as she leaned forward.

But Nyla's gaze turned icy, a warning in her glare as she shot Rachel a look that said more than any words could. "Rachel," she murmured in a low, even tone, the kind that demanded no argument.

But Rachel wouldn't be silenced. "No." Her voice was stronger now, though her hands trembled slightly, her fingers pressing into the table as if she needed the grounding. "Malcolm needs a lawyer," she insisted, her voice trembling with something between concern and frustration.

The tension in the room seemed to crackle, the air thickening as Nick looked at her, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation. "Miss Hall," he replied, his tone now clipped and firm, "you don't have standing to make that request." His words were measured, almost rehearsed, the way someone might speak when they're used to dealing with this kind of pushback but not quite ready to tolerate it.

But Rachel wasn't backing down. She leaned over the table, close enough that her voice was barely a whisper to anyone but Malcolm. "Malcolm," she murmured, her eyes steady as she met his, a gentle desperation evident, "ask for a lawyer."

Charlotte could feel the room shift, everyone's attention honed in on the small, fragile boy sandwiched between Nick's questioning gaze and Rachel's quiet urging. Malcolm looked from Rachel to Nick, his expression one of pure confusion, eyes darting back and forth as if he were searching for a sign of who to trust.

His hands were still, his fingers curling into the fabric of his pants as if that would somehow anchor him to the present, keep him steady amid the storm of adult voices swirling around him.

"She's right. Malcolm should have a lawyer, and we should want him to have one." Charlotte's voice was soft yet unwavering, cutting through the tension in the room. She folded her arms across her chest, her expression steely but empathetic. "He's a kid."

Nyla shifted beside her, arms crossed in silent disapproval, her gaze sharp as she interrupted, "He's a murder suspect." The emphasis she put on "murder" was hard, like a brick dropped into still water, sending ripples through the silence. Nyla's eyes held Charlotte's for a moment, as if daring her to press the point, but Charlotte held her ground, her gaze steady.

"Still a kid," Rachel added, her voice barely a murmur but firm enough to signal her stance. She gave Charlotte a small, grateful nod, her own shoulders slightly hunched as though the weight of the situation pressed on her, too.

Armstrong glanced between them, clearly torn. He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face in resignation, the lines of exhaustion visible in his eyes.

"It's your right, son," he said quietly, leaning forward to look at Malcolm, whose gaze was fixed on his hands, fingers twisted together in his lap. "Do you want a lawyer?"

Malcolm nodded, the movement so slight it could've been missed if everyone wasn't watching him so intently. He swallowed hard, glancing up at Armstrong, his eyes a mixture of fear and relief, grateful for the brief respite.

Armstrong looked over at Charlotte, his expression resigned as he shook his head, a faint crease of frustration settling between his brows. "Officer Von Liljah," he said softly, keeping his voice measured and calm, "would you take Malcolm to the break room?"

Charlotte nodded, a small sense of relief flooding through her as she stepped closer to Malcolm. "Yeah, come on," she murmured, placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. She felt him flinch slightly, his small frame tense under her touch, but she kept her hand there, a steadying presence as they left the room.

The hallway was quiet, the muffled hum of voices from other rooms creating a subtle backdrop of noise that somehow felt soothing in the stillness. She walked beside Malcolm, taking her time, keeping her pace slow so he wouldn't feel rushed. The harsh, institutional smell of disinfectant lingered in the air, clinging to the linoleum floors and sterile white walls, each step echoing softly in the empty corridor.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently, glancing down at him. His face was pale, his eyes glazed with a distant look, as if his mind was still back in the interrogation room, reliving moments he didn't want to remember.

He nodded, but it was automatic, detached, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

Charlotte could feel his struggle, the weight of what he'd just gone through pressing down on him like a heavy blanket.

She walked a little closer, her voice low and soft as she added, "You're doing great. This is tough stuff, but you're handling it well." Her words were meant to comfort, to reach through the fog surrounding him, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw the faintest flicker of relief cross his face.

They reached the break room, its dim lighting and worn-out furniture offering a stark contrast to the cold brightness of the hallway. She opened the door, guiding him in, and he sat down slowly on one of the faded couches, his shoulders hunched as he stared at his shoes.

She took a seat beside him, leaving enough space so he didn't feel crowded but close enough to let him know she was there if he needed her.

Charlotte watched him for a moment, her own heart heavy, filled with a quiet sadness for the young boy beside her. It was clear he'd been through so much more than anyone his age should have to endure.

She took a deep breath, leaning back slightly, her eyes never leaving Malcolm's face as she waited, letting the silence settle comfortably around them. In this room, at least, he could breathe, could let the tension slip away, if only for a few minutes.

HELPP why is this chapter around 5600 words?!!?!? what did i even write i feel like nothing happened in this chapter but okay...

HAPPY 1989 TV DAY!! :)

too tired to check for mistakes bear with me it's 1:24 am...

please feel free to engage with the story !!
– comment, like, & interact. your participation keeps me motivated! thank you!!

❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 27.10.24 ❞