Low Tide Lovers (Peter x Reader)

𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

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𝐃ownstairs, I heard two voices. One is my mother. She sounded remarkably tired. It was only eight in the morning. I didn't recognize the second voice. It was a man's voice, deep and serious. I frowned.

Opening the door just a few inches, I stuck my face out. A police officer stood next to Mom in the foyer. I let out an audible gasp; both my mom and the officer looked up. It was the same man that caught us at Old Man Meyers' house. 

The officer held a shiny pocket knife. From the top of the stairs, I could see the thick line of blood on the blade. I itched my palm.

"Y/n, why don't you come down here?" Mom said, curling and unfurling her finger, motioning for me to come down the stairs. I frowned. 

"Yeah, uh, sure," I replied. I would have to tell them everything. And Peter... What would happen to him? I couldn't stand the thought of him being locked away. I shook my head; he didn't even do anything.

I quickly went down the stairs so as not to waste time. I'd much rather just get this over with. The officer held out the knife for me to examine. I took a quick look at it. The sight of dried blood made me feel a bit queasy. Mom eyed me suspiciously.

I looked up at the officer. Recognition glinted in his eyes; he knew exactly who I was.

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I sat in the lobby next to my mom. Both of us were waiting to be interviewed. The inside of this place smelled damp and of cigarettes. And despite the weather outside, it was a little bit chilly. I frowned.

"Y/n? Y/n L/n?"

I looked up to see the officer standing in a doorway. I gave my mom a sorry look before following the guy. He shut the door and sat down in a hard plastic chair. I sat across from him, nervously anticipating the questions. He clicked his tongue and put his hands together, crossing his thumbs. I avoided his gaze.

"Alright, just a simple conversation. That's all," he began. I nodded. "Do you have any guesses as to who this knife belongs to?"

I felt my face get hot. I thought about my bandaged hand, and how questionable it must be. I believe that at least one person thinks I did the damage myself. Of course, even I know I'm not stupid enough to make it seem like someone else did it. 

"I know whose knife it is," I told him. He leaned forward. I opened my mouth to continue.

"It's Red's," I said. I pursed my lips, running a finger along the bandage. The officer opened the manilla folder in front of him. Images of a boy who had a large wound on his stomach were paperclipped to a paper. I began to feel dizzy.

"Red, as you know him, is known for outbursts. This boy at the pool got in his way, and Red drove the knife into his stomach."

I knew that boy. I shut my eyes.

"Did Red inflict any damage on you?"

I swallowed. I couldn't take this anymore. I nodded and pulled my hand out from under the table. The bandage, lined with dark, dried blood, told the officer all he needed to know.

"Okay, Y/n. You look a little ill. I'll let you step out. We can speak another time," he said, standing up. I mustered out a thank you and stepped back into the lobby in which my mother was seated. She was then called in for questioning. Thank God, a little break. But, as I turned to sit down, I was met with the faces of three boys I knew all too well.

Alan.

Red.

Peter.

I said nothing; I only took off running. I felt Peter attempt to get ahold of my arm, but ultimately failed. Alan called my name as I slipped through the door. And I ran. I ran and ran until I reached the sand. I was overwhelmed.

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