My best friend is in prison.
The thought chased itself through Henry's mind over and over as he stared at the empty desk across from him.
My best friend is in prison for murder.
If George were here, he'd distract him by prattling on about some nonsense. He could almost hear George turning this into a ridiculous plot line for his next novel.
"It was aliens. Venusians can enter people's bodies and take control, you know. They cut people's skulls open, and then squeeze themselves inside. Once they're in there, they force innocent people to commit heinous crimes against their will, and then slither out again, leaving their victim to bear responsibility for their actions. I'm telling you, it could happen to any one of us." George would act out the whole thing, his eyes growing huge as he frightened himself with his own imagination.
Not that George was here to say those kinds of things, because he was in prison right now, possibly a murderer, and possibly facing the noose.
His gaze wandered once more to the empty spot where his best friend belonged. This place was just two desks with no barriers between to stop their squabbling, their flung objects, or their shared laughter. Together, they'd made this more than a seating arrangement, they'd made it a shared personal space. Henry knew it couldn't have stayed that way forever. George had always wanted to be more than a constable, but he'd never wanted to be a killer. If their shared space was meant to end, it wasn't meant to end this way.
He refused to accept George's disappearance as final. Inspector Brackenried had left that desk empty for a reason. There wasn't any need for a replacement at Station House 4, because George was innocent, and they all knew. He would never kill a man, not even for the love of a woman. There was an explanation waiting for them out there, some sort of evidence that proved George couldn't have possibly done anything wrong. All they had to do was find the clues.
Henry slumped. If anyone was going to save George, it wouldn't be him. He'd just bungle it, like he did everything else. All he could do in the mean time was wait out the silence that should have been filled George's enthusiasm and wild theories. Something dragged his stare back across the desk, as if George could have snuck back in the past few minutes without him noticing. Normally he didn't mind leaving the hard work for other people, but this time waiting was worse than checking fingermarks. He needed something to crowd out the ghost George had left behind.
He picked himself up and sat at George's desk. There wasn't any empty chair to taunt him now. When he next looked up, he only saw his own vacated desk, as if he'd stepped out for a break. That was a sight that left him with no reason to be sad.