The police station felt stale, smelling of old coffee and forgotten ambitions. I clutched Tommy’s drawing, its raw honesty my only comfort as I approached the front desk.
“I need to file a formal complaint against Elias Croft,” I stated, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands.
The officer, a burly man named Detective Miller, looked up from his newspaper with a sigh. He gestured vaguely towards a bench.
“Fill out the forms, ma’am. We already have a preliminary report on the incident from the gala.”
A preliminary report? My heart pounded as he slid a folded paper across the counter. I snatched it, my eyes scanning the official letterhead.
The report described Tommy as “an uncontrolled minor” who had “lunged dangerously” at Mr. Croft, a “respected war industrialist.” Croft, it read, had merely “gently pushed” the boy away to prevent a fall, resulting in an “unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“This isn’t what happened,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “He kicked him. Deliberately. He insulted my husband.”
Detective Miller leaned back, a disinterested expression on his face. “Look, ma’am, Mr. Croft’s account aligns with several other eyewitness statements. We have a war to win, not time for dramatics.”
“Eyewitnesses?” I spat. “Who? His cronies? The report makes Tommy sound like a wild animal.”
“The report is what it is,” he said, tapping his pen. “We’ve got more pressing matters.”
My hands tightened into fists, crumpling the edges of Tommy’s drawing. They hadn’t even interviewed Tommy. They hadn’t even truly listened to me. The system was already closing ranks around Croft.
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