The morning was cold in a way that crept under Camille's skin and settled into her bones. The kind of cold that didn't come from weather, but from dread. Gray clouds sagged low over the rooftops, casting the town in a watery light, as if the sun couldn't quite bring itself to rise all the way. Camille's boots crunched against patches of frozen leaves and gravel, the sound loud in the stillness of the empty street.
She pulled her coat tighter around her, her hands buried in the sleeves. A thin layer of fog hung near the pavement, curling at her ankles with each step, ghostlike. The town was waking slowly—windows lighting up one by one, a distant bark of a dog, the metallic whine of a bus stopping somewhere—but it all felt far away, like she was walking through a painting rather than a real place. A quiet purgatory.
Ahead, the police station sat hunched and squat at the edge of town, red-bricked and square, its flag barely fluttering in the wind. It looked plain, unremarkable—but Camille knew what kind of truths lived behind those walls. What kind of decisions were made in those sterile, fluorescent rooms. What kind of questions were asked, and how they could unravel a life, one sentence at a time.
She wasn't sure how long she had been walking. Time didn't feel real this morning.
As she reached the corner just before the crosswalk, a voice sliced through the quiet like a snapped branch.
"Camille?"
She turned sharply. Josie was standing a few yards away on the sidewalk, her breath blooming in the cold air, her brows knitted together in confusion and concern. She was dressed in leggings and a thick hoodie, her ponytail pulled through the back of a cap. She looked like she'd been out for a run, but her eyes were locked on Camille like she'd seen something that didn't make sense.
"What are you doing out here so early?" Josie asked, taking a few steps closer.
Camille tried to steady her voice. "Just... needed to clear my head."
Josie's gaze flicked past her to the police station, then back to Camille's pale face. "Are you going in there?"
Camille hesitated, her lips parting, then closing again. Her throat felt tight. "Yeah." she finally said. "I am."
Josie blinked. "Why?"
Camille looked down at the sidewalk, her hands tightening in her coat sleeves. "I'm going to tell them that Harper was with me the night her grandmother died. That we were together. That I found her and we went back to my house together."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Josie stepped forward, voice sharp now. "Cam. Was she?"
Camille couldn't meet her eyes. She stared at the crack running through the concrete beneath her boots, and finally shook her head. "No. She wasn't."
Josie's voice was incredulous, barely above a whisper. "Then what the hell are you doing?"
Camille took a breath, trying to stop her chest from shaking. "I'm giving her an alibi."
"Camille!" Josie's voice cracked, laced with disbelief and panic. "Are you serious? You're going to lie to the police? About a murder?"
"She's not okay, Josie." Camille said, more forcefully now, like the words were tearing out of her. "You've seen her. You know what she's been through. She's falling apart, and no one's helping her. Not really. Her family's stretched thin, her mind's all over the place, and they're treating her like she's already guilty. She needs someone on her side."
Josie stared at her, stunned into silence. Her face shifted—shock first, then disbelief, and finally something closer to fear.
"But Cam... she wasn't with you. That night matters. And if you lie—"
Josie's voice dropped, trembling. "You're going to destroy your future for her?"
Camille blinked hard against the sting in her eyes. "I don't care. She needs this. Even if it just gives her a little more time to breathe."
Josie's face darkened, her jaw tight. "Camille... Harper's not just hurting. She's dangerous."
Camille flinched. "That's harsh, Josie."
"You know I don't mean that in a cruel way." Josie went on, her voice barely above a whisper now. "But she's like a ticking time bomb. There's something in her, something sharp and restless. She doesn't even know what to do with it half the time. That pain she's been through—it's not quiet. It doesn't stay locked inside. It finds a way out. And you standing in the way of it?" She shook her head. "You're going to get seriously hurt."
Camille felt a pulse behind her eyes, like the air had thickened.
"She's not dangerous, Josie." she said quietly. "She's scared and hurting. And grief does strange things to people."
Josie stepped closer, her tone urgent now. "Camille, look at me. I know you love her. We all do. I know you want to save her. But you can't keep her from breaking apart by breaking yourself instead."
Camille turned her eyes toward the police station, where a detective had just walked through the glass doors, disappearing inside as he come back from his break.
"I'm not trying to save her." she whispered. "I'm just trying to hold the pieces until she can save herself."
Josie stared at her for a long moment. "Please don't do this. If this goes to a trial, they're going to call you up on that witness stand and what are you going to say when they grill you?"
But Camille didn't answer. She took one step toward the crosswalk. Then another. The wind tugged at her hair, and her heart beat like a war drum inside her chest.
And still—she walked.
The glass doors of the police station slid open with a soft hiss as Camille stepped inside. The warm, recycled air hit her suddenly, stark against the chill she still carried from outside. The lobby was bland and official — beige walls plastered with faded posters about community safety and crime prevention, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like a constant, low drone.
She walked slowly across the polished tile floor, each step echoing softly in the stillness. At the front desk, a woman in her fifties looked up from her computer, her glasses perched low on her nose. Her expression was practiced—polite but unreadable.
"Hello, can I help you?" the receptionist asked, her voice steady, professional.
Camille hesitated a moment, then forced calm into her tone. "Yes. I'd like to speak to a detective please. It's about the Cece Rhodes murder case."
There was a long pause as the receptionist looked her over, then slid a clipboard and pen across the counter. "Please have a seat. I'll see if Detective Lawson or Bates is available."
She moved toward the row of plastic chairs along the wall and sat down, her heart pounding in her ears. The murmur of officers speaking quietly in the hall, the buzz of phones ringing in the distance—it all blended into a blur. She stared straight ahead, trying to steady her breath.
She thought of Harper, the truth twisting inside her like a knot. Harper wasn't with her that night—not even close. But Harper needed someone. Camille was willing to carry that lie for her, no matter the cost.
The door at the far end buzzed open. A man stepped out—a detective, his dark suit crisp, badge glinting against the light. He looked to be in his forties, sharp-eyed and serious, with a calm authority.
"Camille Washington?" he asked, extending his hand.
She stood, swallowing hard as they shook hands. "Yes. Hello."
"I'm Detective Lawson. Head of this case. You said you have information about Cece Rhodes' murder?"
"Yes I do, sir.."
He nodded and motioned toward a nearby room. "Follow me, please. We'll talk in Interview Room Two."