“What have we got?”

Work is saving grace for Sam. The plain environment, the steady paperwork, the monotonous expectations. Work demands the same every day and is never quite finished. Like an overbearing mother, you dread the calls you get from her but secretly you wouldn’t have it any other way. Work is stressful, familiar and never judgemental. And it would always be there. Yes it is easy to say that Sam quite liked work.

Sam slides effortlessly into DS mode, ambling through the mostly empty corridors of the station. It’s like putting on a pair of warm socks, she thinks. Comfy and she knows exactly how to do it. A young clean-shaven officer approaches her with an older man following cautiously behind, shoulders slumped.

“Sarge, driver here claims a woman threw herself in front of his car, doing 60 at the time. She’s in intensive care at Southern General. Hasn’t come round yet. We’ve got first response unit out at the scene and an officer bedside.”

“Have you made an ID?”

The officer pauses. “Yes.” He gulps, clearly waiting for an opening but unsure of when to take it.

“Right, well why did you call me? Sounds like it’s all in order.”

“Ah it would appear you are known to the victim Sarge…”

Sam scrunches her eyebrows together. There’s only one name that floats to mind. No, she wouldn’t…

“And her friend gave a statement asking specifically for you.”

“Friend?”

The officer looks at his notes. “A Catherine Mackenzie.”

The whole night now slips into place. Sam thinks back to Frankie’s aborted meeting with Cat, which was a mere few hours ago. After that she can basically piece together every one of Frankie’s goddamn steps as to how she got where she is now.

“And the victim’s name?” She doesn’t know why she asks. It’s a waste of breath for both of them.

“Francesca Alan.”