The morning after their anniversary dawned gray and heavy, like the sky had swallowed the sun whole. Lena woke to the patter of rain against the window, Marcus’s side of the bed already cool. She stretched, her fingers brushing the empty space, and figured he’d slipped out early for the garage. He did that sometimes—left a note on the fridge, a scribbled heart next to “Back soon”—but today, there was nothing. Just the drip of the kitchen sink and the faint hum of the neighbor’s TV through the wall.

She padded barefoot to the living room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The fairy lights still glowed on the balcony, stubborn against the gloom, and she smiled despite herself. Last night had been good—better than good. She could still feel his weight in her lap, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered. Whatever Darius had stirred up, they’d pushed it aside. That had to count for something.

The coffee pot gurgled as she set it going, and she pulled her phone from the charger. No texts from Marcus, just a missed call from Jade at midnight—probably drunk-dialing after a late shift at the salon. Lena scrolled through her notifications, half-listening to the rain, when the front door buzzed. Sharp, insistent, like someone leaning on it.

“Alright, alright,” she muttered, crossing the room. She figured it was Mrs. Carter from downstairs, locked out again and needing the spare key. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t Mrs. Carter’s pinched face staring back. It was Marcus, soaked to the bone, his cap dripping water onto the linoleum. Behind him stood two cops, their radios crackling, their hands resting too close to their belts.

“Lena,” Marcus said, voice rough like he’d been shouting. “Don’t freak out, okay?”

“What the hell—” She stopped, her breath catching as one of the cops stepped forward, a broad man with a jaw like concrete.

“Ma’am, we need you to step aside,” he said, flat and final. “Marcus Tate, you’re under arrest for armed robbery. You have the right to remain silent—”

The words blurred into noise, a buzz that drowned out the rain. Lena’s eyes locked on Marcus, searching for something—anything—to make this make sense. His face was tight, his jaw clenched, but his eyes were pleading. “I didn’t do it,” he said, loud enough to cut through the cop’s monotone. “Lena, I swear—”

“Sir, turn around,” the second cop barked, younger, twitchy, already pulling cuffs from his belt. Marcus flinched but obeyed, his hands rising slow, water streaming down his arms. The cuffs clicked shut, metal on skin, and Lena’s stomach lurched.

“Wait—wait, hold on!” She lunged forward, bare feet slipping on the wet floor. “What robbery? When? He was with me last night, he didn’t—”

“Ma’am, step back,” the first cop said, his hand out like a wall. “This is from three nights ago. Gas station on Fulton. We’ve got evidence.”

“Evidence?” Her voice cracked. “What evidence? He’s not—he’s not that person anymore!”

Marcus twisted to look at her, rain streaking his face. “Lena, listen. Call Darius. He knows—”

“Move,” the younger cop snapped, shoving Marcus toward the stairs. Lena stumbled after them, her robe flapping open, coffee forgotten on the counter. The neighbors’ doors creaked ajar—Mrs. Carter, the guy with the loud TV—eyes peering out like vultures. She didn’t care. She followed them down, rain soaking her hair, her voice rising over the storm.

“He’s innocent! You hear me? You’ve got the wrong guy!”

The cops didn’t stop. They wrestled Marcus into the back of a squad car parked crooked on the curb, its lights flashing red and blue through the downpour. He pressed his forehead to the window, mouthing something she couldn’t catch, and then they were gone, tires splashing through puddles, leaving her standing there, shivering and alone.

She sank to the wet pavement, her knees hitting hard, and stared at the empty street. Three nights ago. She racked her brain—Monday, he’d worked late, said he was helping Darius with something at the shop. She’d believed him. She always did.

Now, the rain washed that belief away, and all she had left was his voice in her head: Call Darius. She didn’t know if it was a lifeline or a noose.

The rain didn’t let up. It pounded the asphalt, pooling in the cracks where the squad car had been, as if the city itself was trying to erase what just happened. Lena stayed there, crouched on the curb, until her robe clung to her like a second skin and her teeth chattered hard enough to hurt. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think past the image of Marcus’s face pressed against that car window, his lips shaping words she’d never hear. The neighbors’ curtains twitched, but no one came out. No one ever did.

Finally, the cold drove her up, her legs shaky as she climbed the stairs. The apartment felt wrong without him—too quiet, too big. His boots still sat by the door, mud streaking the floor where he’d stumbled in with the cops. She stared at them, half-expecting him to walk back through, laughing it off like some sick joke. But the only sound was the coffee pot hissing, steam curling into the air like a ghost.

She grabbed her phone from the counter, hands trembling so bad she nearly dropped it. Marcus’s last text glowed on the screen: Love you. See you tonight. Sent at 6:42 a.m., right before his shift. She scrolled up, searching for clues—anything—but it was just their usual: her teasing him about burning toast, him promising to fix the sink for real this time. Nothing about a gas station, nothing about three nights ago. Her thumb hovered over Darius’s name, his contact a single letter: D. Marcus’s voice echoed in her skull: Call Darius. He knows.

“Knows what?” she muttered, her voice cracking in the empty room. She hit the call button before she could second-guess it, pressing the phone to her ear so hard it ached. It rang once, twice, then clicked to voicemail—Darius’s drawl, lazy and smug: “You know who this is. Leave it.”

“Damn it, Darius!” She hung up, dialed again. Same thing. On the third try, he picked up, his voice thick with sleep or something else. “What the hell, Lena? It’s barely eight.”

“Where’s Marcus?” she snapped, pacing the tiny kitchen. “They took him—cops, just now. Said he robbed some gas station. What’s going on?”

A pause, too long, then a rustle like he was sitting up. “Slow down. Robbery? When?”

“Three nights ago. Fulton. He said to call you, Darius—he said you know something. So talk.”

“Three nights…” His voice trailed off, and she could picture him, rubbing his stubbled jaw, stalling. “Look, I don’t know nothing about no robbery. He was with me Monday, yeah, at the shop. We were working late.”

“Working on what?” she pressed, her free hand gripping the counter. “He told me that, but now he’s in cuffs, and you’re acting like it’s news. What aren’t you saying?”

“Lena, chill. He didn’t do nothing wrong. Probably just some mix-up—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she shouted, loud enough that the neighbor’s TV went quiet. “He’s not a mix-up kind of guy anymore. You know that. If you’ve got something—anything—tell me now, or I swear I’ll—”

“Alright, alright,” he cut in, sharper now. “Listen, there was this dude hanging around the shop that night. Kev, you remember him? Skinny, always twitchy. He was asking Marcus for a favor, something about a ride. I told him to kick rocks, but Marcus… you know how he is. Too damn soft.”

Her stomach twisted. Kev—Kevin-something, an old friend from Marcus’s juvie days. She’d met him once, years back, all nervous eyes and fast talk. Marcus had sworn he’d cut him off. “A ride where?”

“Dunno. I left ‘em arguing, went to grab a beer. Next I saw, Kev was gone, and Marcus was locking up. Said it was handled.”

“Handled,” she echoed, bitter. “And now he’s arrested. You didn’t think to check?”

“Lena, I ain’t his babysitter,” Darius shot back. “He’s a grown man. If he’s in this, it’s not on me.”

She wanted to scream, to reach through the phone and shake him until the truth fell out. But she forced her voice steady. “They took him to county. I’m going down there. You better be there too, Darius, or I’ll find Kev myself—and you won’t like what happens next.”

She hung up before he could argue, her breath ragged. The rain hammered on, relentless, and she stood there, staring at Marcus’s boots, wondering how deep the past could bury you before you stopped digging.

Lena didn’t wait for the rain to stop. She yanked on jeans and a hoodie, the damp hem of her robe still clinging to her legs as she stuffed her feet into sneakers. Her hair was a mess, braids frizzing from the wet, but she didn’t care. She grabbed her keys, Marcus’s spare jacket—something to give him, something to hold onto—and bolted out the door. The stairs blurred under her, slick with puddles, and she nearly slipped on the last step, catching herself against the rail. Her heart hammered, a wild thing clawing at her ribs.

The county jail was a twenty-minute drive, but Atlanta traffic turned it into a war zone—cars crawling through the downpour, wipers slapping, horns blaring like they could yell the storm away. She gripped the steering wheel of their beat-up Corolla, the one Marcus had nursed back to life after they found it on Craigslist. The engine sputtered at a red light, and she cursed, slamming her palm against the dash. “Not now, come on.” It coughed back to life, and she pressed the gas, her eyes darting to the clock: 8:47 a.m. Less than an hour since they’d hauled him off.

Darius’s words gnawed at her. Kev. A favor. A ride. Marcus had sworn he was done with that crew—done with the late-night favors, the “one last time” deals that always ended in trouble. He’d promised her, right there on that sagging couch, that the past was dead. But the past wasn’t dead—it was sitting in a cell downtown, wearing his face. She wanted to believe him, wanted to cling to the man who’d kissed her under fairy lights last night, but doubt was a splinter, working its way in deep.

The jail loomed up ahead, a squat concrete block with barred windows and a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. She parked crooked, tires scraping the curb, and ran through the rain to the entrance. The lobby smelled like bleach and despair, all flickering fluorescents and hard plastic chairs. A line of people snaked from the desk—mothers with tired eyes, a guy in a mechanic’s jumpsuit muttering to himself. Lena joined them, clutching Marcus’s jacket like a shield.

When her turn came, the clerk barely looked up, her nails clicking against the keyboard. “Name?”

“Marcus Tate,” Lena said, voice steady despite the shake in her hands. “They brought him in this morning. I need to see him.”

The woman’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to Lena, flat and bored. “He’s in processing. No visits ‘til he’s booked. Could be hours.”

“Hours?” Lena’s voice rose, drawing stares. “He didn’t do this—he’s innocent. I just need five minutes—”

“Ma’am,” the clerk cut in, sharp now, “rules are rules. You can wait or you can leave. Next.”

Lena stepped back, heat flooding her face. She wanted to scream, to bang on the glass until they let her through, but she knew it wouldn’t work. She’d seen enough cop shows, heard enough stories from Marcus’s old life, to know they didn’t bend for nobody. She sank into a chair, the plastic creaking under her, and buried her face in the jacket. It smelled like him—grease and cedar and that cheap cologne he loved. Her throat tightened, but she wouldn’t cry. Not here.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she fished it out, hoping for Marcus—some miracle call saying it was over. But it was Darius. She answered fast, voice low. “You better be on your way.”

“I’m outside,” he said, gruff. “Where you at?”

She stood, scanning the lot through the rain-streaked window. There he was, leaning against his rusted pickup, cigarette glowing under the brim of his cap. She hung up and pushed through the doors, the storm hitting her full force again. Darius straightened as she approached, flicking the cigarette into a puddle.

“You look like hell,” he said, eyeing her soaked hoodie.

“Save it,” she snapped, stopping a foot away. “You’re here. Good. Now tell me everything—Kev, the ride, all of it. No bullshit.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told you what I know, Lena. Kev was twitchy, asking for help. Marcus didn’t want to, but you know how he gets—can’t say no to a sob story. I didn’t stick around to see how it ended.”

“That’s not enough,” she said, stepping closer, rain dripping down her face. “He’s in there because of this, Darius. You owe him—you owe me—more than ‘I didn’t stick around.’”

Darius met her gaze, his eyes hard but flickering with something—guilt, maybe. “Alright,” he said, low. “There’s more. But you ain’t gonna like it.”