Chapter 3 — Flickers of Support

Hudson Caldwell

Hudson sat stiffly in the plastic chair, the cold backrest pressing into her shoulder blades. Around her, the police precinct buzzed—phones ringing, officers chatting, chairs scraping against linoleum. The noise felt distant, like she was listening to the world through a thick pane of glass. Her hands lay clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale against the burgundy fabric of her sweater. She could feel the tension in her shoulders building, like a taut wire ready to snap.

Her eyes flitted around the room, scanning the faces of uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives. None of them looked her way, and for that, she was grateful. Every movement, every glance, every stray shadow sharpened the edge of her nerves. Her gaze caught on the black lens of a security camera mounted high on the wall. Its impassive watchfulness sent a prickle of unease through her. The idea of being seen like this—exposed and vulnerable—tightened the knot in her chest.

She hadn’t expected much when she’d walked in earlier. The receptionist, a young man with a distracted air, had taken her name and gestured vaguely toward the waiting area. That had been over half an hour ago, or so she guessed. She didn’t dare check her phone, fearing the confirmation of just how long she’d been sitting there, drowning in her own thoughts.

“Hudson Caldwell?”

The voice cut through the haze. She startled, looking up sharply. Standing a few steps away was a tall man with warm brown eyes and an approachable demeanor. He didn’t look like Detective Vega. Though his police badge clipped to his belt marked him as an officer, his expression lacked the hard-edged detachment she’d come to expect. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms that looked more capable than intimidating, and there was a calm steadiness in his posture.

“That’s me,” she managed, her voice soft and wary.

“I’m Officer Myles Young,” he said, his tone even and patient. “Detective Vega asked me to follow up. Said you had some concerns. Why don’t we step into an interview room where it’s quieter?”

The mention of Vega sent a ripple of apprehension through her. She remembered the detective’s dismissive tone, the way he had seemed to catalog her fears as a waste of his time. Wariness flickered to life inside her, though Myles’ steady gaze held no trace of judgment. Still, her legs felt unsteady as she rose to follow him.

The interview room was small, clean, and unnervingly sterile. A single metal table dominated the space, flanked by two matching chairs. A camera mounted in the corner blinked its red light, rhythmic and steady, like a silent observer.

Myles gestured for her to sit before taking the chair across from her. He placed a leather-bound notebook on the table, his movements deliberate but unhurried. Every action seemed designed to put her at ease, though her muscles remained tense.

“I know this has probably been a really difficult time for you,” he began, his voice low and reassuring. “But I want you to know I’m here to listen. Start wherever you’re comfortable. There’s no rush.”

Hudson blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. She had braced herself for clipped questions and skeptical looks, not this quiet empathy. For the briefest moment, the lump in her throat eased.

“They were in my apartment,” she said, her voice trembling with the effort to stay steady. “Whoever it is… they touched my things. My paintbrush, my apron. And they left a note.”

Myles didn’t interrupt. He simply nodded, his expression open and attentive.

“It said…” She paused, pressing her lips together as the words caught in her throat. “It said, ‘I see the real you.’” Speaking the words aloud made them feel heavier, like they carried a weight she hadn’t expected.

Myles was silent for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered her words. “That’s unsettling,” he said at last, his voice firm but gentle. “You mentioned they touched your things. Did you notice anything else out of place? Any signs of forced entry?”

Hudson shook her head. “No. That’s what makes it worse. The locks weren’t broken. But…” She hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater. “There was this cologne. I could smell it on my brush. It wasn’t mine.”

“That’s a good detail,” Myles said, leaning forward slightly. “Smell can be a strong clue—it’s personal. It means they wanted you to notice, to leave an imprint. Have you smelled it anywhere else? Maybe in your building, or when you’re out?”

She frowned, her mind reaching for the memory. The scent had clung to her senses like a shadow, but now it felt slippery, elusive. “I don’t think so. It was musky, but not overpowering. Expensive, maybe? Like polished wood or leather.”

Myles nodded, jotting her words down in his notebook. The scratch of pen against paper was oddly grounding, a tether to the reality of the moment.

“Do you have any idea who might be doing this?” he asked, his tone careful yet probing. “Anyone from your past, or someone you’ve had conflict with recently?”

The question landed like a stone in her chest. Her mind recoiled, skimming over the edges of memories she didn’t want to sift through. “No,” she said quickly, though the word felt hollow. “I mean, not really. I don’t have enemies. I’m just… I’m just a painter. I keep to myself.”

Myles didn’t press. Instead, he offered her a small, understanding smile. “Sometimes people fixate for reasons we can’t predict,” he said, his voice conversational. “It might not be someone obvious. That’s why it’s important we document everything.”

He slid a small notebook and pen toward her. “I want you to start keeping track of anything unusual—dates, times, details, no matter how small. If something feels off, write it down. Patterns can tell us a lot.”

Hudson hesitated, her fingers brushing the notebook’s smooth cover. It felt heavier than it should, the blank pages inside daunting. “What if…” Her voice faltered. “What if writing it down isn’t enough? What if they don’t stop?”

Myles’ expression softened, a flicker of something deeper—something personal—crossing his face. “Then you call me,” he said simply. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a business card and placed it gently on the table. “My direct line. Day or night.”

She picked up the card, the edges sharp against her fingertips. The clean print of his name and number seemed to anchor her, if only slightly. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

“You’re not alone in this,” Myles said, his tone unwavering. “I know it might feel that way right now. But you’re not.”

Her gaze met his, and for the first time in days, the oppressive weight in her chest lifted—just slightly.

As she left the precinct, the cold wind hit her face, biting against her skin. She pulled her coat tighter, her hands clutching the notebook and card in her pockets. The shadows along the sidewalk stretched long and dark, their edges blurring with the churn of the city’s faceless crowd. Every sound seemed sharper, every movement exaggerated—a distant laugh, the tap of footsteps on concrete. Her pulse quickened as she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the faces around her. Nothing.

Still, the unease lingered, curling around her like smoke.

Her fingers tightened around the notebook in her bag as she hurried home. The shadows pressed closer, but somewhere deep inside, a fragile flicker of warmth glowed faintly—real enough to hold onto, if only for a moment.