Chapter 13
The precinct smelled like old coffee and floor cleaner. It was just after eight and I hadn't slept at Jenna's apartment so much as I'd lain awake listening to her radiator click.
Daniel met me at the front desk. He was in the same black suit from the office, but his tie was gone and his silver watch caught the fluorescent light. He didn't reach for my bag. He just nodded.
"You ready?" he asked.
I was holding the manila envelope so tight my knuckles hurt. Inside was everything we'd taped and printed and saved instead of paying. The workplace call log from the office line, the apartment report with the number the night officer wrote down, my phone with the voicemail and the texts, and the recorded call we'd made from HR with the time stamp.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's get it done."
A uniformed officer buzzed us back to a small interview room with cinderblock walls painted pale gray and a metal table bolted to the floor. Detective Marlon Hayes was already there, mid-forties, sleeves rolled up, a thin folder open in front of him. He stood when we came in.
"Ms. Hart? Mr. Reid?" He shook our hands. "Thanks for coming in early. Have a seat."
I sat with the envelope on my lap. My low bun was coming loose and my blouse felt too thin under those lights. Daniel took the chair beside me, not across, and slid it back just enough that I had space.
Detective Hayes clicked his pen. "Walk me through what you've got. Start to finish. I'll stop you if I need clarification."
I opened the envelope and laid it out page by page. My hands were shaking but my voice didn't.
"This is the log from our office line," I said. "Front desk transfers. The same number, blocked at first then not. Six calls in ten days. Always after four. The last one last week, I stayed late and he found me crying at my desk."
Daniel didn't interrupt. He kept his eyes on the detective.
Hayes pulled the log toward him, ran his finger down the times. "These transfer notations — who made these?"
"I did," Daniel said. "Or our receptionist. It's our standard phone system record. I printed it from the admin console yesterday. I can have our office manager certify it if you need."
Hayes nodded and made a note. "Go on, Ms. Hart."
I put the police report next. "This is from last night. I was home. He came to my apartment door. Jenna — my friend — called. Officer gave me this card with the number." The carbon copy was smudged. "And this is the voicemail from after. He left it at 11:42. He said if I didn't bring cash by Friday he'd come back and make sure I couldn't hide at work either."
Hayes asked me to play it on speaker. I hit play. My old phone's speaker cracked a little. The man's voice was low, hurried, the same one who'd been calling about the money I owed from my dad's old truck loan that I'd co-signed and then tried to bury. You think that office is gonna protect you? You bring what you owe or I'll come get it from you myself.
When it ended the room was quiet except the AC humming.
"And this," I said, and slid my phone across with the texts open, "is the last two weeks. Same thing. Pictures of my building. Then the call we recorded yesterday in our HR office. We told him we were recording."
Hayes put on reading glasses and read each text slowly. Then he plugged my phone into a small speaker and played the recorded call. My own voice came out smaller than I remembered.
You need to stop calling my work and my home.
You'll pay or you'll learn what happens when you don't.
I'm not paying you like this. Don't contact me again.
Hayes stopped it and looked up. For the first time he looked at Daniel directly.
"Mr. Reid, your role here?"
Daniel leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "I'm her supervisor. I witnessed the distress after hours, I authorized the log retrieval, and I was present for the recorded call in our HR conference room with our HR associate present. I can corroborate the timeline Emily just gave — the dates, the calls to the office, that she asked for help through proper channels instead of handling it privately. But this is her complaint. She's the primary."
He said it plainly, and he looked at me when he said primary.
Hayes turned back to me. "Ms. Hart, do you want to pursue a formal complaint for harassment and attempted extortion? That's what this pattern is. Repeated contact after you've told him to stop, threats to obtain money, escalation from phone to in-person at your workplace and residence."
I swallowed. My throat was dry. "Yes. I don't want money. I want him to stop."
"Good," Hayes said. He stacked the pages neatly. "Here's what happens now. I'm logging all of this — log, report, texts, recordings — under one case number. Based on this packet I have enough for harassment and attempted extortion. I'm issuing a formal no-contact warning today. That means an officer goes to his last known address and serves him in person. He is told any further contact — call, text, showing up at your work, your home, your friend's — is an arrestable violation. Not a suggestion. An order."
The air shifted in my chest. Two weeks of holding my breath.
"Will he be arrested today?" I asked.
"Not on this warning alone," Hayes said honestly. "But this creates the record. If he violates, we don't start over. We pick him up. And this active case number goes with you. You give it to your building manager, your office security, anyone. You call us, we come."
Daniel asked, "Do you need anything else from the company side?"
"That certified log would help," Hayes said. "Otherwise you're good. You've both done exactly what makes these cases stick — you didn't pay, you documented."
He slid a half-sheet across to me. Fresh ink. Case # 26-1847. His direct line underneath.
Hayes stood. "I'm sending the unit out this morning. You'll get a call when it's served. Keep your phone on."
May you like
I stood too. My legs felt light, unsteady. Daniel's hand hovered near my elbow but didn't touch.
Outside the interview room the precinct was louder — phones ringing, a coffee machine hissing. I held the case number like it was something solid.
