DISCLAIMER:
This book contains mature subject matter and triggering topics that may not be suitable for every reader.
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"What is it that I always tell you, Winona? You'll always come back to me. A bird never forgets its home."
Winona Horton ha...
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July 2010 • • •
With measured steps, Harry strode through the polished glass doors of the precinct, his heart heavy with the weight of an unjust accusation. The very notion of being summoned for interrogation was enough to set his blood boiling. He was the one who had been wronged, who had been brutally assaulted. The indignity of it all made his head spin.
And yet, even as he seethed with rage, his mind could not help but wander to the one thing that truly mattered to him - Winona. The mere thought of her absence filled him with dread and a sense of profound vexation. She was the anchor that had kept him steady all these years, the guiding light that had led him through the darkest of times. Without her, he was nothing. Just a lost soul adrift in an endless sea of uncertainty.
For as long as he could remember, he had dedicated his life to her. He had taken on the mantle of her savior, vowing to protect her from harm no matter the cost. It was a role he had cherished, one that had given him purpose and meaning. But now that she was gone, he found himself adrift, his once steadfast resolve crumbling like sand between his fingers. He missed her with an ache that bordered on physical pain. Her absence was a gaping hole in his life that nothing could fill. He longed for her touch, her smile, her unwavering faith in him. It was as if a part of him had been torn away, leaving him incomplete and adrift.
And yet, even in the face of such overwhelming loss, Harry refused to give up. He would face this interrogation with all the strength and conviction he could muster, determined to clear his name and bring Winona home where she belonged. She was more than just his reason for being - she was his heart, his soul, his everything.
"Harry, my dear boy, how wonderful it is to see you!" Monroe's greeting was warm and jovial, but it did nothing to soothe the raging storm inside Harry. He brushed past the short, bald officer without so much as a nod, his eyes blazing with a wave of fierce anger that could not be contained.
"Shut it," he spat at Monroe, his voice low and menacing. The man recoiled from his sharp tone, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red. "Why exactly am I here, Monroe? Am I the one who hit myself over the head?"
Monroe led Harry away from prying eyes, his steps quick and furtive. The tension in the air was palpable, like a live wire crackling with energy. "This is for something else, actually," he began. "And I'm not the one investigating. Though she is my partner..."
Harry's heart raced with a sense of foreboding. He knew from experience that anything involving the police was never good news. "What's going on? Why would they be asking me?" he demanded, his eyes fixed on Monroe's face.
Monroe swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. "Abigail Horton's death," he said finally, his voice barely audible above the din of the precinct.
Harry's mind raced, memories of Abigail Horton flooding back in a torrent of emotions. He remained outwardly composed, however, his face a mask of stoic indifference. It was a skill he had learned over the years, a defense mechanism to shield himself from the world's harsh realities. Abigail had been a difficult woman, bitter and resentful of the world around her. She had never understood the love and devotion that Harry had lavished on her daughter, Winona. To Abigail, Winona was nothing more than a burden, a constant reminder of her own inadequacies.
