I hesitate again. My mind fumbles through the fog of eight weeks ago—I can barely recall what I ate for breakfast yesterday, let alone a random Tuesday in May. With Jackie in the frame, the edges blur even more—like trying to read through frosted glass. Heat climbs my face; I swipe my brow. I spent a long time clawing my way out of that relationship; now I’m back in a plastic chair answering for it like a man who left a window unlatched. I know things about Jackie I wish I didn’t. I know the shapes trouble makes. If any of those shapes reached for her—if they reached through her toward me—

Thea’s eyes are steady, two different countries: the sister’s pull and the detective’s patience. An uneasy recognition settles. I’m not leaving this room without something.

“To be honest,” I say, “nothing about that morning stands out. If her number called, I didn’t know it was her. No voicemail.”

My throat dries. Maybe it’s the heat. “Could I get… a Coke Zero? Or anything diet?”

Her mouth quirks. “We don’t stock sodas, sir David. Water or coffee?”

I glance at the sweating pitcher, notice there are no cups. She notices me noticing, steps to the door, says a few quick lines in Tagalog to someone I can’t see. Less than a minute later, a young officer appears with a cold bottle. He grins like he’s happy to be useful.

“Thanks,” I say. Thea thanks him too; the door closes, a soft click.

“Okay,” she says, uncapping her pen. “Walk me through a typical weekday morning.”

I drink. The bottle crackles in my hand. The cameras pulse a steady red. The whiteboard holds onto ghosts of earlier words I pretend to read for a moment. Somewhere in the building a fan ticks on the same note every five seconds.

“Up at six-thirty,” I say. “Quick shower. Seven o’clock call for work—usually done by seven-fifteen. Drop one daughter at school, the other at work. Back home, online by eight. Emails. Tickets. The day-to-day grind.”

“What about later?”

“Pick up my daughters from school and work between 2 and 3. Sometimes a quick nap.” I smile at my own smallness. “Depending on the night of the week, it’s either the gym or a Toastmasters meeting.”

“Toastmasters?” Her eyebrows lift. “Like giving a toast?”

“More or less. Public speaking practice.”

“Did you and my sister do that together?”

“No.” I keep it even. “I joined after we ended.”

“Why after?”

I shrug. “I didn’t know about it until a friend dragged me.”

“What about your free time?”

“Nothing too exciting. Visit with friends. Spend time with my kids. Do homework and work on my writing projects.”

She nods, neither approving nor disapproving. “You’re a writer?”

“I work in IT, but I’m also an aspiring author.”

“Nice. What do you write?”

“Mostly fantasy.”

“I see,” she says, not quite smiling. “You said homework. Are you in school?”

“Just started the MFA program at SNHU.”

“Busy,” she says, and lets the pen hover. “So—no contact with Jaclyn in five years.”

“That’s right.”

“You blocked her. Unknown numbers go to voicemail. If something looked like her, you deleted it.”

“Yes.” A small, old shame lifts its head and looks around the room.

“You were moving on.”

“Yes.”

She reaches under the notebook and brings out a paper folded once, cleanly, like it’s been waiting for its cue. She unfolds it and slides it across the table without turning it around. I feel myself bracing, though I don’t fully understand why.

“What is this?” I ask, leaning closer.

“You filed for an order of protection against Jaclyn ten years ago.” Her tone is level, not accusing; the words do the work on their own. “According to you, you separated five years ago.” The pen taps once on the margin. “Help me understand why you’d reconcile—after this.”

Why indeed.

The fan ticks. The bottle clicks as it sheds another bead of water. Somewhere in the building a printer wakes, thinks better of it, sleeps again.

I breathe once, then another. “Detective,” I say, “that’s a longer conversation than this room can hold. I’m not dodging you.” I lift a hand, open-palmed. “You’re not wrong—things were rocky. There’s a reason we didn’t stay together. There were reasons I tried again. I have nothing to hide. But if we start down this road, we’ll be here all afternoon—and right now I’m exhausted.”

Her eyes weigh that, then weigh me; she doesn’t answer right away.

“You already know where I’m staying. You have my number. Let me think. Let me gather what might actually help from my past with Jackie.” I glance at the paper and then back up.

Silence. She doesn’t look away. The detective part does the math; the sister part does something else. She caps the pen.

“Sige,” she says finally. “Okay.” Then, as if to correct for kindness: “Stay reachable, sir David. Keep your phone on. If you plan to leave the city, message me first.”

“I will.”

She refolds the paper with the same neatness and tucks it under the notebook like a card going back into a deck. “Tomorrow. Nine in the morning.”

I stand; my chair squeaks like a sneaker on a gym floor. The black dome in the corner continues to stare. We shake hands. Her grip is dry, precise.

“Let me drive you,” she begins, reaching into her pocket for her keys.

“Actually, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll find my own way back. I want to walk for a bit. And I can always order a Grab if I need to.”

“No problem, sir David,” she replies as she escorts me down the hallway and to the front entrance of the building.

I push open the doors and feel a weight lift from my shoulders I didn’t realize was there. Outside, the day has sharpened. J.P. Rizal is a ribbon of heat; motorcycles knit and unknit the traffic. A sari-sari across the street has a cooler by the door with sun-faded stickers: Coke, Sprite, San Mig Light. I buy a Coke Zero and the first swallow is cold enough to send a shiver through me. Only then do I register how hot I’ve been. Somewhere upriver a freight horn lets out a low complaint. I pull out my phone and map my route back to the hotel. I take the long way back, because it feels like a choice.