CHAPTER SIX​

-A Mistake-​

"We have to talk."

For a few moments, Chris stared at Amelia obstructing the door to his apartment.

"We have nothing to talk about," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Please, move aside."

"No. This is important."

"I don't have time for this," he said, turning to leave. She was free to stand vigil in front of his apartment if she wanted to. It was not like he had nowhere else to go.

Apparently, Amelia realised this too as she rushed forward to bar his path. "Christopher! Please! This is important!"

Chris sighed, increasingly irritated. "What is it? And don't fucking start with the waterworks or worthless apologies. I have seen and heard enough of those already."

Amelia took a deep breath before speaking. "...I wanted to ask you not to go ahead with the divorce."

"...What?"

"Please, listen to me," she said. "I am not asking you to forgive me or that we should get back together. All I am asking is that you do not make it official—"

"Not happening."

"Alright," Amelia agreed easily. "Then could you please revise the details of the divorce letter you sent? All I need you to do is change the reason why you want the divorce, and I will get out of your hair."

"What?" He asked again, baffled.

"You can leave the rest as it is," Amelia continued, "but can you just remove the part that says Chloé is not your daughter."

"But, she isn't. You know she isn't."

"...Chris, please don't do this—"

"Not happening," he interjected, bulling past her. Why he even stayed to listen to what she wanted to say, he had no idea.

"...You are making a mistake, Chris!" Amelia screamed from behind him as he left to find a hotel to spend the night.

"CHRIS!"

…

Chris awoke the next morning to an unfamiliar ceiling. For longer than he would have liked to admit, he looked up in confusion until he abruptly remembered the events from last night.

With a groan, he rose from his bed, knocking aside empty beer bottles as he reached for his phone. A few dozen missed calls from multiple unknown numbers—most likely Amelia being a nuisance—and a reminder—read, warning—from Chief Anderson that he was off duty today and shouldn't come to work.

Sighing, Chris forced himself to his feet and stumbled towards the adjacent kitchen. By force of habit, he began ransacking the medicine cabinet for some Venlafaxine and Paracetamol only to come up short.

"Fuck," he groused. With another sigh, he shambled towards the intercom to order breakfast and delivery of the pills before forcing himself in the direction of the bathroom.

***​

Twenty minutes later.

Chris stepped out of an elevator into the parking lot beneath the hotel to see a druggie trying to break Roadman's bulletproof windshield with an ice pick. Three other cars sat behind Roadman, each with a shattered window.

Exasperated, the off-duty policeman unclasped his pistol from the holster by his waist.

"Police!" He shouted, aiming his weapon at the suspect. "Don't move! Hands in the air where I can see them!"

The druggie froze before suddenly bolting to the left and phasing through a wall. Chris stood alert for a few moments more before putting his weapon away when he was certain the paranormal was truly gone.

"Mornin' skipper," Roadman greeted as Chris settled into his cabin.

"Good morning, Roadman," came Chris's reply. "Thanks for the heads up."

"Safe, chief."

"How was your night?"

"Innit, same old ting," the auto said. "So, where we rollin'?"

"The station."

"Yeah, 'bout that. Bossman sent a memo sayin' we ain't supposed to hit up Homebase today or tomorrow. We're chillin' off-duty, remember, boss?"

Chris chuckled. "I know. I know. Just wanted to head to the range today. Can you help me file a request to the chief for that?"

"Word up, Skip."

…

*BANG!*

*BANG!*

*BANG!*

The echo of gunfire reverberated against concrete walls. Chris found solace in the familiar scent of gunpowder and the rhythmic sound of bullets leaving their barrels. Leaning against a worn-out table, he brought his service weapon closer to his face to check for imperfections before meticulously wiping it down with a microfibre cloth.

Beside him, one Officer Marcus adjusted his stance, his focus intense as he squeezed off rounds with precision. Chris glanced over, catching the man's eye.

"Quite the turnout today," Marcus remarked, his voice cutting through the steady rhythm of gunfire as he gestured with his chin at the line of officers on his flank.

"Yeah," Chris nodded. "It's been a hectic week, I guess. Seems like everyone's trying to blow off some steam. Isn't that what you are here for? Or are you just getting some practice in?"

"A bit of both, I guess."

Chris smiled, as he brought his weapon up and emptied it into a line of bullseyes.

"...Never knew you a natural with that thing," Marcus remarked, staring at the targets some thirty yards away.

Chris forced a smile as he willed his expression to even out. "Thanks. I try to do my best," he replied to which Marcus laughed.

"Haha! Never took you to be the humble sort, Newman."

The conversation momentarily subsided, replaced by a steady cycle of gunshots. The lull didn't last long though, as Marcus seemed to have mistaken Chris as a good conversationalist.

"I have been hearing some talk from the district committee about defunding the precinct like they did the Sixth," Marcus said under his breath.

'That' gave Chris a pause.

"What? That's stupid."

"I know right? We're already stretched thin as it is, and now they want to take away even more resources. How are we supposed to deal with all the druggies and gangs their stupid policies keep churning out? It's almost as if they are speedrunning plunging the district deeper into the muck."

Before Chris could respond his phone began to ring again. "Sorry, I might have to take this," he said to Marcus. Annoyed, Chris holstered his pistol and walked away to answer the call.

"Amelia, if you call me one more time—"

"You are a hard man to reach, Mr Newman," an unfamiliar voice interrupted him.

A foreboding feeling clutched Chris's heart. "...Who are you?" he asked, a hint of a growl entering his tone.

"I have Evelyn," the fellow said. "Now before you do something stupid, I want you to know I have people in there with you. The station, I mean. What that means is if you raise the alarm, or try to get any of your little buddies involved, she might not make it. Now that we are clear on the stakes, I will send you an address to which you are to come. Alone. I expect to see you in thirty minutes, Mr Newman."

The call ended with a beep.

Chris looked down at his phone. It beep again and he opened the message he received. His expression hardened and a deep growl rumbled at the back of his throat. On his screen was an address with a picture of his sister attached to it. The side of her face was swollen and her bottom lip was split and bloody.

"Is there a problem?" Marcus called from behind him.

"No," Chris intoned.

"Someone just made a stupid mistake."