Page 208 of Before We Were

Here it comes—the judgments, the assumptions, the shadow of my father's reputation looming over me yet again. But then Stanton surprises me.

"Nick has mentioned you a couple of times," he says, leaning forward slightly. "Says you've been helping him out over the summer."

His words catch me off guard, and I clear my throat, trying to cover the brief flicker of surprise. The last thing I expected is Nick talking about me here, of all places.

“Well, he needed help, so." I shrug, keeping my tone casual.

Stanton gives a small, almost approving nod and motions toward a chair. "Sit tight. I'll be back."

"Wait," I say quickly, pulling the phone from my pocket. "The thing I wanted to report—it has to do with this."

I hand him the phone, already unlocked. Stanton's face hardens as he scrolls through the images, his brows furrowing in disgust. The ticking of the wall clock fills the silence between us.

"Is this your phone?" he asks, his voice clipped.

"What? No," I reply quickly, bile rising in my throat at the thought. "It belongs to the guy I… well, the guy I beat the shit out of at a party. That'll probably get reported tomorrow, so I figured I'd come forward first. Save them the hassle of involving my mom."

Stanton's lips twitch, as if he's trying not to smirk. "So, let me get this straight—you beat up a guy, took his phone, and then came straight here?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how did you know there'd be photos like this on his phone?"

Because he's a twisted bastard who hurt the girl I love.

Because monsters don't always look like monsters.

Because sometimes the worst predators hide behind familiar faces.

"Call it intuition," I say instead, keeping my tone measured.

Stanton's brow rises skeptically. "Intuition, huh?"

"Yes, sir," I repeat, my gaze dropping to my hands. The dried blood on my knuckles tells its own story.

He doesn't buy it. I can tell by the way his eyes linger on me, unblinking and assessing. But he doesn't press further. Instead, he exhales sharply and stands, the chair scraping against the linoleum floor.

"All right. Don't move. I'll be right back."

As he disappears down the hallway, I exhale slowly, rubbing my palms against my thighs. My knee bounces involuntarily while I look at the clock on the wall, each second dragging painfully slowly. The buzz of the fluorescent lights mixes with distant phone rings and radio chatter, a symphony of late-night law enforcement.

I am so, so fucked.

I'm still sitting in the same spot twenty minutes later, my leg bouncing impatiently, when the sound of my name snaps my head up.

"Nate."

Nick strides into the station, his presence commanding as ever. His dark eyes find mine immediately, filled with what looks like relief rather than disappointment. Stanton follows close behind, still holding Evan's phone.

"Nick?" I ask, standing, confusion and gratitude warring in my chest.

He stops in front of me, nodding once before turning to Stanton. "Thanks for calling me, Danny."

Danny? How close are these two?

Stanton looks between us, his voice calm. "Your boy here did the right thing coming in. If this Evan kid tries to press charges, he's going to have a hell of a time explaining what's on this." He holds up the phone for emphasis, disgust flickering across his features.

Nick's eyes narrow as he takes the phone from Stanton, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Good. And Nate? Is he free to go?"

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