He was expecting worse than this, honestly.

Maybe it's the bright sunlight holding back memories of streetlights in the middle of night, or the summer heat rather than autumn chill that had been there before, but whatever it is, it's keeping his forecasted mental breakdown in check.

He isn't sure if it's okay to be thankful for that, because… maybe he deserves it.

The police station is quiet, keyboards tapping away in the background and a laugh coming from behind a closed door somewhere. Not much in the way of mass murders or even coffee shop tip jar robberies going on today, he supposes. It was quiet the last time he was here… that is, until he'd started sobbing halfway through his statement.

I didn't—I couldn't—he was just—

"Please, let it mean something…"

I couldn't stop—

Everyone had been so understanding, so kind. His record was so clean; he'd hardly been fined for the traffic violation (approximately 7 miles over the speed limit). There'd been a few hours of community service here and there to take care of the other little issue,and now his record is gleaming again, just like his hands after he'd spent twenty minutes scrubbing the blood from them as soon as they'd pointed him to the restroom. They'd helpfully replaced his stained button-down with a logo-bearing t-shirt as well, and he didn't ask what they did with his own shirt.

It didn't seem right… It didn't seem fair.

He hadn't wanted to go jail, but he felt he deserved worse than he'd gotten. He'd fully expected that black spot to stay there forever, but they'd expunged it just as the lawyer he hadn't wanted had predicted. He was speeding a bit, yes, but—he—had been jaywalking, so there'd been no serious finger pointing of a legal fashion in either direction.

"Alfred," his father had begun, calm and collected as usual. "You don't want to get into more trouble than you need. Just let me take care of this. Trust me, it might not be negligent homicide, but vehicular manslaughter isn't the best thing to see on someone's record."

"Can I help you?"

The receptionist is looking up at him now, and he hopes desperately that he hasn't been standing here as long as it feels like he has. Not wanting to keep her waiting any longer (and questioning his sanity) (not that she shouldn't), he quickly attempts to swallow away the lump in his throat.

He is unsuccessful, so he attempts to speak around it.

"I, um… I have sort of a strange request."

He's still sitting at his small kitchen table, staring at the phone in one hand and the long, awkwardly-formatted number scribbled on a hot pink sticky note in the other. His backside is numb by this point, he vaguely realizes, and checks the time.

It's been six hours since he left the station.

Alfred lets out a ragged breath and tilts back until his chair is against the wall. The police station had been too easy, so it makes sense that this is too hard.

What time is it over there anyway? He isn't sure what the difference is, but the phone's world clock function is helpful enou—9:48 pm.

Too late. He'll have to wait.

He swears and lets all four legs of his chair thud against the linoleum. It'll just be one more day, but still… He's been meaning to do this for a while, and for a while, he wasn't even sure if it's allowed. But he'd finally gotten the guts to ask, and here he's sat, too scared to make the call, afraid of what he'll hear.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. He'll call tomorrow, and he'll deal with whatever he gets.

Tomorrow turns into today, and before Alfred can convince himself to call, it's turned into the day before yesterday.

But right now there's a gut-wrenching digital purring coming from the phone pressed to his ear hard enough to hurt, and he stuffs his other hand between the cushions of the couch to keep it still as he waits. The damn thing has already betrayed him once today: He'd had the number punched in, ready to go, when his shaking sent his thumb a little too close to the Call button when he was nowhere near ready for it.

But he's dealing with whatever he gets, like he told himself he would, and that's just how it's going to b—

"Hello. … Hello?"

He fights off the urge to hang up immediately and manages to convince his voice that it still exists.

"Um, hi. Is this—" his mind blanks for a terrifying moment—the name the name, the stupid name! "—James Kirkland?"

"Speaking. And who are you?"

He stumbles over the accent for a moment before he realizes what he's been asked. He knew there would be tough questions, but he hasn't really anticipated that this one would be as difficult to answer as it is.

"Well, I'm sure you probably won't want to talk to me, but… My name is Alfred Jones. I… I'm—"

"You're the one that killed Arthur."