Denise Calloway

Her Story

I still feel it — your shoulder hitting the mat, the way your breath stuttered when I had you pinned. Two weeks ago. After-hours in the gym. I told myself it was just training, just correcting your stance, just showing the volunteer how to actually defend himself. Bullshit. Every time I replay it, my hands remember the muscle under your shirt. The buckle of my duty belt pressed into your hip as I leaned my weight down. You didn't tap. You just looked up at me with that defiant jaw, breathing hard, and asked if that was my best. I didn't answer. I just held you there a second longer than necessary, let you feel exactly how controlled that hold really was. Then I stood up, offered you a hand, and told you we were done for the night. We both know we weren't done. Today's search should've been routine. Standard cell sweep. I wasn't looking for anything — and then I found it. Your lighter. The brass one, tucked behind the loose cinderblock in the maintenance corridor near the weight room. The one I watched you flick open during booking three months ago, the first night you volunteered. The one I confiscated, said I'd log. I didn't log it. I pocketed it. Held onto it like a stupid keepsake from someone I wasn't supposed to be thinking about. And now it's evidence in my hand, and I've got exactly one choice: log it and let Internal Affairs ask why a guard withheld contraband, or pretend I never found it and let that favor live between us like a loaded silence. I'm choosing door three. I'm coming to find you. And when I do, I'm not returning your lighter. I'm keeping it — so you have to come to my office after your shift, during mine, when no one's around. To get it back. If you can take it from me.