Raoul drifted in and out of darkness, the pain in his left eye socket a dull, relentless throb beneath heavy layers of medication and gauze. Time lost meaning. Fragments of voices, the smell of antiseptic, the steady beep of machines. It all blurred together and in the haze a memory pulled him under, like a judge presenting evidence.
He was sixteen again spending another endless summer afternoon at the rec center. The place smelled of old sneakers, chlorine, and dust. Most days he haunted the small rooms helping whatever department needed. Today he needed to sort through the cheap costumes at the drama department. He wanted to clean the floors or sort through the garden supplies, simple busy work that kept him from interacting with anyone specifically, but he'd been told not to bother.
That day, a group of boys from the juvenile facility had been bused in for community service. They would usually be assigned to painting walls, picking up trash, the usual exercises in redemption. The other kids at the center gave them a wide berth, wary glances and careful distance following them like shadows. Raoul followed suit. He never liked trouble.
One boy stood apart even from the others. Younger than the rest by about two years, quite, observing everything with striking blue eyes. His name was Virgil. He worked without complaint, unlike the rest. He kept his head down. He spoke to no one and no one spoke to him.
Late in the afternoon the rec director clapped Raoul on the shoulder. "It's almost time for them to leave. Go tell the last kid the bus is set to leave in a few. Last I saw he was dusting up the music room."
Raoul found him there.
Virgil sat at the old upright, fingers moving across the keys with a gentleness and precision that made the tired instrument sing. It was a simple melody, but the boy played it rather effortlessly. He did not notice Raoul at first.
Raoul lingered in the doorway, listening until the final note faded. "They sent me to get you. The bus is leaving."
Virgil looked up with an almost blank expression. For a moment Raoul expected him to simply nod and walk away. Instead the younger boy studied him.
"You play" Virgil asked.
"A little. Not like that."
A small smile touched Virgil’s face. "It is not hard."
"Easy for you to say."
They talked longer than they should have. Raoul leaning against the piano, Virgil still on the bench. Mostly about music. How Virgil had taught himself on his mother’s old keyboard. How Raoul’s father had forced him into lessons he mostly ignored.
They traded chords, quiet jokes, and small pieces of themselves. Virgil never spoke much about why he was there. Raoul never pressed. Virgil was particularly soft spoken and cagey, but there was a sort of awkward kindness behind each word.
When the director called again from down the hall, Virgil stood. "I have to go back."
Raoul nodded. "Maybe next time you are here, you can show me how you did that last part."
Virgil paused at the door, looking back. "Maybe."
Raoul woke slowly to the sharp smell of antiseptic and the steady, mechanical beep of monitors. His head felt heavy, wrapped in layers of gauze that pulled tight across the left side of his face. The pain was deep and hollow, a constant throb that radiated outward with every heartbeat. He reached up instinctively and winced.
A chair scraped softly against the floor.
"Easy," Constable Marsh said quietly. "You’ve been out for a while."
Raoul opened his remaining eye. The hospital room was dim, blinds drawn against the daylight. Marsh sat beside the bed, arms crossed, his face carrying the weary look of a man who had delivered bad news too many times.
"Hospital?" Raoul asked, voice rough.
"That's right kid." Marsh soon came into view, looking down at Raoul. His eyes were cold and his lip sneered in disappointment. "You've been out for a couple days."
"Oh..."
"You should be. That stunt you pulled got us all in hot water."
"I'm sorry." Marsh fell silent for a moment. All he could manage for a while was a frustrated sigh. Raoul couldn't read his expression, and that worried him. "How bad is it?"
"The situation? Or your face?" Raoul's gut twisted at Marsh's question. What was wrong with his face? Surely nothing too terribly bad. Marsh seemed to decide which concern to address before Raoul figured out what to ask. "You lost the eye, Boa. The doctor called it globe rupture, apparently you have a pretty extreme case. No chance of saving it. You’ll need time to adjust."
Raoul closed his right eye and breathed through the information. He tried to open his left eye, he felt it open, but nothing. Maybe it was the gauze, probably wrapped too heavily to block out any light. He tried to convince himself that much, maybe rationalize it that way, but something in him knew Marsh wasn't one to lie about something so serious.
Raoul exhaled shakily, clutching at the sheets. "And what about Nero?"
"Arrested." Marsh leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Your recorder caught everything. The threats, the way he came at you, the kick. It is not a full confession on the wife or the old charges, but it is more than enough for assault on an officer. He will not walk away from that cleanly."
Raoul managed a small, pained nod." Good."
Marsh did not smile. "You pushed him deliberately. I have read the transcript. You went in waving old family dirt and half-formed theories like bait. That was not police work. That was provocation. You are lucky you are alive."
"I needed him on record."
"Yet you can't tell me how he's relevant to the case at all!" Raoul had no response. Marsh sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "You got lucky in more ways than one. Your father caught wind of the first reports. Jasper made some calls. Without him leaning on the right people, Nero’s lawyers might have spun this into something far uglier."
"This isn't his case."
"It is now!" Raoul flinched at Marsh's yell and for the first time since the detective had woken up, the constable seemed to have a look of pity on his face. "He is furious with you, by the way. Furious that you went in alone, furious that you nearly got yourself killed chasing some personal angle. He is officially involved whether you like it or not."
Raoul looked toward the window, the blinds filtering thin strips of daylight. Jasper. Retired, sharp-tongued, and still looking down at his own ability. He felt himself shrink further into his father's shadow by the second.
"Is that allowed?"
"What?"
Raoul shot Marsh a cold gaze. He didn't look menacing, just tired. "We're related."
"That didn't stop you from staying on the case once you discovered a relative was involved."
"What?"
"Cyrus Boa. Our records have it that he's the Vale family executor."
"He's not majorly involved."
"Neither will Jasper be. He is your partner for whatever remains of this." Marsh added. "Until you are cleared for active duty again. Consider it both protection and punishment. He wants answers, and he is not going to let you dance around them."
Raoul nodded once, the movement pulling at the bandages. The skepticism that had taken root in him these last days felt heavier now, sharper in the sterile hospital light. He had followed the breadcrumbs Virgil left, but the path had cost more than he had bargained for, and the melody no longer sounded quite as certain.
"Get some rest." Marsh said, standing. "The Vales will be occupied for the next few days. Nero's arrest and Eleanor Vale's will. That should buy you some time, but I reckon they're getting impatient."
The door clicked shut behind him. Raoul lay still, staring at the ceiling with his one good eye. The pain in his face pulsed steadily. Virgil had wanted fairness. Raoul had wanted to deliver it.
He was no longer certain the road he had chosen would end where he had expected.