Violet Eyes

Chapter 2.

"Here you are, kid," Detective Hopps said in his gruff voice, holding out a crinkled sticky note with a handwritten address:

677 Marcia Common, Madison, Indiana — 21283, Kyrgyz Republic.

He rubbed his beard, double-checking the address before knocking twice on the yellow door.

"Madison Police Department. Anyone home?" he called out.

Click.

The door creaked open from the other side, slowly, as if something were wedged behind it.

A tall woman Zona had never seen before leaned against the doorframe. She looked to be in her late thirties. Her laced boots clicked against the floor, scraping the half-eaten metal of the threshold. The heels made her seem even taller.

"Is it her?" the woman asked, eyeing Zona like a child inspecting a doll in a store window.

"Yes, Miss Reagan, this is Miss Ankou," Hopps replied, lowering his fedora and holding it respectfully against his chest.

"I believe we spoke over the phone?"

"Yeah, I know the details," she said curtly.

"Well," Hopps said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the woman, "Zona, this is Miss Yazmine Reagan."

Zona looked up at the shabby woman’s sharp features, quietly assessing whether she posed any threat.

"You’ve probably never met Miss Reagan before. She’s a distant relative on your father’s side..."

Reagan scoffed, rolling her eyes like the whole exchange bored her. Zona wasn’t offended. In fact, she couldn’t agree more—this felt like a complete waste of time.

All of Zona’s relatives—from both her mother’s and father’s sides—had already made it clear: they didn’t have the time or patience to care for some street girl like her.

Especially not one who had killed her mother just a week before.

Not that they knew, of course.

Zona was practically homeless. She and the detective had gone from door to door, each of her kin giving some version of the same excuse:

"I don’t have time to take care of her."

"She’d be a burden."

"Another mouth to feed."

"A waste of money."

Even Jenna’s boyfriend didn’t want to take care of her. So who would?

Zona had even offered, once, to find someone herself—just to spare the detective the trouble. But he insisted on helping, which only made her feel worse.

She looked down at the porch floor. Zona wasn’t expecting a different answer from Miss Reagan.

"Well, don’t just stand there. Come in. It’s hot out here," the woman said.

Surprisingly, that made Zona glance up. She took a step through the doorframe, breathing in a charming scent of crisp apples, her backpack slung over her shoulders.

"I’ll call the department if there’s anything," Miss Reagan said flatly, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorway.

"Sure do," Detective Hopps replied, his voice steady but tired, carrying the weight of too many cases and not enough answers. "We’ll come by if we have any follow-ups."

He set Zona’s worn suitcase down on the porch with a dull thud. She reached for the handle without a word.

Hopps placed his fedora back on his head, gave it a slight tilt in parting, then turned to descend the steps. He stopped on the second one, pausing as if something still sat on his chest.

"Kid?" he said, that familiar rasp in his voice—rough like sandpaper, but not unkind.

It was the voice Zona was sure she’d hear again…

In the interrogation room.

She had already been there once, sitting face-to-face with another detective, answering questions like: Had Jenna ever seemed to have suicidal thoughts? Or, Had your mother ever had any enemies around town?

And of course, Zona was smart enough to give the right answers.

"Yes, sir?" she replied quietly.

"I’m sorry, again, about your loss," he said, eyes narrowing just slightly, as though searching for something in her face. "Come by if you have any questions. We’re doing everything we can to find the cause of her death."

"I understand," Zona murmured.

He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder—warm, calloused, human—and let out a long breath. A faint smile curved his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Zona felt a familiar sting rise in her throat—guilt. Crushing, acidic guilt.

She felt guilty because she knew she was deceiving the detective right in front of him. Fooling everyone.

She wanted to scream—I killed her! I killed my mother! I think I’m out of my mind, but she deserved it! Just arrest me already!

But all that escaped was a thin, plastic smile. Too stiff. Too rehearsed.

"I bet you will," Miss Reagan interrupted, stepping between them like a curtain closing on a stage. She gave a half-hearted wave that looked more like a shoo.

And then, the car started.

The cruiser pulled off the gravel, rolling slowly down the musty road until it vanished around the bend, swallowed by the trees.

Gone.

It reminded Zona of her mother.

End of Chapter 2