After Thomas reclaimed the recorder from Logan's hospital bedside, a heavy sense of dread anchored itself in his gut. He climbed into his police cruiser, the interior smelling of stale coffee and old upholstery. He steered with his right hand, his left white-knuckling the small black device as if it were a live grenade.
It was just a recorder, he thought, his jaw tightening. A normal frequency. A glitch in a machine. So why is a child losing an eye over it? Why did that kid try to kill Logan just to get his hands on this plastic shell? What makes this information so valuable that the world is starting to bleed?
He drove toward the station, but as the building came into view, he saw his colleague, Harris, standing on the steps. Harris waved, a friendly, concerned look on his face. "Hey, Briggs! I heard the news from Alexa. Is the kid alright? Nothing permanent, right?"
Thomas looked at Harris, his mouth opening to give a standard, reassuring reply, but the words died in his throat. A sudden, sharp realization flicked in his mind like a match in a dark room. He didn't answer. Instead, he slammed the car back into gear and floored the accelerator, the tires screaming against the asphalt.
"Hey, man! You just got here! Where are you going?" Harris shouted, but Thomas was already gone.
He drove straight toward the Oreson Blinkon Laboratory. He didn't park in the designated lot; he jumped the curb and slammed the brakes right in front of the main entrance. A security guard stepped forward, waving his arms. "Hey! You can't park here, Sheriff! Move it to—"
Thomas didn't wait. He shoved the guard aside with a snarl and stormed through the glass doors. Assistant scientists scattered like startled birds as he marched toward the inner sanctum. Oreson, hearing the commotion, stepped out of his office, his brow furrowed in annoyance.
Before Oreson could utter a word, Thomas reached out, bunched the fabric of Oreson's pristine white lab coat in his fist, and lifted the smaller man off his feet, slamming him against the wall.
"Leave me... let go!" Oreson gasped, clawing at Thomas's iron grip.
Thomas held him there for five long seconds before dropping him. Oreson slumped, clutching his throat, his eyes wide with a mixture of fury and fear. "You motherfucker! You really tried to kill me! Do you have any idea who I am? The funding behind this lab could have you erased!"
Thomas didn't blink. He reached down, unholstered his service weapon, and pointed it directly at Oreson's chest. The air in the hallway suddenly felt very cold. Oreson's bravado evaporated instantly. His hands went up, palms out. "Hey... hey, Thomas. Take it easy. We can talk, right? Tell me what you want."
Thomas lowered the gun but didn't holster it. "The recorder. The sound we caught. What is it, really? Why are 'big people' coming out of the woodwork for this? Did you find something you're not telling me?"
Oreson swallowed hard, looking at the gun and then at Thomas's haunted eyes. "Thomas, I swear... we tried to crack the audio. We ran every filter, every algorithm. It's no use. We found nothing new. It's just that same voice, echoing at the end, saying 'Be careful.' That's all we have."
Thomas stared at him, searching for a twitch, a tell, any sign of a lie. But Oreson looked genuinely defeated. Frustrated, Thomas turned and walked out of the lab without another word, leaving Oreson to adjust his coat and watch him go with a slow, mocking smile that Thomas didn't see.
When Thomas returned to the station, the atmosphere was different—thick and silent. He walked into his office to find Freddy, his superior, sitting in his chair. Freddy didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, which was far worse.
"Thomas," Freddy said, standing up. "When I asked you if you found any evidence, you told me you had nothing. Then I find out you've been holding onto a major clue—a sound recorder. You lied to me."
Thomas opened his mouth, but Freddy cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "The evidence doesn't matter now. I told you to stay away from this case. I told you I was handling it. You didn't listen. So, I'm suspending you. One week. Hand over your badge and the device."
Thomas felt a strange sense of relief wash over him. The weight of the badge felt heavier than the gun. "One week? Does that mean I still get my full salary for the month? I need to buy a new heater for the house; the old one's shot."
Freddy blinked, taken aslant by the request, then nodded slowly. "Fine. You'll get your pay. Just... go home, Thomas."
Thomas placed his badge on the desk and handed over the recorder. Freddy took it, his eyes lingering on the black plastic for a second too long, before turning and leaving the station.
Thomas followed him out, feeling like a ghost in his own town. He went home, scrubbed the grime of the last two days off in a scalding hot bath, and realized he was starving. He didn't have the energy to cook, so he dialed George's number.
"Hey, buddy," Thomas said when George picked up. "You guys have any leftovers? I'm out of commission for a week."
"Thomas! Of course," George replied warmly. "Do you want me to bring it over, or are you coming to the 'madhouse'?"
"I'll come to you," Thomas said.
When Thomas arrived at the Halliston home, the "family vibes" hit him like a warm blanket. George greeted him with a hug, and the aroma of home-cooked dishes—roasted chicken and garlic potatoes—filled the air. His stomach let out a loud, cavernous growl that made everyone at the table burst into laughter.
"I think the Sheriff is hungry!" Edward giggled.
Thomas sat beside Logan. The boy looked like a veteran of a war he hadn't asked for—bandages were wrapped tightly around his leg, his arm, and a thick patch sat on his forehead.
"Hey, buddy," Thomas said to George. "Isn't it a bit early to have him home? I thought they'd keep him for observation."
George smiled ruefully. "I said the same thing, but you know Alexa. She doesn't believe a hospital is any place for a healing child. She talked the doctor into letting us bring him home as long as we bring him back tomorrow for a check-up. Mothers, right? They think they can heal anything with a home-cooked meal."
Logan looked up at Thomas, his eyes filled with a heavy guilt. "I'm sorry, Uncle Thomas. Because of me and that boy, you got suspended."
Thomas was taken aback. "How did you know about that?"
Logan shrugged. "I saw Freddy's car at the station when we drove past. And you're not wearing your badge."
Thomas nodded, recounting the confrontation with Oreson and Freddy's decision. George listened intently, then clapped Thomas on the shoulder. "Listen, what happened is probably for the best. You need the rest. And hey, since you're on leave, why don't you take Logan to his hospital appointment tomorrow? It'll be a change of pace for both of you."
Thomas looked at Logan, who gave a small, hopeful nod. "Yeah. I can do that. That sounds fine to me."
The dinner continued with laughter and stories, the darkness outside the windows held at bay by the light of the dining room. When it was time to sleep, Thomas insisted on taking the couch.
As the house fell into a deep, peaceful silence, Thomas lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. He was badge-less and gun-less, but for the first time in days, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
But even in the warmth of the Halliston home, the thought of the boy with the missing eye haunted the edges of his mind.