The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 380

Sloane disappeared around the corner of the hallway, clutching her cello.

Garrison spun around to see a man walking toward him.

He was tanned and lean, of average height, sporting a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a dark blue jacket unzipped over a gray crew-neck t-shirt.

His posture was entirely relaxed—left hand shoved in his pocket, right arm hanging loose by his side with his fingers slightly parted. Garrison knew this slightly cocky stance all too well. It was the Deputy Chief.

His eyes darted past Wyatt's shoulder down the hall, but Sloane was already out of sight.

He reined in his focus, turning to face Wyatt.

"Officer Wyatt," he forced a stiff smile, "Long time no see. What brings you to my neck of the woods at this hour?"

Wyatt smiled back, flashing bright white teeth. He took a step forward and slapped his right hand onto Garrison's shoulder. The impact was heavy enough to knock Garrison's shoulder down an inch, crumpling the fabric of the white coat in his grip.

"I'm here on official business."

Garrison glanced at him, then at the amber light cast by the baseboard lamps in the corridor. He stayed silent for two seconds.

"Fine," he said. "Let's... talk in the reception room."

The reception room was at the other end of the hall. Calling it a reception room was generous; it was little more than a tiny lounge carved out by the administration. Garrison pushed the door open and flipped the switch. The fluorescent tubes flickered twice before buzzing to life, emitting a faint, electric hum.

"I haven't been doing well for a long time," Garrison replied, his voice flat. "But look at you—I hear you're the Deputy Chief of the Metropolitan Police Department now?"

Wyatt leaned back into the sofa and crossed his legs. His jacket rode up slightly, revealing the metal buckle of his belt engraved with a tiny badge number.

"Yeah," he grinned. "The old Chief retired, so here I am."

Garrison walked back over with two cups of tea, setting one in front of Wyatt. The tea leaves hadn't fully bloomed yet, tightly curled dark green balls tumbling slowly in the hot water. Garrison sat in the single armchair to the side, leaving his own cup untouched.

"So," he prompted, "what's the official business?"

Wyatt uncrossed his legs. He leaned forward, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a brown manila envelope. It had been folded, sporting a deep crease down the middle. He tossed it onto the coffee table and slid it over to Garrison.