Yet, everything about the scene isalsowrong.
Yes, I’m handcuffed to the table and there’s no faking this interrogation room that reeks of ancient cigarettes and hopelessness.
But they haven’t forced me into one of those jumpsuits they put you in after forensics checks you out.
They’ve only booked me in and taken my picture and prints. A pat down that was more of a grope than a body search revealed my knife to them.
Of the two, Bordeau has more paws than a brown recluse.
So… is this on the down-low?
I’ve watched too many cop procedurals not to sniff a rat, but the fact this feels bona fide also has me on edge.
“I’d like a phone call,” I repeat, noting how someone’s turned the cameras in here to face the wall. There’s a severe lack of any substantial recording equipment too.
“If we give you that, then the deal’s off the table.”
“It’s not your place to make a deal,” I tell him sweetly, determining that next year, I’m going to take a class in this. Criminology or forensics or whatever. I won’t be caught short again. “Or is an ADA sniffing around that two-way mirror and I just haven’t met them yet?”
“We know you were there, Victoria. We know you argued with the victim. We know you came to blows with him over his dancing with other female guests. We have a witness who saw you and the victim arguing. We found a knife on your person. What do you want to bet that that knife matches the slash mark on his throat?”
Because I know that’s impossible, I close my eyes and don’t bother masking my boredom. “Phone call. I’ve been here for over four hours. This is a breach of my rights.”
“Would you like something to eat?”
My eyes pop open.
When I study them, awash with suspicion, Wallowicz tsks. “Well?!”
“Please.”
They grunt. Get up. Leave the room. Preparing themselves for another round of “make me talk without a lawyer present.”
This is their job, but it isn’t mine.
I know my rights and everything iswronghere. My hands might be cuffed, but they didn’t bag my valuables or charge me, so this is beyond shady.
The cops don’t bring me any food either.
Assholes.
Anxiety made it easy to shove aside hunger, but since the fucker brought it up, my stomach doesn't appreciate being made to wait after consuming mostly air and Champagne at the charity auction.
When the door opens, I glance at the clock.How is it 6 AM already?
“You said you’d bring me something to eat.”
“We were thinking you’d be open to discussion.”
“You mean interrogation. An illegal one. Seeing as, ya know, you’re ignoring my right to an attorney.”
I close my eyes once more and shut them out. Ignoring their questions, I don’t even bother listeningorrequesting food.
But it’s easier to avoid hunger when, in my mind’s eye, I see Maxim slipping that switchblade into my dress.
God, talk about bad timing.
Or was it?
