The precinct was a far cry from how it was a week earlier, now lively with officers running around, catching up on the piles of paperwork left from their vacations, and following up on active cases. 

Graham knew he had a pile to catch up of his own. Cop dramas always left the tedious paperwork outside the picture when in reality it probably accounted for over half of his investigation time. Graham pushed those thoughts behind, leading Henry, still clutching the cardboard box filled with his belongings, to one of the seldom-used briefing rooms. He needed somewhere private and non-threatening.

It was a small room, filled with rusty metal chairs and a cheap wooden podium. Halogen lights cast a lulling glow, interrupted by the occasional flickering of a few malfunctioning bulbs that hadn't been changed in years but still refused to go out. 

Graham pushed a couple of chairs close together, inviting Henry to take one of them with a polite gesture. Henry obliged.

"You can put that box on the floor if you want, Mr. White."

Henry replied by clutching the box tight to his chest.

"As you wish," said Graham, taking the notebook out of his jacket.

Henry kept his sight pinned to the inside of the cardboard box, barely moving, save for his slow breathing expanding and contracting his chest.

"I will not take much of your ti-"

"Lawyer," whispered Henry, not taking his attention off the box.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"I want my lawyer," he repeated, a bit louder this time.

"You don't need a lawyer, Mr. White. You aren't being detained. This ain't interrogation, either. Just wanna put you up to date with the investigation. Is that okay with you?"

Henry remained silent. Graham waited a few seconds for his response. When he was sure none was coming, he continued, going through his notes for reference.

"We believe your wife was killed by accident by William Wolfe. An inspection of the vehicle revealed that the brakes were cut by a sharp object." Graham produced the case file from his messenger bag, placing it on his knees. "It's all here if you wanna take a look."

Again, Henry was unresponsive.

Graham placed the file on top of his bag on the floor, shifting forward on his seat. "We contacted the Park Plaza hotel and they provided us with the security tape for the night of the event. In it, we can clearly see Mr. Wolfe approach your car, disappearing under it, and re-emerging after a brief period of time. Using this information, we got a court order to investigate Mr. Wolfe's residence. Inside, we found a pair of pliers with his fingerprints all over it. Are you still with me, Mr. White?"

For the first time since they left Geber Laboratories, Henry made eye contact with Graham. His eyes were out of focus and opaque, seemingly sunken by heavy black bags under red and swollen eyelids. For a moment, Graham doubted someone was listening behind those eyes. But he was quickly reassured otherwise.

"Yes. Can you please turn off the lights? I'm having a pounding headache."

Graham quickly stood up, flicking the light switch off and killing the illumination in the room. Only a faint glimmer coming from under the door and the occasional flicker of a defective bulb kept the duo from complete darkness.

"Better?"

"Yes. Thank you. Please, continue."

Under the shroud of darkness, Graham had a hard time reading his notes, so he used his cell phone for lighting. "We have testimony that Mr. Wolfe acted suspicious at the time of the tape, as well as other testimonies. We strongly believe that Mr. Wolfe was trying to kill you, but his plan backfired. Instead of you, he managed to kill Mrs. Geber."

Henry listened to the words, but they felt to him like someone reading a fairy tale. Something unreal. Something not happening to him. Background noise that had nothing to do with his grief. For a moment, he had found a sliver of peace on knowing, on thinking, it wasn't him who had killed his wife, only to be washed away by knowing that she was killed trying to get to him.

Bottom line: it was still his fault.

"What we lack, and we need your take on this, is a motive. Why would Mr. Wolfe want to kill you?"

"Who is Wolf?" blurted Henry, not really thinking about his choice of words.

"William. William Wolfe. He works for you. The guy you tried to punch back at your office."

Henry tried to remember who, but something prevented him from doing so. He felt a wall of white noise stopping him from accessing even the most basic thoughts on his mind. He could hardly even grasp where he was at that moment. All he knew was that his box was his and that someone died. Someone dear. A side effect of his DayDream hangover. 

"Mr. White, just try and think of whatever reason. Any reason."

Henry tried pushing through that wall with all his mental power, but no matter how he tried, he was pushed back. The only thing he was getting out of it was an even worse headache than before. Not letting that deter him, he pushed even harder, sinking his filthy fingernails on the cardboard box, as if the act of physically tensing up would help him remember. To his surprise, he did manage to retrieve a small nugget of memory from the back of his mind.

"He... I yelled at him. Humiliated him in front of the team. Tried pitching me a commercial. I think he got demoted by it."

Graham fumbled with his phone while trying to retrieve a pen from his bag. Juggling between his notebook and cellphone, he scribbled that information on his notepad. "I see. When was this?"

"Tuesday?" answered Henry.

"What Tuesday?"

"Just... Tuesday."

Graham closed the notebook in frustration. He was not going to get much out of Henry.

"Can somebody confirm this?"

"Murray," said Henry, lolling back and forth. "And others. People. Yes." 

"Okay, I'll do that," said Graham. "If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions about the victim."

Victim. Another weird and foreign word to Henry. Another wall formed in his mind right behind that word. 

"Can you tell me something about Mrs. Geber? How you met, how was your relationship, did she had any enemies, all that jazz."

Henry tried looking for that word in his mind. Geber. He had just left Geber. Jabin Geber. That bastard. Geber... Geber... Zinet. Zizi. Was dead? Zizi was dead. Someone killed Zizi. Who was Zizi? Zizi died. William killed Zizi.

The walls around his mind collapsed. The only thing on his mind was a white clarity. No anger. No sadness. Only clarity, nagging on his mind.

William killed Zizi. Murray plotted something with Glocal. Gomez had ambushed him and taken everything away from him. Clara was helping Zizi divorce him. Everyone he ever thought was his friend or ally had backstabbed him

He felt as if a dam had been broken in his mind, and everything was flowing out at once. He was going to make sure everyone who did him pay the price for crossing Henry fucking White.

"Of course," Henry said, placing the box on the floor. "I met Zizi when she was seventeen at an office party, back when her father was the CEO of Geber Laboratories. A year later, with the blessing of her father, we were married."

"Kind of young to be married, wasn't she?"

"Massachusetts' laws actually allow women to be married as early as fourteen. We couldn't wait to get together."

"I see," assured Graham, scribbling down the information on his notebook. "How was your relationship?"

"You lie, you lie, you lie, you lie," a voice in his head told him. It hadn't been there before. It sounded insidious, accusatory even.

"It was great. She was always there for me. She had some health issues, serious ones, that prevented her from having a normal life, but we managed to make it work."

"I see," replied Graham. "Is that why you locked me up in that mansion, honey?"

Henry did a double take, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I said," repeated Graham, "did she have any enemies?"

Henry rubbed his eyes. Maybe it was another side effect from the drug?. "No, she didn't. She was actually a pretty secluded person. Besides me, she only ever interacted with the Prendergast's and the help."

"That explains why I asked for a divorce," said Graham, taking notes.

Henry could've swore heard Zizi just then. He shook his head, trying to dissipate his tiredness.

"I actually have Mr. Prendergast in the interrogation room. I'll ask him a few questions about this as well. We'll keep in touch, Mr. White. Until then, please put my ashes back on the table, it's dark under the couch."

Henry shook Graham's outstretched hand. It felt warm and inviting, but only for a second, as it suddenly degraded to a burning cold and with a slight tint of electricity. The texture of his hand turned like that of cardboard. Henry was still sitting on the chair, but felt like he was falling upwards.

"Everything okay there, Mr. White? You're looking kinda pale."

Henry felt his stomach lurch, bending over himself, ready to vomit. He heaved and gagged, but nothing came out. Graham tossed his belongings to the ground, kneeling right beside Henry.

"Sir, are you okay?"

Henry shook his head from side to side. He felt like cold soup.

"Let me give you a ride home, okay? Wait here."

Henry sat there, waiting for Graham to come back, when he felt a pair of eyes watching him from the shadows, just like the ones he felt when leaving Geber Labs. Something was lurking in the corner of the dark room, ready to pounce on the first sign of weakness. His heart started to pump wildly with adrenaline yet again as the feeling of dread started to consume him.

It was, quite literally, as if his fight or flight switch had been flipped and his body was refusing to do any of it, instead choosing to self-destruct. 

Henry, suddenly and without noticed, started to fear for his life. And whatever thing that tried to destroy him was lurking in the shadows like a prowling beast. 

The shadows were pierced by the shining blade of light that came through the opening door. Graham entered the room with an officer in tow. "Mr. White, this is Officer Klein, he will escort you back to your house. Please follow him, and don't forget your box."

Officer Klein offered Henry a hand, which he gladly took. It was warm and wet, drenched in sweat. Standing on wobbly knees, he followed the officer to a cruiser sitting outside. Henry no longer felt the cold, bitter wind blowing on his face.

But he still felt a pair piercing eyes watching over him form afar.

10 HOURS BEFORE THE NEXT DISASTER