Page 207 of Before We Were

"When?" I ask, my voice tight.

"A couple of days ago,” Jay replies, his voice soft with understanding.

Nick never said a word. Not a hint. No expectation of gratitude or payback. Just quiet support, like always. I chew on the thought for a moment before I speak again.

"Hey, I need one last favor."

Jay cuts a look at me, raising an eyebrow. "Need me to take out a life insurance policy for you or something?"

I finally turn my head to look at him, meeting his eyes. "Take me to the police station."

Jay's hand freezes on the gear shift, his eyes narrowing. "Wait, what?"

"Please." It might be the first time I've ever used that word with Jay.

"Do I want to ask why?"

"To finally try doing the right thing," I say in a low voice, thinking of Nora, of Nick.

Jay mutters something under his breath about my tendency to act on impulse, but he doesn't argue. With a resigned sigh, he flicks on the blinker and makes a U-turn, heading for the station. The neon signs blur past us, each one bringing us closer to whatever comes next.

As the glowing sign of the police station comes into view, Jay pulls into a spot and cuts the engine. For the first time tonight, he looks directly at me, his usual smirk replaced with something softer, more serious.

"You sure about this?" he asks.

I nod. The only thing I'm sure of is I'm trying to do better. Be better.

He nods and reaches out, squeezing my shoulder briefly. He doesn't need to say anything else. That one gesture says it all:Call me if you need.

The Camaro's taillights fade into the night as Jay speeds off, leaving me standing alone under the flickering streetlight. I pull Evan's phone from my pocket, its screen lighting up like a window into his twisted world. The idiot didn't even have a passcode, like he wanted to get caught.

As I scroll through his photos, my stomach churns. It's worse than I imagined—photo after photo of girls who can't be older than sixteen, their faces etched with fear and vulnerability. My grip tightens around the device, and for a moment, I want to smash it against the pavement.

But I don't.

He deserves what's coming, and this is evidence that will bury him. I'll make sure of it.

Before stepping inside, I find the photos and video of Nora. The sight of them makes my blood boil all over again, but I don't hesitate. One by one, I delete them, my thumb pressing harder with each swipe. I probably shouldn't be doing this from some legal point of view, but at least she'll be able to sleep easy knowing they're gone. When they're deleted, I exhale sharply, my chest loosening ever so slightly.

I square my shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline, and push through the station doors. The cool, sterile air inside smells of coffee, cleaning products, and faint regret. A middle-aged officer behind the desk glances up. His uniform is crisp, badge polished, and his nameplate reads Deputy Officer Stanton.

"Can I help you?" he asks, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. His eyes narrow slightly, scanning me with a mix of curiosity and wariness that I've grown used to over the years.

“I’m here to report something,” I say, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach. “And to turn myself in."

Stanton raises an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued. "You're reporting something and turning yourself in?”

"Yes, sir."

There's a pause as he leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "You're Sullivan's boy, right?"

I fucking hate that question, but I don't flinch. Instead, I straighten my posture, meeting his gaze. I hate that I even have to own up to it.

"Yes, sir."

Stanton studies me for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. "I've heard things about you."

Great.

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