Page 132 of What We Don't Say: Part One
“My clothes are there. My books are there.” The stupid detail almost breaks me. I see my small bookshelf of curated things in the corner of the room I barely use because I’m always in Sloane or Idris’ bed. “My pack is there.”
Garrett’s mouth tightens around the split. “And right now, the house is an active heat space with an open safety concern attached to you.”
“I didn’t hurt him.”
“I know you don’t believe you did.”
The sentence lands like a slap because it is almost gentle. My eyes fill, and I hate that they fill in front of the officer, in front of Garrett, in this cold room where my joy from ten minutes ago is still somewhere inside me with nowhere to go.
“Why would you tell me this if it wasn’t true?” I ask, and the question comes out smaller than I mean it to. “Why would any of this exist if nothing happened?”
Garrett’s expression shifts. Not victory. Nothing that clear. Only a kind of weary sadness that makes me want to claw through my own skin for needing him to be kind while he hands me a closed door.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says. “I can’t fix this today. Not while Theo’s heat is active. Not with Sloane losing control. Stay away until I can untangle it.”
The officer slides a clipboard toward me. “I need you to acknowledge receipt of the temporary notice.”
“I’m not signing a release from my pack.”
“This is acknowledgment of receipt,” he says. “Not agreement.”
The distinction feels obscene. I sign because my hand is shaking and the officer is watching and Garrett is looking at me like refusing will prove a point I don’t understand. My signature crawls across the line, ugly and uneven, and the second the pen leaves the page, I reach for my phone.
“I’m calling Sloane.”
Garrett’s face tightens. “Callie.”
“I’m calling my Alpha.” I'm already tapping his name, already lifting the phone to my ear while the room watches me become a problem in real time. “He’ll answer me.”
The call rings until voicemail.
I hang up and call again. Voicemail. I call Idris, and his calm recorded voice tells me to leave a message while I stand in a conference room with a police officer, a bruise on Garrett’s jaw,and a legal envelope with my name on it. I call Theo, even though the officer’s warning about direct contact is still in the room, and the call doesn’t connect at all.
“This isn’t right,” I say. I’m not sure who I’m saying it to anymore. “Something is wrong. Sloane would answer me.”
Garrett’s phone buzzes in his hand. He checks it, then looks toward the door. “I need to go back to the house.”
“Take me with you.”
“I can’t.”
“Garrett.” My voice breaks on his name. “Please.”
He closes his eyes for half a second, like this hurts him too. When he opens them, he is composed again. “Stay here until you’re calm enough to drive. I’ll tell them you were upset. I’ll try to make sure this doesn’t become worse than it already is.”
Then he leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone with an officer who keeps explaining things that don't explain anything. I’m given a copy of the notice. I’m told not to return to the residence. I’m told not to contact Theo directly while the protective heat-space restriction is active. I’m told this is temporary, procedural, precautionary, not a judgment, not a final finding, not a permanent determination.
Every word means the same thing.
I can't go home.
By the time I reach my car, my hands are shaking so badly I drop my keys twice. Dash is near the admin entrance when I come out, standing under the overhang with his folder still under one arm. He says my name, not Dr. Monroe this time, but I can’t stop. If I stop, he will ask what happened. If he asks, I will have to say it, and I don’t know how to explain that ten minutes ago I had a job offer and a pack and now I have a legal notice telling me I'm a danger to an Omega who kissed me goodbye.
“Calliope,” he says again, closer now, careful. “Do you need help?”
I shake my head because help is behind me, in front of me, everywhere except the place I need it. “I need to go home.”
