Travis is a kind and sensitive man, soft-spoken, almost feminine. He dresses nice, the way his mom taught him, shirts neatly pressed, pants perfectly creased at the seams. When others teased him, he’d casually mention his beautiful wife, awkwardly smile, and withdraw. He avoids any conflict.

He doesn’t drink or do drugs. He periodically puffs on a vape. It helps him stay calm. Sometimes he’ll be out in the neighborhood walking his dog. He never had any kids of his own. His dog and four cats are referred to as “babies”.

Weekends are spent with his wife. They go out to dinner, or movies, or sometimes to nightclubs. His wife loves to dance. Music and lights. A throbbing of beats. Swirling chaos of bodies in motion. A shaman, a priestess, a nymph, a magician, a single heartbeat booming through speakers. He’s content to remain in her shadow. Safe at her side, secure in the crowd.

He always seems in a hurry, usually running a few minutes late. He never wears watches. It goes back to his childhood. His dad had a watch. Elegant, vintage, gold foil band, and a copper patina. A gift from his mom. He asked him if he could wear it. He always wanted to be like his father, a sailor, a veteran, a golden gloves boxer. The day he wore it into the shower, his mother flipped out. A section of Hot Wheels track would remind him. Bright orange lashes. Parallel welts. Highways of red.

Travis did well in school. His mother saw to it. “We don’t want you becoming a ditch digger!” She warned. That always seemed to keep him in line since he was never good with his hands.

He became a software developer. A world of numbers. Digits and codes emerging to life in the form of an app or financial report. Last year he got a new boss. Hulking, demanding, punctual, brilliant. His boss sometimes calls him at night. Numbers are “not adding up” or a program’s “not working”. Words sting like a Hot Wheel track. He’ll calmly apologize, promise to address it “first thing in the morning”, shrug his shoulders, and hang up the phone. He understands things need to be perfect.

A summer stolen, sunlight dims, days grow colder, darkness arrives. A last-minute project, a server rebuild, a system migration, a budget report that “still isn’t working”. Travis comes home later each day. Sometimes he goes in on weekends. He’s usually exhausted, too tired to go out again. He worries how it’s affecting his marriage. His wife is becoming uneasy. She often complains things are “no longer the same”.

Sunday evening, the final day of Christmas vacation, his palms start sweating as he sets out his clothes. A weeklong reprieve. The end of a season. A fading chorus of hallelujahs. The Rose Bowl parade moves by on the screen. He sits on the loveseat, frozen in terror as the tree’s lights flicker to life. The sun moves slowly, shadows drift, silver garlands sparkle like jewels. His wife asks if something is wrong. He smiles, leans over, kisses her cheek, gets up, and walks into the bedroom. The next day after work, he doesn’t come home.

“I remember the rain,” he recalls to the officer. “The cold winter sky, a sea of red lights extending for miles.”

“What else?” He insists, tapping his desk with the tip of a pen.

“This glowering presence standing before me.” He stretches his arms and curls his fingers. “Threatening, leering. So close I could read the hands on his watch.” He stammers and stutters. His fragile voice starting to crack. “Things went sort of dark after that.”

The officer closes his notebook and gets up from his chair while Travis stares blankly as if in a trance. For a moment he thinks of his wife as tears flood his eyes. Her warm, soft body. Her subtle perfume. The apricot scent of her bathwater. A plush linen towel as it falls at her feet. A silent movie portrayed in his mind. A smile awakens, then quickly retreats. I’m sorry, he mumbles, choking on sobs.  “My God, I’m so sorry.”

“Is there anything else you recall?” The officer crosses his arms as another moves in through an opposite door.

“The blood.” He croaks, his voice strangled into a whisper. “Red highways streaking the floor.” He rocks back and forth now, shaking his head, wringing his hands through his dark, graying hair, dampening strands falling loose on his face.

“Read him his rights.” The officer waves, and the man approaches.

Their eyes lock together as Travis arises. A silent reflection, an unspoken appeal. He searches his face. For kindness. For mercy. A hint of compassion. Identical welts. “Can I call her?” He pleads in the voice of a child.

“Your lawyer?” The officer furrows his brow and exhales a sigh.  

“No, sir.” He murmurs as the man rests a hand on Travis’s shoulder. His posture relaxes, his eyes start to gleam. “I really need to speak with my wife.”