27

Cass sat on the thin cot in his holding cell, head in his hands, elbows digging into his thighs. The air was thick with the smell of stale sweat and disinfectant, and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights only added to the oppressive atmosphere.

Elaine's face hovered in his thoughts, her voice as clear as if she were sitting beside him.

"You have to let it go, Cass," she had said, her hand brushing his. But how could he let go when everything had spiralled so completely out of control? He thought of the bombings, the innocent lives lost, and the smug satisfaction of whoever had set him up to take the fall. Regret and anger churned within him like a storm.

The metallic clank of the cell door's lock snapped him back to the present. A detainment officer stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

"You're going back to the interview room," said the officer.

Cass looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. "Again? I already told them—I don't know anything."

"Interview room," he repeated. "Your legal representation is here."

Cass blinked in confusion. Legal representation? He hadn't called anyone. But relief warmed through him nonetheless—someone was in his corner. He rose stiffly, his legs heavy as he followed the officer down the hallway.

The interview room was exactly as he remembered it: sterile, clinical, with a faint antiseptic tang. The same two detectives sat on the other side of the table, their expressions colder than before. There was no lawyer in sight.

Cass's stomach sank. "What's going on?" he asked.

"You're free to go," one of the detectives said bluntly.

Cass froze. "What?"

The second detective leaned forward, his eyes hard. "Exonerating evidence has been provided. It proves your alibi not just for the day of the attacks, but for every moment of the past three months."

Cass stared at them, his mind struggling to process their words. "That's... What evidence?"

Before either detective could answer, a voice spoke from the corner of the room.

"They've said you are free to leave, Cass."

Cass's blood ran cold. He knew that voice, even though he had hoped to never hear it again. It was calm, measured, and disturbingly familiar.

Nova.

The detectives turned sharply toward the sound, their confusion mirroring Cass's. One of their phones lit up on the table, the screen glowing with a soft blue light. The phone's speaker activated, and Nova's voice continued.

"Would you like me to list the exonerating evidence?"

The first detective's hand shot out to mute the phone, but it didn't respond. He tapped the screen again, harder, his frustration mounting.

"Over the past three months," Nova began, her tone steady, "Cass McCarthy has been documented in the following locations at these times. All communications recorded, including text message exchanges, phone calls and online activity... July 7th: 8:13 AM—bus stop on Stoneham Street. CCTV recording. 8:21 AM—coffee shop transaction recorded, order: black coffee, no sugar. 9:02 AM—arrived at workplace. 9:04 AM—WhatsApp message sent to Elaine McCarthy..."

The second detective's face darkened. "Turn it off."

"I can't," the first detective muttered, his finger jabbing futilely at the screen.

Cass sat frozen, his heart pounding. The list went on—every moment, every movement, every interaction he'd had meticulously catalogued and recited. Details he himself had forgotten were laid bare, each one tightening the knot in his stomach.

Finally, the voice paused. "You are free to leave, Cass."

The silence that followed was suffocating. The detectives exchanged uneasy glances, their authority in the room reduced to ashes. Cass felt a cold sweat break out across his brow. He didn't know whether to feel gratitude or terror.

"Exit the police station, Cass," Nova's voice instructed.

The officer who had escorted him appeared in the doorway. "Let's go," he said.

Cass followed in a daze, his footsteps heavy as he was led out of the building and into a waiting police car. The ride home blurred into a fog of disbelief. The city passed by in disjointed fragments—smoky plumes in the distance, police barricades, protesters shouting into the void.

When he finally stepped through the door of his house, the stillness within made his heart ache. He collapsed onto the sofa, his hands trembling as they covered his face. The picture of Elaine on the mantel caught his eye. He stared at it, his emotions colliding—relief, guilt, anger, and something he couldn't yet name.

Nova had saved him.

And he had no idea why.