[Bad As Ever || Book 2]

4°

» "i just wanna set you free, don't wanna handcuff..."

Miami, FL;

"We have to go talk to some detectives today." Paris said as Bryson walked out of the bathroom.

He ignored her and laid in bed beside her, staring at the blank tv screen. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I'd go by myself, but I think we both have to go..." She said softly, looking down at the bed.

He remained silent.

"Are you hungry? I can go downstairs and ge—"

"No, I'm not." He replied with his eyes still shut. Paris nodded and got up off of the bed.

She started looking through the clothes that they had received from the Red Cross and sighed.

"Bryson, we have a lot to figure out. We need to talk about this stuff. I don't know what to do if you don't talk to me about it." She voiced, frowning.

He threw his head back against the headboard and looked in her direction, his eyes low.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Paris." Bryson said dryly. Paris, who was happy to hear him express a full thought, ignored his actual words and climbed into bed with him.

"Hey, baby.." She said caressing his rough cheeks and a small smile form on her pale and tearstained face, "I can— I can figure it all out. Don't worry, ok? Just rest, yea, rest and I'll take care of everything."

Bryson took her hand and kissed it before laying his head back and letting tears fall from his closed eyes.

"Where's Mr. Tiller?" A detective asked as Paris sat down at the end of the table in the small room she was led to once she reached the police station.

"He's not, uh, doing very well." Paris explained, pushing some hair behind her ear.

"Well, we really need to both of you here..." The detective stated, clasping his hands together.

"Can we please just make it work? I don't want to torture him like this, I can tell you everything you need to know, I promise."

The detective his throat and nodded, opening a notebook and some other file work.

"Alright, Mrs. Tiller— "

"Just call me Paris. I'm only 24." She said rubbing her temples slowly. He nodded.

"Paris, my apologies. So, Paris, why don't you just explain what happened last night."

Paris chewed the side of lip and sat up slightly, "Me and Bryson were in the living room just goofing off and I noticed it was really cold in the house for some reason. He went to check and he saw that our A/C was jammed. He had gotten this old Kerosene Heater from his aunt along time ago and figured we could just use that until we got the A/C fixed."

"Now, this heater, where was it located in your home?" He asked, looking up from his notes.

"On the stairs..." Paris replied, letting her head fall into her hands.

The detective, sensing Paris' grieving state, was hesitant to bring up the next matter to be discussed, but knew he had to.

"Uh, I realize that this may be hard to talk about, but, the baby..." He started, pausing momentarily.

Paris began to cry silently with her head still in her hands, "She was upstairs..."

"Alright," he said gathering all of his materials, "Thank you so much for your time Mrs. Ti— Paris, I'll be sure to update you with any information you need."

"Yea, sure." She said sniffling and wiping her face, trying to get herself together as best she could.

Paris was dealing with the loss of her child and it was hard, but more than anything, she was fearful that Bryson's guilt would be a problem. Of course, she didn't blame him. But he blamed himself and as well as she knew him, she knew it was going to be hard to convince him that it wasn't his fault.

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Read my book Slush, I completed it a while back and idk, I just want people to read it.