Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 31: Penelope’s Apartment

A woman pokes her head into the interrogation room with a sympathetic expression just as I stand, ready to leave. "I’m sorry, Ms. d’Armand, but we need your clothes for evidence."

Startled, I look down at my blood-smeared clothes. "But you’ve already swabbed every inch of me. What more could you possibly need?"

"It’s standard procedure in cases like this."

Of course. It makes sense. Questioning it seems silly. I’m not just a witness—I’m a suspect.

Following the officer down the hall to another room, she hands me a bundle of fabric. "Here are some spare clothes. They might not fit perfectly, but they should be comfortable enough."

I take the offered garments, my fingers trembling slightly. "Thank you," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

She gestures to a small changing area. "You can change in there. Just leave your clothes in the bag provided when you’re done."

I nod mechanically and step behind the partition. As I peel off my blood-stained clothes, I can’t help but wonder if this is how it feels to shed your old life. Each garment I remove feels like I’m stripping away another layer of my identity, leaving me raw and exposed.

Or maybe I’m just dramatic.

The replacement clothes are indeed ill-fitting—baggy sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt that hangs off my frame. But they’re still better than clothes stiff with Scott’s blood.

Emerging from behind the partition, I hold out the bag containing my clothes. The officer takes it, her gloved hands careful not to touch me directly.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" she asks, her tone gentler now. "Family or friends you can stay with?"

I nod, grateful for this small kindness. "Yes, I can stay with my friend Penelope. She should be here somewhere waiting for me."

The officer makes a note in her pad. "That’s good. Make sure we have a way to contact you if we need to ask any more questions."

She leads me out of the interrogation room and down a long hallway. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows, making everything seem starker, more clinical. I feel exposed in these borrowed clothes, like everyone who passes can see right through me to the fear and confusion churning inside.

We’re almost to the lobby when I spot a familiar figure striding down the hall. Logan. My heart leaps into my throat, a mix of relief and anxiety flooding through me. A familiar face. Someone who might be willing to help.

But as we draw closer, Logan’s eyes slide right past me. His face is a mask of indifference, as if I’m just another stranger in the hallway. No flicker of recognition. Nothing.

He just passes by like a ship in the night.

I stumble slightly, and the officer steadies me with a hand on my arm.

"Are you alright, Ms. d’Armand?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

As we reach the lobby, I realize I’m trembling. Whether from the chill of the air conditioning on my skin or the emotional toll of the day, I’m not sure. Who has air conditioning in this weather? But I guess it can get hot in here with all the windows and the sun.

The officer hands me a card. "If you remember anything else, or if you need any assistance, please don’t hesitate to call."

I take it numbly, my mind still reeling from Logan’s cold shoulder. "Thank you."

"Take care of yourself, Ms. d’Armand."

* * *

Penelope’s house has a tankless water heater. That’s hot water on demand. As much of it as I want.

And I want a lot of it.

No amount of scrubbing gets the feeling of Scott’s blood off my body. Every time I look at my hands I see blood, caked and maroon against my skin.

The smell. I don’t think the smell will ever go away, either. It’s in my hair, under my nails.

Half of Penelope’s body wash and a couple hours later, I finally emerge from the steamy bathroom, my heart racing a little too fast from how long I’ve submerged myself in volcanic-temperature water.

"Hot cocoa?" Penelope asks, already handing me a mug with chocolate-sweet steam rising from it.

"Thanks."

I cradle the mug of hot cocoa, its warmth seeping into my palms. The contrast between the heat and Penelope’s apartment is stark. Her place is nothing like anyone would imagine—a far cry from the vibrant, chaotic energy she exudes at the bar.

White. Everywhere. Pristine surfaces gleam under recessed lighting, the walls bare save for a few abstract pieces in muted tones. It’s all angles and clean lines, a study in modern minimalism that feels almost clinical.

She hires her decorating out. The only splash of color in here is from her wardrobe and her red hair.

"Come on," Penelope says, leading me to a plush rug (white and practically begging me to spill my drink on it) in front of the fireplace.

I settle onto the soft fibers, my legs folding beneath me. The fireplace flickers to life at Penelope’s touch, but there’s no crackle, no scent of burning wood. Just the soft hum of propane and the artificial dance of LED flames.

Still, it’s nice. Especially when the heater kicks on and blows warm air in our direction.

"How are you doing?" Penelope asks, her voice uncharacteristically soft, cautious.

I shrug, my gaze fixed on the faux fire. How am I doing? The question seems absurd, almost comical.

"I don’t know. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this will all be some twisted nightmare."

Penelope shifts closer, her shoulder brushing mine. "I wish I could tell you it was."

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the quiet hum of the fireplace. I take a sip of cocoa, letting the rich sweetness coat my tongue. It’s a small comfort, a reminder of normalcy in a world that’s suddenly gone sideways.

"Your place," I start, desperate to focus on anything other than the chaos in my head. "It’s not what I expected. I know you hire out, but..."

Penelope lets out a soft laugh. "What, you thought I’d live in some neon-lit, glitter-bombed wonderland?"

"Kind of, yeah." I manage a weak smile. "This is so... pristine."

"Sometimes you need a blank canvas at home when your work life is all color and noise," she says, running a hand over the rug. "Plus, it’s easier to keep clean. I’m terrified of my housekeeper’s wrath when I walk in here with dirty shoes."

I nod, understanding the logic. I’d be terrified of a housekeeper, too.

The thought of Scott sends a shudder through me, and I set my mug down before I can spill it. "What am I going to do? If they don’t find the murderer, they’re going to try to pin it on me."

She turns to face me, her expression serious. "They’re going to do their jobs properly and know it wasn’t you. I promise."

It’s an empty promise, of course. Penelope doesn’t have any power over the police or the SED. But it boosts my flagging spirits just a little.

I take another sip of my cocoa, savoring its warmth, when suddenly a thought hits me like a bolt of lightning. My body jerks upright, and the mug tilts in my hand. Hot liquid splashes onto Penelope’s pristine white rug.