His words hit harder than I expect, and for a moment, I’m not sure how to respond. I want to tell Allen that I’m fine, that I’m still in control. But even as I try to form the words, I know they’re not true. Not entirely.
“You did good in there,” he continues. “Better than most people would have. Don’t let him get to you. He’s just another criminal wanting attention, but you never have to see him again.”
I nod, though the relief I expect doesn’t come. Instead, there’s just a hollow, gnawing emptiness, a sense that something is slipping away from me, something vital. I want to ignore it, to focus on the mission, but the weight of Ghost’s words lingers like a shadow, dark and inescapable.
“I’ll be fine.” The words feel like a lie. “Getting back to work is what I need right now.”
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. There’s no shame in needing some time. Are you sure you don’t want to take the rest of the day?”
I shake my head. “Being alone with my thoughts is the worst thing I can imagine.”
The detective holds my gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable, as if he’s considering whether to push further. But then he nods. “All right. Let’s check in on the team and see where they’re at.”
We step outside, the fresh air biting against my cheeks, offering a brief reprieve from the oppressive atmosphere of the prison. Allen looks at me again.
“I know I already said it, but you really did good in there. I wouldn’t have lasted long before losing my shit.”
The cemetery is quiet.
It’s the kind of silence that seeps into your blood and flows through your veins, until you’re either overcome with grief or peace. I’ve had a lot of experience with the former and none of the latter.
The traffic after work was abysmal as always, but there’s no relief in arriving at my destination. I wave off the driver, who’s quick to leave, his tires squealing against the cracked pavement as he takes off. The neighborhoods surrounding the grave site are crumbling with broken windows and graffiti has been scrawled across the walls in angry bursts of color.
The cemetery bears the same weight of neglect. The headstones are simple, most of them weathered and worn, some of them barely legible. Weeds grow unchecked between slabs of granite, and the grass is overgrown, needing to be mowed.
This area, on the outskirts of the city, has been forgotten by anyone with the means to make a difference. It’s not a thing of beauty, but of necessity, a final resting place for those who had nowhere else to go. For all of its flaws, there’s a stark reality to it that I haven’t found in the polished parts of the city.
I walk down one of the narrow paths, careful not to trip on the uneven ground. Once I leave the pavement, my high heels sink into the grass and soft earth, and the fog becomes thicker. Heavier. Matching the weight constantly bearing down on me.
I used to come here often. Despite the pain. The anger. The loss.
Then my obsession with studying criminals and their patterns grew like the weeds underneath my feet: wild and unrestricted.
After the day I’ve had, I need to be here. I need to speak to my parents, choosing to believe they can hear me even if they can’t respond.
When I reach their graves, I stop, standing there for a moment, simply staring at the headstones. Their names are carved neatly into the marble, along with dates that mark the beginning and end of their lives. I kneel, brushing away a few fallen leaves from the stone, and sit back on my heels.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” My voice is quiet. Full of longing. “It’s been a long time since I’ve visited. I’m sorry about that. And for the way I acted last time.”
A year ago, I came to grieve.
A year ago, I lost control.
A year ago, I questioned my sanity.
I can still see it in my mind as clearly as if it happened yesterday: the crushed beer cans, the cigarette butts, the remnants of someone’s careless night left to rot on the graves of the two people who meant the most to me. Like they were just another piece of trash to be discarded. Something inside me snapped. Whatever I’d kept tightly wound since my childhood momentarily broke loose.
I’d driven here with the intention of spending the day with my parents, telling them how much I missed them, how I was trying to make them proud. But when I saw the mess, the complete and utter disrespect, all I could see was red.
I didn’t think. I just acted.
I remember yanking open the trunk of my car, grabbing the baseball bat I keep there for protection, and marching back to their graves. The first swing shattered a beer bottle, the glass spraying across the headstones like a rain of jagged shards. The second swing took out the plastic table someone had dragged over, the pieces splintering under the force of my anger. I kept swinging, kept smashing, kept destroying until there was nothing left but debris and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
When it was over, I stood there, surrounded by the wreckage of what I’d done, my hands trembling, the bat still gripped tightly in my fists. The anger didn’t leave me—it just simmered, hot and painful, a reminder of how little control I really had. The pain, the grief, and the rage from the night of their murders came rushing back, brutal and overwhelming. And for a moment, I thought I’d drown in it.
I dropped the bat, falling to my knees and screaming. The sound tearing out of me like it was the only thing keeping me from shattering completely. I don’t know how long I stayed there, on the ground, sobbing like a child.
Eventually, I pulled myself together, wiped my face, and picked up everything I’d demolished. After that I straightened my appearance, putting my mask back in place, and I haven’t been back since.
Until today.
Because of Ghost.
“I went against my rules and met with a criminal today. He’s nothing like you or the people I try to save. Ghost is… dangerous and manipulative. He’s the kind of person I’ve spent my entire career trying to understand. And I hate him.”
I pause, taking a shaky breath. “I hate him because he reminds me of what happened to you. What was done to you.”
Tears sting my eyes when I reach out and trace the rough edges of their names on the headstones. Samuel & Margaret Prescott.
“I hate Ghost because one interaction, one fucking conversation is bringing all of it back. Everything I’ve tried to repress. He got inside my head, and I don’t know how to get rid of him.
“I wish you were here,” I whisper, my voice thick. “I wish you could tell me how to deal with this, how to move on. From everything. My need to understand. My obsession with the criminal mind. My curiosity with Ghost. All of it.”
I sit there, losing track of time, until my tears dry up, my legs go numb, and the sun sets. The potential danger in this place at night forces me to stand, my body stiff from my lack of movement.
“I promise to come visit you again,” I say. “And it won’t take me a year this time. I love you. So much it kills me.”
My stride is purposeful as I walk away. I leave the cemetery behind, feeling no different than when I arrived. Ghost still haunts me, and my parents remain dead.
However, my time spent with them is a reminder of the things that drive me. Because as much as I want to deny it, anger and pain are the only things that make me feel alive.
Two hours later, I unlock the door to my apartment and step inside. The quiet stillness of an empty home is the kind of silence that’s supposed to be comforting but never really is.
I drop my bag by the door and shrug out of my coat, letting it fall carelessly onto the nearest chair. Normally, I’d hang it up, keep things neat and orderly, but tonight… tonight I don’t give a shit.
