Chapter 4: Domestic Calls and Dark Truths
Day Eight - Tim Bradford's Shop
Tim picked me up at dawn. No coffee this time. His jaw was tight, shoulders set like he was heading into combat.
"Rough day ahead," he said. "Domestics all morning. They're never clean, never simple. Stay sharp."
The first call was a rundown duplex in East LA. Mother answered the door, eyes red from crying.
"My son," she said. "He's been acting strange. I think someone's giving him drugs, but he won't tell me who."
My chest tightened. The lie detection fired immediately—sharp, specific discomfort.
She knows. She knows exactly what's happening.
Tim interviewed her while I checked the common areas. Standard procedure. The son emerged from his bedroom, twenty-two, too thin, pupils wrong.
"I'm clean," he said when Tim asked. "Mom's paranoid."
The pressure in my chest intensified. Both lying. To us, to each other. The mother knew he was using. The son knew she knew. Everyone performing the same broken dance.
Tim found the stash in the bathroom—heroin, needles, the whole nightmare. The mother's face when he showed her crumbled. Not surprise. Confirmation of what she'd known all along.
We arrested the son. The mother sat on her couch crying while we processed the scene.
The lie replayed in my head on perfect loop. My son... I think someone's giving him drugs. Her voice. Her expression. The exact pitch of her denial.
Recall wouldn't let it fade.
Three Hours Later
Call two: Landlord claiming tenant broke lease terms, tenant claiming landlord's lying about receiving rent. Lie detection fired on the landlord—eviction notice was illegal, he'd never filed proper paperwork. Pressure built in my chest.
Call three: Girlfriend protecting wanted boyfriend. "He's not here," she said. Lie. "I haven't seen him in weeks." Another lie. Pressure stacked higher, like someone sitting on my sternum.
Call four: Store owner claiming shoplifter was random. "Never seen him before." Lie. His nephew, turns out, stealing to fund a gambling habit. The pressure in my chest was crushing now.
By noon, my head throbbed. Every breath felt shallow.
"You okay?" Tim asked between calls.
"Fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm good." Lie. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Call five: Domestic violence, husband claiming wife "provoked" him. Lie detection screamed. Pressure exploded into nausea. I focused on Tim's questions, documenting evidence, doing my job.
But my body was shutting down.
End of Shift - Mid-Wilshire Station
I made it to the locker room. Made it to a bathroom stall. Barely.
Everything came up. Breakfast, lunch, coffee, bile. My hands shook on the metal walls. Cold sweat soaked my uniform.
The power has a cost. Every use has a cost.
Five domestic calls. Five different liars. Five stacking weights of deception pressing on my chest until my body rebelled.
The door opened. "Mercer?"
Tim's voice. Of course.
I flushed, wiped my mouth, stepped out. Tim leaned against the sinks, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You sick?"
"Something I ate."
His eyes narrowed. The same look he gave suspects who lied poorly. "That's bullshit. You've been getting worse all day. What's really going on?"
"I'm fine."
"Officer Mercer." Tim's voice dropped into command mode. "I need to know if you can handle this job. If you're sick, if you're burned out, if there's a problem—tell me now."
My lie detection stayed quiet. He genuinely cared. Not just about having a reliable boot, but about whether I was okay.
"Some days hit harder than others," I said. Using his own words from day three back at him.
Understanding flickered across his face. "The domestics got to you."
"Yeah."
"They get to everyone. That mother, the denial—that was rough." He pushed off the sinks. "Go home. Rest. Tomorrow's a new day."
"Yes, sir."
He paused at the door. "Mercer. You did good work today. Even feeling like shit, you kept your head. That counts for something."
He left before I could respond.
Ethan's POV - Home
The mansion's chandelier hung from the two-story entry ceiling, dripping crystals and wealth. Original Ethan's mother had bought it in Italy. Cost more than most people's cars.
I hated looking at it.
I collapsed on the couch—genuine leather, probably also Italian—and closed my eyes. The lies replayed immediately. Perfect recall meant perfect memory of every deception from today.
My son... I think someone's giving him drugs.
The rent was paid on time.
He's not here. I haven't seen him in weeks.
Never seen him before.
She provoked me.
Five voices. Five faces. Five moments of deception I'd carry forever with crystal clarity. My recall wouldn't let them fade or blur. They'd stay sharp and fresh until the day I died.
The physical cost was manageable. I'd thrown up. I'd recover.
The psychological cost was mounting. How many lies could I absorb before they changed me? Before the weight of human deception made me cynical and bitter?
Is knowing the truth worth this?
My phone buzzed. Text from Nolan: Heard today was rough. Beer tomorrow?
Simple offer. Simple friendship. Nolan wouldn't push for details or explanations. He'd just be there.
I texted back: Yeah. Thanks.
The chandelier sparkled above me, beautiful and ridiculous and utterly foreign. This house belonged to a dead man. This life belonged to someone else. But the lies I'd absorbed today were mine alone to carry.
This is the price. Remember it. Because it'll get worse before it gets better.
I hauled myself upstairs to bed, knowing the lies would replay in my dreams with perfect, terrible clarity.
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