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Hopelessness spirals through me until I curl up into a ball on the hard bed, my knees drawn to my chin, my back to the camera as tears run silently down my cheeks. I can’t afford to show any weakness, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the despair worming its way through me.
I’m going to jail.
I have failed.
* * *
Sleep never comes for me,forcing me to lie in my ball for hours, counting the bricks on the wall as I wait for whatever is to come next. My eyes finally drift closed when the door is unlocked and yanked open, the squeal of the hinges loud in the silence.
Sitting up quickly, I turn to see an officer there. “Hands,” he demands.
I stand and present my wrists. He quickly cuffs them, and then using the chain linking them, pulls me from the cell. The door shuts with a slam, and the buzzer sounds as I’m pulled down the cold corridor. I’m led through twists and turns before being stopped at a door. The officer calls into the mic on his chest and the door buzzes before opening. Roughly, the officer tugs me inside and pushes me into a chair, my cuffs chained to a hoop on the metal table in front of me.
When he’s certain I’m secured, he steps back into the corner of the room. Licking my lips, I look around, instantly realizing I’m in an interrogation room. They caught me red-handed, what is there to talk about?
I take in my surroundings, noticing the two-way mirror on the opposite wall. An empty chair is waiting across from me on the other side of the table. The brick wall encasing me is boring, the small room empty. Glancing to my left, I see the low evening sun shining through the barred window and find myself leaning toward its warm rays. The officer in the room with me doesn’t make a noise, while the rustling of my jumpsuit is loud as I shift in the seat. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when I feel eyes on me, more eyes than the man in the room. No, someone is watching me from behind the mirror. Irritation flares through me at being kept waiting—it’s a game, no doubt, to make me uncomfortable and anxious. My mouth is dry, but I push the thirst away, used to it after years of starvation.
I lean back in the chair, pretending to be calm, with my chin tilted high. Fake it till you make it. I’m shitting a brick for sure, but if they’re waiting for a reaction, I won’t give them one. Who knows, maybe it will hurry them up. After another agonizing hour or so, the door opens and a familiar man steps into the room.
Where do I know him from?
I frown, watching as he strolls in and sits opposite me in the once empty chair, a folder placed on the table in front of him and a coffee cup in hand. He sips it as he watches me, and I finally place him—the detective from the reception room. But what does he want with me?
“Do you want a drink?” he asks, his voice deep.
“Yes, please.” Politeness never hurts, and maybe we can get this over with quicker, whateverthisis.
“Water okay?” he inquires, and I incline my head.
A moment later, the door is opened and another officer places a plastic cup of water in front of me before leaving again. Awkwardly, I take a sip with my bound hands then sit back and meet Bronson’s brown eyes. “My name is Detective Bronson, and you are…” He opens the file and glances at it, but I know it’s an act. He knew my name before coming in here. “Rory O’Brien. Twenty-seven, mother and father dead, only sibling is in an intensive care home. You live at 2436 Knight Lane.” He lists what he knows about me, and seeing my sad little life summed up makes me wilt, which is why he did it.
He’s showing he knows everything about me, proving he has the power here.
He closes the file and relaxes back, sipping his hot drink as he stares at me. “You were brought in on theft. It’s funny though, because when we ran your fingerprints, we managed to link them to at least ten other unsolved burglaries in the system from traces that were left behind.”
I swallow, trying not to give anything away, even though internally, I’m screaming. They can do that? Fuck, I’m so done. I will go away for years for that many crimes. And here I thought I was so smart. But desperate people make stupid mistakes, and now look where it landed me.
When I don’t talk, he continues, “That carries a hefty sentence. If it had been your first offense, the judge might have been lenient, but this many? That’s a pattern, a history of crime with no intent to change…” He smiles cruelly. “I can help you though, Rory.”
Ah, so he’s being the good cop…but what does he want? What if he wants my fence? The people I sell to? Shit, I can’t give that away, they’re rich and connected, not to mention my fence could probably get me killed, even in jail. So I keep my lips tightly sealed. He leans forward, spreading his hands in an imploring manner. “I have an offer for you. You help me, I help you.”
“No,” I respond straightaway.
His eyebrow arches, and he changes tactics when he realizes nice cop isn’t working. “Fine, but you know that means your brother will go back to the streets, right? He will be shooting up again in no time. It won’t be long until we find him dead on a street corner with a needle in his vein.” He smirks maliciously, and I flinch as his verbal hits land. “And that cute little dog you adopted, he will starve or go to the pound and be put down. Perhaps he’ll end up in a fighting ring, but a sweet pup like him will never survive, so sad.”
“What do you want?” I snap to get him to shut up. He’s only telling me what I already know. Guilt and hopelessness fill me, and he realizes he’s got me. I would do anything for my brother and Mischief, and he’s going to use that against me. The bastard.
He smiles and sips his coffee, keeping me waiting. “I have a job for you, something that us detectives can’t do ourselves. We need a civilian, one who can blend in and get the job done. You accept this offer, and we are willing to make a deal. We’ll pay for your brother’s care and get you a suspended sentence so you can spend it at home.”
I narrow my eyes in suspicion, because I can’t think of anything detectives couldn’t do themselves. “What’s the job?” I question.
“It’s undercover work, but our detectives will be spotted too easily. We need a…” He looks me over. “Pretty girl to play dumb, gather information, and report back. That’s all.”
“On whom?” I demand, sick of his word games. Can’t he just tell me what and who they want?
“A prominent family we think is responsible for a murder.”
My eyes flare. I thought it would be for theft, embezzlement, anything other than murder. Fuck! He nods. “Now you understand the stakes. You don’t act or think like a cop, which they would spot a mile away. We will get you into the family business, and you will wear a wire and fill out a daily report. We’ll even supply you with a tiny apartment while you’re on the job. Once we have the information we need to bring them down, you are free to go. It’s that easy.”
