The Last of Us

Nine

I'm sitting in the one place I never thought I'd been in again.

It smells like burnt coffee and male cologne. The man beside me won't stop jiggling his knee, much to my annoyance.

I look at the clock for the third time this minute. It seems to be ticking even slower than before.

A policewoman sits behind the glass screen at the front desk. We exchanged a few words, and she informed me a constable would be out soon to speak with me.

"Harlow?"

My head shoots up, and the steady gaze of Constable Chaplin meets me.

My stomach plummets. I didn't know he was still assigned to this station. I hadn't seen him in years.

He hasn't changed in the slightest. Brown hair flecked with grey, beady eyes that make you shutter when he glares. A small beer belly that he'd joked he was trying to lose the last time I'd seen him.

I didn't have anything against him. He'd been the one to save my life.

I just wasn't prepared to see him. Which, in hindsight, is a stupid thing to think. After all, he worked here. I was standing in his territory.

"Yes," I say, unable to pull my lips into even the slightest of smiles.

When mum had made me promise I'd go to the station today, it made everything feel more real. Like all this time, I'd been pretending that the letters weren't ever going to amount to much. That I wasn't in that much danger.

"Right this way, Harlow."

He doesn't need to direct me where to go. I know which room he's taking me to. I could be the one leading us there if I wanted to.

We stop shortly after, and he pushes open the door, offering me a seat behind the table as he takes up the other side.

"I'm not sure whether to be pleased to see a familiar face or worried," he says, watching me closely.

I'm gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that they begin to dig into my skin.

Everything about this room screams nostalgia. Not the type that most would understand, but it feels like a part of my teenage years that I'd never forget.

"Harlow?"

"Sorry," I shake my head, deciding it would just be better to show him the letters and get it over with.

"Is this about Jason Randall?" he says. "Because I've assured your mother over the phone that we have a patrol car going past every hour, and he has no reason to know your new address."

I wasn't even aware that it was occurring at night. Mum hadn't mentioned it to me.

Sometimes, I really did feel like a passenger in my own life.

I place the letters on the table, sliding the paper across to him. He stares at them for a moment before diligently unfolding them.

"I received both of these this week—one on Tuesday. The other was yesterday in the mail."

He glances at me for a second before he clears his throat, leaning in to read them.

A phone rings in the distance, and I feel myself flinch. I hadn't been this on edge in a long time.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't let Randall get to me. He didn't deserve to be remembered and feared. He deserved to rot away somewhere far from the victim's families and me.

Yet he was out somewhere, lurking in the shadows and maybe planning his next attack. Who knew what he would do now he'd escaped?

I tap my fingers against the chair as I watch for his reaction. It comes slowly; his eyebrows raise, then he presses his lips firmly together.

He takes his time re-reading. Three minutes pass before he finally looks back up at me.

"Is the letter a copy of the real letter you received?"

"It's real. The email is a print-off, though."

"This could be a prank by some lowlife, but in this case, we aren't going to take the risk.

"We'll get our forensics team on this immediately. Meanwhile, we'll have an officer stationed outside your house. You need to make an official report, and if you receive anything like this, you need to contact us straight away, Harlow."

He dials a number from the phone on his desk, mumbling into the receiver when the person picks up on the other end.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

I shake my head slowly. "No. But can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you know anything about Talia? It was murder, wasn't it?"

He watches me solemnly. "I heard she was in the support group you're running."

"Constable Chaplin," I plead. "—please give me something. I need to know that it isn't connected to—"

To me.

"Her death has been ruled suspicious, Harlow," he whispers. "I'm not on the case, so I don't know any details. I'm sorry."

My gut twisted despite the fact I knew what he'd say.

She'd been murdered. There was no doubt about it now.

"Do you think—do you think Jason has found me? That he's targeting people, I know?"

Even to my ears, I sound so young and innocent. I hate the vulnerability that I've let slip. What's even worse is the look that Constable Chaplin gives me.

"I can't rule anything out for you, Harlow. But the chances of this being connected to Randall, are slim. Don't start digging yourself in too deep with this. You've been through enough."

He was beginning to sound exactly like my mother. She told me again today that she didn't like me working with the support group anymore. She suggested I scale back on the motivational talks until Randall was caught.

I was conflicted. I wanted to listen to her, but I also didn't want to roll over and die. Why should I give the man so much power? He'd taken enough from me.

"Is there anything else?" he prompts gently.

I can tell he's trying to be kind, but he's clearly on a tight schedule. I doubt he even would have had time to see me if it wasn't for the fact we knew each other.

"That's all for now," I say.

"You have my number," he points a finger towards me, standing from the chair. "Don't hesitate to reach out."

He walks me towards the door. Before I can leave, he places a hand on my shoulder.

I look at him as he stares at me, those beady eyes almost glaring.

"Harlow, don't go investigating any of this yourself, alright? I know it can be hard when you don't have the answers right away, but you need to let us do the work."

I offer him the first smile I can muster today, which seems enough for him.

"Of course. I won't," I lie before waving him goodbye.