Hermes Part 2

A few months later, I found out through the news that Fernanda had married a millionaire, and I spiraled into a living hell. At first, I buried myself in my studies to numb my uncontrollable feelings, but after finishing the academy and being assigned to the Homicide Division, I drowned myself in work. I covered shifts for my colleagues just to avoid going home, and when there was nothing left to do, I went to bars or nightclubs, drinking excessively and leaving with escorts.

For months I lived like an automaton, until one night I got into a fight at a club, beating up a pimp who had assaulted one of his “girls,” a young underage girl with fake documents, who had just entered that life and offered herself to me. I had tried to talk her out of it before it was too late.

Doca managed to get me out of there before the Military Police arrived and gave me a harsh scolding.

“Are you trying to destroy your career?” he asked angrily, threatening to request a transfer from my team because he didn’t want to go down with me. He had worked with my stepfather before he retired and considered him like a brother.

I was ashamed, but I was in pain. I still thought about Fernanda constantly, and now, years later, there she was in front of me, as the wife of a homicide victim.

Trying to act indifferent, I walked toward her with confident steps.

“Fernanda?” I called out, keeping my voice cold as I stepped beside her.

She lifted her head and stared at me with her black eyes—like a moonless night. She wore only a light-colored silk robe, and I could glimpse the curve of her breasts.

“Hermes?” she murmured in disbelief.

Unexpectedly, she stood and threw herself into my arms, wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face in my chest. She looked lost, scared—vulnerable. It was as if she sought protection in that embrace, just like in the days we were together.

I was frozen, unsure whether to hug her back. I left my arms limp at my sides. I felt her sweet perfume and her soft skin against mine, while unprofessional thoughts flooded my mind.

Gently, I pulled her away and guided her to sit down. Then I grabbed an armchair and sat across from her, making it clear there was a long distance between us now.

“Fernanda, I’m in charge of this case. You have the right to remain silent—you don’t have to tell me anything—but your situation is complicated. Your husband is dead in the office, you’re injured, and there are bloodstains in your bedroom and on the balcony,” I explained slowly.

“Am I under arrest?” she asked, changing her expression slightly, perhaps a bit frightened, twisting her delicate hands.

“Not yet. But I’ll have to take you to the station for questioning. Do you want to call someone?” I asked.

“No,” she replied, turning to the side, as if any trace of hope drained out of her—and I scolded myself for reading too much into her gestures.

Years had passed. Neither of us was the same person we used to be.

“It would be good to have someone supporting you.”

“My father,” she finally whispered. “He’s not the best person, but I don’t have anyone else.”

“All right, write his number in my phone,” I said, holding out the device. With trembling hands, she typed in the digits.

“Hermes, I didn’t kill my husband,” she whispered. “You believe me, don’t you?”

I held her gaze. I had loved this woman deeply, and she swore she loved me too—but then mysteriously abandoned me. Had everything we lived together been a lie? If so, was she lying now, again?

“I’m going to investigate. If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said vaguely, still unsure of my own opinion. “Now, you need to get dressed and come with me to the station.”

“Yes... okay,” she murmured, standing and walking toward a door I assumed was a closet, judging by the rows of hangers and drawers I glimpsed while standing in the doorway.

Without caring about my presence, she let the robe fall at her feet, making it impossible not to notice that her body was still perfect. Her skin had that light olive tone and looked just as velvety as it did in the days when I spent hours caressing her silhouette.

I swallowed hard and looked away, checking the phone for messages. When I looked up again, she was already dressed in tight jeans, designer sneakers, and a long-sleeved red blouse. Her hair was tied in a ponytail, and she wore subtle makeup.

“If you have sunglasses, it’s best to put them on. The press is outside,” I warned.

Without a word, she pulled a pair of expensive Hollywood-style sunglasses from her bag, hiding much of her face.

“Let’s go,” I said, touching her forearm gently as I led her out.

Outside the room, Doca and Carlos were waiting, both with curious looks.

“Carlos, take my bike to the DHPP,” I ordered, tossing him the keys. He caught them mid-air with a mischievous grin. It was no secret he loved motorcycles and had borrowed my Harley several times.

“Doca, can you take care of things here? I’ll take the victim’s wife in the unmarked car. You guys come later in another vehicle.”

“Sure, boss,” he said, handing me the car key. “Anyone going with you?”

“Send whoever’s available to meet me in the car to drive,” I said, walking with Fernanda at my side. As we exited the hallway, I heard the lead investigator using his radio phone.

“Suelen, get in the unmarked vehicle and take the boss to the station,” he ordered, using the slang for the car.

We descended the marble staircase into the spacious living room. Fernanda paused for a moment, glancing toward the office. I thought she might ask to see her husband’s body, but with a sigh, she kept walking.

Outside, I heard the reporters yelling, trying to get our attention and ask questions. Fernanda gripped my arm tightly, and I guided her past the officers and patrol cars to the unmarked vehicle with dark windows. A woman around thirty-five, with short, straight brown hair, jeans, boots, and a T-shirt, was waiting. A pistol was holstered on her tactical belt.

“Good morning, boss,” she greeted as she opened the back door, and I helped Fernanda get in.

“Good morning, Suelen. Head to the station,” I ordered, sitting in the passenger seat.

Suelen took the wheel, and we passed through the police barricade. Reporters rushed in to film and photograph Fernanda, but the tinted windows kept them from seeing inside.

“Bunch of vultures,” Suelen growled, speeding up the engine so they’d back off.

Once we were clear of the crowd, she accelerated even more, and we soon left the gated community behind.

While we navigated the usual traffic on the Castello Branco highway, I watched Fernanda through the sun visor mirror. She had taken off her sunglasses and was looking down, her hands resting in her lap.

Suddenly, she raised her head and met my eyes through the same mirror. I held her gaze for a moment, old feelings surfacing—hurt, anger, love. I looked away, rolled down the window, and placed the emergency light on the roof.

“Turn on the siren, or we’ll never get to São Paulo,” I told Suelen.

As our vehicle tried to push through the chaotic traffic with sirens and lights blazing, I sank into my memories.