“It will not happen again, S-sir,” I say, eyes on his black shoes. He's in his police uniform, a pistol in his holster. I wonder how many criminals he has put behind bars already. Does he feel bad every moment he has to shoot a criminal?
“Rowan,” he corrects me.
“Rowan,” I repeat his name, before clearing my throat and saying it again, “It will not happen again.” I want to defend myself, but I opt not to. And if I do, he still won't believe me, and it happened already. Defending myself won't change the fact that I invaded their privacy, and it's Miss Suzanne I'm against; the person who raised them.
He turns around and leaves without a word. When he disappears from my line of sight, I pivot, resume my steps toward Marcellusʼ room and get his bag. Marcellus is leaning against his car whe
