"Ms. Ragnar." The sound of my name pulled me out of the haze I had been sinking into. I lifted my head slowly, my neck stiff after sitting upright for so long on the hard, narrow bench. "Yes, officer," I rasped, my voice dry and hoarse.
He studied me for a moment, his eyes shifting as if he weighed a decision he did not want to make. Finally he asked, "Is there anyone you can call to come for you?"
The question hit me like a weight. I looked down at my bare, mud-stained foot. "No," I said quietly.
He frowned, eyebrows knitting together. "How can that be?" he exclaimed, rubbing a palm over his forehead. "Look, I'm trying to help you. This situation has become dangerous. He never intended for it to escalate to this point before his mother arrived. Since you have no one to call, there is nothing we can do to stop the process."
My chest tightened with panic. "Please," I stammered, heart hammering in my ribcage. "Let me call someone I know... I beg you, I hope she'll answer."
My fingers shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone as I dialed the number I had avoided for years. The line rang once... twice... My breath caught in my throat, swallowing became impossible. And then, finally, it connected.
She answered. I passed the phone to the officer. Silence stretched across my chest as he spoke into the receiver: "Hello, is this Mrs. Ragnar?"
She snapped through the line. "Yes? Who is this and why are you calling my private number?" Her tone was sharp and cold, almost vibrating through the speaker.
"We are calling from the Maginar Police Station downtown," the officer said evenly.
There was a long pause. "Okay..." she drawled out. "How may I help you?"
He continued, speaking calmly, "Ms. Hannah Ragnar is at the station. We've received a second report about her today. Could you come sign the report as her guardian so she can be released on bail before the charges are finalized?"
Silence followed on the other end. It was deafening. Through the phone I could almost feel her presence, that familiar, suffocating air of superiority.
Then a sound. A hiss, filled with pure disgust.
"I don't know any Ms. Hannah Ragnar," she said flatly. "The last person by that name, my adopted daughter, died years ago. I know no one with that name. Don't call this number again."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
The officer slowly lowered the phone, his face pale. "Are you sure you are really Ms. Ragnar?" he asked.
"Yes," I said quickly, voice breaking into a sob. "He knows me. He called me that earlier." I pointed shakily at the other officer standing near the doorway.
The man by the door avoided my eyes, staring instead at a stack of papers on his desk.
"Okay," the first officer said after a moment of uneasy silence. "We'll check your data in our system. We need to verify who you are."
They led me to a small desk and pressed my thumb against the cold scanner. The screen blinked and then, in bright, clinical text, my details appeared.
The officer leaned in to read. Then he froze. "You are pronounced dead in the system," he whispered. "How is that possible?"
"Dead?" I whispered, the word feeling like a physical weight. "How?"
He turned the monitor toward me. My name stared back in bold letters, alongside my birthdate and an old photo. At the bottom of the display, one word: Status: Deceased.
My vision blurred as the room seemed to spin.
"This is strange," the officer muttered, glancing at his colleague. "What do you think we should do?"
The second officer shook his head, stepping back emotionally. "I have no idea. I don't want to get involved further. I'd advise you to do what the Chief told you, before you get in trouble. Dead or alive, she's staying here."
The first officer turned back to me, his expression uneasy and filled with pity. "I'm sorry, Ms. Hannah, but there's nothing we can do right now. I don't know why you're standing here alive when the system says you're dead, but I'm just doing my job."
Just like that, the decision was final.
They led me down a narrow corridor lit dimly by a single bulb. The smell of rust and harsh disinfectant filled my nostrils, making me feel nauseous. The heavy iron cell door creaked open, and I was shoved inside.
The door slammed shut behind me. Metal on metal echoed through my bones. I collapsed onto the cold bench, hands shaking in my lap.
Dead. What did that even mean?
Had Mrs. Ragnar done this deliberately so no one would ever look for me? Was I nothing but an invisible servant on paper? Or had she done this years ago, when I earned that scholarship she forced me to reject, simply to erase me completely? How could any of this be possible?
My chest ached as hot tears gathered in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I felt hollow, as if something vital had been ripped from my soul. For a moment, I forgot the rain, the car, and all the insults. I was officially a ghost.
Hours passed in the dim cell. The station grew quieter as the night deepened. Eventually, footsteps approached. The cell door opened just a few inches.
"Here," the officer said softly as he slid a small white box through the gap. "This is a first aid kit. A man asked me to give it to you. We'll have someone come later to treat your wounds if you can't do it yourself."
I looked down at the box, confusion on my face. "He asked you to give this to me?" I whispered.
The officer nodded, hesitating as if he wanted to say more. Then he turned and left, the heavy door clicking shut again.
I opened the kit with trembling, numb hands. Inside were cotton pads, stinging antiseptic, and rolls of bandages.
At least my body was still alive. Even if the rest of the world had already buried me.