The documentation of what happened next is a bit scarce, written in matter-of-fact bullet points in one journal and an angry scrawl in the other. Shay’s note keeping is bad at the best of times, with all the left-handed smudges and the sudden foreign words or shorthand thrown in, but here, it’s almost non-existent. There are a few things I’ve managed to divulge from comparing their notes, though.

Firstly, Peter finally got a hold of someone at Social Services. Secondly, they put them in contact with Clarissa and her father, and assured themselves that Chase was really safe and doing okay. Thirdly, they went back to ask the parents a few more questions.

What happened next neither wrote down. I only know it because Peter told me.

(Probably better that way; I’m pretty sure that someone would’ve gotten into trouble had there been written evidence.)

It started friendly enough; they’d rang the doorbell, and Chase’s mother had opened, teary-eyed and subdued, and with what he’d learned from Clarissa, he saw, too.

(“An’ she was wearin’ long sleeves, you know?” He told me, half-drunk as he was, “But it was warm, an’ I noticed because it was different. She was wearin’ blue, and then green, an’-” After a long silence, in a desolate voice, he told me what had really clued him in. “Those eyes. They all- their eyes, Aid.”)

(It broke me a little, like it did him. I’m just lucky I didn’t have to see.)

They were let in, led to the living room, offered a place to sit and a cup of tea. Shay stayed stood, her cold demeanour belying the rolling storm beneath. Peter had told her to be careful tread lightly, let him do the talking, but as always, she didn’t listen.

“We have news for you.” Her face was carefully neutral, but he could hear it in her voice. “You and your husband. Where is he?”

“Upstairs.” The woman gestured, “Shall I-?”

“Please.” Peter offered her a kind smile, waiting for her to retreat upstairs before he dared to eye his friend. “Are you-”

“I’m good.” She assured him, “Though I’ll be glad when this is over. We have enough?”

“Plenty.” He tried for a smile, but circumstances didn’t allow. “We have an expert’s testimony.”

“Not to mention Clarissa’s.” She took a deep, calming breath. “And her mom, if we convince her.”

“Right.” He mirrored her. “Just don’t lose your head, okay?”

She stayed silent. I learned early on that she’d never make a promise she couldn’t keep.

Chase’s father came downstairs, face thunderous, worry swimming in his eyes. Peter remembered thinking at least he cares, but it wouldn’t last long.

“Do you have news?” He focussed on Peter, ignoring Shay almost completely.

“Yes.” She spoke before he could answer, “Please sit down.”

“Oh, my-” his mother choked, tears welling up. “Did something-”

“No.” She assured her, voice still kind. “But please, sit down.”

His father stayed standing, defiant. “Did you find him?”

She nodded. “He’s with Clarissa.”

If Peter had to decide a precise moment things started to go downhill, he told me, he’d choose that one.

The reaction of Chase’s parents was polarised, to say the least. His mother crumpled in relief, sagged into herself as her whole body released the tension it’d been holding. His father, on the other hand…

“That insolent little-”

“Hardly, she’s nineteen.” Peter noticed a change in her immediately, something defiant and feisty and like nothing he’d heard before. Something about this was different than the day before. This wasn’t just a standoff for access to a room, this was… because she knew, he realised, and she wanted to make sure he knew she knew.

The way they were facing, at his position just behind her shoulder, he couldn’t see her face, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to. He readied himself, for something.

He could see the man’s glare, though. “She’s still my-”

“Your what?” She was ready to fight. “Your daughter? Because-”

“Don’t you dare-”

“They’re with social services right now.” Peter jumped in, desperately trying to de-escalate. “After, you can-”

“You what?!” he stepped forward, and Shay blocked his way. “You have no right-”

“He has every right.” The hand on his chest was deceptively lax, and her other was waving Peter further back. “He’s a Police Officer, he’s mandated to report any-”

“You should learn to shut up!” He balled his fists, raised them but seemed to remember what would happen if he tried to hit her.

Peter felt incredibly out of his depth.

“You should learn not to hit women.”

Snarling, he dove for her. Peter remembered hesitating, torn between dodging out the way and stepping in, shielding them from each other, but by the time he’d come close to a decision, it’d been too late.

His open fist had connected, barely, leaving a scratch on her cheek. She jumped out the way, kicking at his knees. Her kick connected more. He buckled.

Fuelled by the red-hot fire of rage, she grabbed him, small hand wrapping around his neck, nails digging in over his arteries. Using the leverage, she brought her whole body against him and pushed, shoulder-first, until he hit a wall with a thud and a small groan.

He fought, but her right hand was a fierce defender and his strength waned as he gasped for breath.

She had him pinned.

She started whispering, hissing at him, and Peter had to move closer to understand her. He got a good look at the growing fear in his eyes. He was seeing something in her face, and it made him fear for his life.

Peter looked, and he saw, too.

He didn’t describe the look, he couldn’t. Told me it’s one of those things that you need to see to believe. But there was a fury in her eyes, a fire burning brighter than the sun from a pit darker than black holes. Her face was set in nothing but grim lines, all life gone.

He understood, then, what Fox saw when he looked at her.

The eyes of a killer.

Her voice was cold, frigid as she glared at him. “You get off on that, you creep? Punching down?” Peter could see how white her knuckles were, how hard she was pressing down. “You that insecure that you need the people who trust you to fear you? You that tiny?”

He was gasping, now. Peter had to do something.

“Shay-”

“You’re a worthless waste of whatever air you’ve breathed, you-” There was a string of words Peter didn’t recognise, but he did pick up on the French inflection.

He grabbed her shoulder, desperate to stop it. “Shay, don’t.”

“I should kill you for the shit you put your family through, you fils de pute.”

Peter grabbed her free hand with his, pulled her back. He almost felt bad, grabbing her bad shoulder like that.

She moved with him, but not before she spat the man in the face.

“Feels good, huh, when someone does it to you?”

Peter turned her to him, gave her his best glower to hide the fact he was scared shitless. “Outside.”

“He-”

“Outside.” He put as much authority in it as he could. “I’ll handle it here. Be with you in a minute.”

To her credit, she went.

Cases like this are hard on everyone. Even just writing this down, I’m debating if I shouldn’t delete the whole thing, let it rest in the ether, gather dust and get buried. But things like this, they lash out like unchecked weed whackers, leaving wounds everywhere they touch. Stories like that need to be shared.

(Shay has a saying, sometimes, when it fits her; shared sorrow is half sorrow. I’m not sure if I agree, but it won’t do any harm, at least.)

There’s no magical happy ending, here. There very rarely is. By the time Peter rounded off his business and got outside, Shay’d disappeared. It had started raining while he was working on his paperwork, and when he came home, he found her, soaked, in the kitchen.

She didn’t talk for five days.

Chase’s family, in case you were interested, didn’t have their magical solution, either. Last I’ve heard, his father was sent away for a few years, and his mother had gotten mandated counselling. Hopefully, they will be all right in time.

For five days, I had to endure Carlyle’s chattering without anyone talking back or stopping him, had to endure Peter’s moping and walking on eggshells. Then, eventually, at the end of day five when we were all growing tired of the silence, Peter brought her a cup of tea.

(Let’s just be clear, this wasn’t a special occurrence; everyone except Shay makes tea regularly.)

Seemingly pulled from deep thought, she looked up at him. We, not expecting anything, stood in the background.

“Thanks.”

(She didn’t mean the tea.)

He smiled, warm like he ever did with her. “Anytime.”

(Neither did he.)