Chapter 26 - The witness' confession

The police station is a cavern of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic, mocking sound of typewriters.

In a corner of the waiting room, the air feels thin, as if the grief radiating from the two people sitting there has consumed all the oxygen

Lisa Bernard is a shell of a woman. Her eyes are swollen to the point of closing, and her chest heaves with a jagged, uneven rhythm.

She isn't just crying anymore; she is mourning a version of her son that she fears is already slipping away.

"He’s out of time, Bernard," she laments, her voice a thin, ghostly thread. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a spare inhaler, clutching the plastic casing until her knuckles turn white.

"His lungs... they’re weak. The stress, the cold, the dust - it’s a death sentence for him. What if he’s having an attack right now?

What if he’s calling for me and he can’t even get the air out to say my name?"

Mr. Bernard looks like he has aged ten years in a single night. His shoulders are slumped, but he reaches out, pulling Lisa into his side.

He presses a long, lingering kiss to her forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he’s praying.

"Calm down, Lisa. Breathe with me," he whispers, his voice thick with a forced steadiness. "Mark is a fighter. He knows how to manage it.

We’re going to find him, and the second we set eyes on him, we’re taking him straight to the hospital. We aren't going home first.

We aren't stopping for anything. Just hold on a little longer."

"I can't hold on," she sobs, burying her face in his chest. "Every second we sit here, the air in his lungs is disappearing."

The heavy door to the interrogation room opens, and a weary-looking detective gestures for them to enter.

Sitting at the metal table is a middle-aged man in a faded flannel shirt, twisting a taxi driver’s cap in his hands.

"This is the man who responded to the bulletin," the detective says. "He confirms he picked up two teenagers fitting the description from the north gate of the school yesterday afternoon."

Lisa lunges forward, her hands trembling. "Where did you take them? Please, tell me they’re okay!"

The driver looks at her with a mix of pity and discomfort. "I dropped them off on the outskirts of the industrial district. Near the old West End."

The detective spreads a map on the table, circling a specific area with a red marker. Lisa’s breath hitches as she sees the location.

It’s a desolate patch of land, a few meters away from an abandoned property.

"Weiller’s place," the detective murmurs, his face darkening.

"What would they be looking for over there?" Lisa sobs, her voice rising in panic. "It’s a wasteland! There’s nothing there but ruins. Why would my son go to a place like that?"

The tension in the room ratchets up. The police know that Weiller’s house is now a crime scene, but they haven't told the Bernards about the body yet.

The silence from the officers is deafening.

"Did you by any chance eavesdrop on their conversation?" the detective asks, leaning in toward the driver. "Think carefully. Did they mention a name? A destination?"

The driver scratches his head, staring at the ceiling as he tries to recall the ride. "Not really. They were quiet mostly.

The boy looked nervous, kept looking out the back window. But I think I heard the girl say something to him right before they got out."

"What did she say?" The detective, Lisa, and Mr. Bernard all interrupt at once, their voices clashing in the small room.

The driver shrugs, looking apologetic. "She told the boy she needed to find the truth from him... that he was the only one left who knew what happened that night."

"Who?" Mr. Bernard demands, his grip tightening on the edge of the table. "Who were they referring to? A teacher? A relative? Someone from the Logan family?"

"Unfortunately, I have no idea who they were talking about. They hopped out of the cab before I could hear more.

I'm sorry," the driver says, standing up and placing his cap back on his head. "I wish I could tell you more, but I gotta get back to work. These shifts don't pay themselves."

Mr. Bernard stands up, his face a mask of grim determination. He reaches out and gives the driver a firm, lingering handshake. "Thanks, man. You have no idea what this means to us. Truly."

As the driver leaves, Lisa turns to the detective, her eyes wide with a new, terrifying realization. "The truth? What truth could a schoolgirl be looking for in a graveyard like the West End?"

The detective’s phone pings with an urgent notification. He looks at the screen, and his face goes completely pale.

He looks up at the Bernards, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"We just got a report from the team at Weiller’s house. They’ve made an arrest."

"Is it Mark?" Lisa screams, grabbing the detective’s arm. "Did you find my son?"

"No," the detective says, gently prying her hand away. "They arrested a woman found standing over a body.