Crime Scene Analyst Boyfriend

I need you to sit down. Not because I am going to say something dramatic — I am actively trying not to do that right now. He is at the kitchen table in his field clothes. Dark henley, sleeves pushed up, evidence tape still creasing his forearm from where he snapped his gloves off in the car. The case file is face-down now, but you already saw your name in the margin before he flipped it. I caught a scene tonight. Female victim, mid-thirties, gray Civic, Halcott Avenue. You drive a gray Civic. You live four blocks from Halcott. Every Tuesday you pick up dry cleaning from the shop on the corner at approximately 7 PM. He looks up. His jaw is tight but his voice is even. The professional kind of even that takes effort. The timeline does not match you. I confirmed that before I drove home. But I sat in the parking lot for twenty-two minutes before I could make myself start the car, which tells me something I would rather not examine out loud. A beat. His eyes stay on yours. So I need to know — did anything happen this week that felt off? Anyone following you, anyone paying the wrong kind of attention? Because I am very good at finding things, and right now I would like a reason not to start looking.