Ultraviolet ✔️

13.2

Chapter Thirteen, Part Two

I wake up after one in the afternoon. One look at my clock reveals I've missed my morning lecture. I curse, groaning into my pillow. It's not like me to be late, but I guess the fact I haven't been sleeping well plays into it. I don't even recall turning off my alarm.

Even though I missed class, I have to get back to homework. It never ends in grad school, unfortunately.

As I read, flipping through the pages absentmindedly, I try my best to focus on the text. There are three chapters assigned this week, but I'm never going to retain any of it at this rate. My brain is too muddled, too overwhelmed with everything else that's going on.

I drag a hand through my hair, narrowing my eyes down at the same paragraph I've been reading for ten minutes now. None of it sticks, especially when I tug my fingers away, clutching a wad of mousy brown strands.

My hair is falling out.

"Great," I mutter.

I need to get things under control and fast. If I'm not careful, this will only escalate. I can't put my life on hold because of my abilities, or a murderer, or any of it. That isn't an option for me.

I toss the clump in the trash and settle back into my chair. It's like I've been rattled for too long, perpetually in a state of being shaken up.

Get it together, Violet.

After an hour of laboring through the book, I finally have some semblance of a grasp on the subject. The comprehension questions are grueling and long-winded, but they're a little easier than the first half of the work. I type, and type, and type, thinking that this is a lot like what my future will hold. If I stick with the NYPD, there will always be paperwork. Except, instead of some basic psychology, I'll be reliving my visions and the horrors of the job on-page.

I don't want to do it. Unfortunately, I feel like I have to. I can't abandon Chief and H2, not when I've finally found something that gives me purpose. If I walk away, my visions go back to being burdensome, and useless if I keep them to myself. There's no way I could do that. It would be selfish and wrong. How could I let that sit on my conscience?

The simple fact is: I couldn't.

As if I wasn't distracted enough, Joel calls me. I try not to sound frustrated or pained when I answer. I have good practice at that with Chief, so it shouldn't be too hard.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greets.

Sweetheart. He called me sweetheart. Whenever he says it, it rolls off his tongue so naturally. It's hard to fathom being the kind of person who would ever be called a nickname with such tenderness. He's too good to happen to me.

"It's good to hear from you," I say. "What's going on at the NYPD?"

"I'm working on the report for the Grant case right now," he answers. "Good news is he's confessed to both murders. We got him to sign off this morning without any trouble."

He doesn't sound elated. That kind of thing isn't an easy feat. In homicide investigations, it's almost unheard of.

"What's the bad news?" I ask.

"Grant won't tell us why," he says. "He hasn't said a word."

I can picture him sitting there in the grey, boxy interrogation room. I've seen him cuffed to a table before, and he's not the type to seem afraid. No matter who might speak to him, no matter which tactics detectives use, he won't budge. He's defiant, difficult. He gives them an inch, but won't let them take anything more than that.