Page 163 of Fault Lines
She set a manila folder in front of her, tapped it once for emphasis, and started with: “You’re Olivia James.”
“Still am, last I checked.”
Morales’s lips quirked, barely. She flipped open the file. “You know why you’re here?”
“I have a few ideas.”
She waited, and the silence begged for something more, so I added: “Is Cam all right?”
“He’s fine. In holding, until we sort things out.”
That stung, though I wasn’t sure why. I pictured him in a plastic chair, arms folded, rehearsing every possible version of events until he landed on the one most likely to earn sympathy from a judge. I wondered if he’d even mentioned me at all.
Morales said, “Walk me through what happened last night.”
I shifted in my seat, stared at the file, and let the details line up. “Nate’s been calling. A lot. Most of it angry, some of it just sad. He left some… threatening messages.” I didn’t mention the ones I’d saved, or how many times I’d listened to them on repeat, trying to hear a version of Nate that still loved me. “Cam heard the last call, got pissed, and left. I assumed he was going to talk to Nate, maybe try to scare him. I didn’t think—” I stopped.
“Didn’t think what?”
“That it would get physical. Cam isn’t…” I hesitated, searching for the right word. “He’s not the type.”
Morales nodded, made a note. “And you?”
“What about me?”
She looked up, and her eyes were softer than I expected. “You were the one who got hurt last time. According to the ER report, he did some damage recently.”
I felt myself shrink, and hated that I did. “Nate never hit me. Not before that night.”
Morales said nothing, just flipped a page and pointed to a paragraph. “Says here he grabbed your arm hard enough to bruise it, three weeks prior. That he’d been drinking more often. That he got ‘aggressive’ during arguments. Cameron offered some details, but I need you to confirm it.”
“That was… different. He was upset, but he’d never—” I stopped again, the lie catching in my throat. “I don’t want to press charges. Not on Nate.”
Morales waited another beat, then reached into the folder and slid out a copy of the police report from the other…incident. The nurses had told Cam I’d have a hard time remembering that night because of my head injury. Flashes of talking to a cop and signing something came in waves. She pushed it across the table, and I scanned the text, recognizing my own words in black and white, how flat and hopeless they looked when separated from the heat of the moment.
“We’re not necessarily here to press charges against Mr. James or against Mr. Porter,” Morales said, voice low and deliberate. “Nathaniel has a record that goes way back and your husband’s is quite clean. I believe him when he says he was just protecting you. He should have called the police about the threats but…men.” She rolled her eyes as she shrugged. “But I need to know if you feel threatened. By either of them.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “I feel threatened by pretty much everyone right now.”
Morales closed the folder, folded her hands. “If you need a restraining order, we can expedite it. If you want to file a statement, we can do that today.”
I shook my head. “No. Cam was just—he was trying to protect me. From Nate. I’m not scared of him.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
I was sure of nothing, but I nodded. “He was there when I needed him. That’s all.”
For the first time, Morales leaned back in her chair. She drummed her fingers once on the table, then said, “Nathaniel is in the hospital but he’ll be discharged this afternoon. He’s got a broken nose, two cracked ribs, and a concussion. He doesn’t want to press charges against Cameron, and in his statement he said, ‘I had it coming.’ He also said he intends to check into rehab as soon as he’s out.”
Something inside me twisted, the relief and the guilt colliding, leaving a cold, heavy residue at the base of my skull. “He said that?”
Morales nodded. “He also said he’s sorry for everything. For what it’s worth. I think what Cameron did was a wake up call for him.”
I sat there, hands folded so tight the tips of my fingers went white. The silence ticked on, but I didn’t know what to fill it with. Eventually, Morales stood, gathering the file and a pen. “We’ll release Mr. James once you pay the fine for disturbing the peace. You can do that at the counter.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it.”
