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1
Lyla
Flushing and turning from the stall after upchucking for the first time—which I’m sure won’t be the last—I quickly turn away from the gross public toilet of the Chicago Police Department. How is this happening? This can’t possibly be my life. The years I’ve sacrificed. The blood, sweat, and lots and lots of tears I’ve shed all for nothing. Worse than nothing, my life as I knew it as of six a.m., the normal routine of the gym, the restaurant, and then bed, is all over and has exploded spectacularly in my face. I finish washing my hands and head out of the women’s restroom. As soon as I open the door, Detective Graves is waiting for me. That’s right. I can’t even be trusted to use the bathroom because this balding, fat, pompous asshat thinks my five foot seven skinny ass actually embezzled all my money from myself and also the restaurant I co-own and work at as the top chef. Howard Stapleton is a fucking dead man when I get my hands on him. My business partner has just stabbed me in the back so hard I can feel it coming out of my chest in a fiery blaze.
Instead of tears, my body can only produce vomit. Lots and lots of it for the past twenty excruciating minutes. To be told my dream is over and I’ve broken the law when I know I’ve done nothing wrong has my anger level over my boiling point. I’m not like most women in the sense of hurt feelings. Fuck feelings! Feelings are stupid and pointless, and I don’t want to feel them. I’ve been told this is a crazy and unrealistic outlook, especially since anger is a feeling and my most popular go-to. I really don’t fucking care. I am angry. I’ve worked too hard to be named Chicago’s next greatest chef and put my restaurant on the map when it was nothing but a broken-down rusting warehouse six years ago. Yeah, I did that. Maybe not by myself but I can’t find it in me to be thankful for my no-good partner, Howard, at the moment. I feel like strangling the fucker right now. As if he knows I’m thinking illegal thoughts, Detective Graves gently puts his hand around my elbow as we continue walking down the hallway of the precinct. We pass a man handcuffed to a desk who is covered in dirt and what looks like blood. His eyes are blue, his face covered in dark rust-colored smears. I’m a tough bitch, but I find myself stepping closer to Graves and walking a little faster. I don’t know how I got here. I’m not a criminal. I’ve never broken the law. I’ve never in my life thought I would ever be in a police station, never mind the fact I have no idea how long I’m going to be here or if these officers will be closing me in a jail cell of my own to spend the rest of my life…
“Ms.Turner, have a seat,” Graves instructs as we walk inside a cold room I assume is the interrogation room.
“As I stated before, you are here because we have evidence that a large amount of money has been funneling through your restaurant for the past five years and even more funds have been transferred to offshore accounts in the Caribbean and also parts of Europe. I hate to keep repeating myself, so if you would please explain your side of the story for the record,” he says as he extends his hand and points to the large window behind me.
“Sir, I assure you I had no idea of any of this. I’m a chef. I cook. That’s it. Everything else has been managed by my partner, Howard Stapleton. He has run all our finances for the last five years that Warehouse 39 has been open. I can’t begin to explain something I have a million questions about myself. I can’t believe this is even happening. I’ve trusted Howard to run and manage it all. Where is he? What has he said? Please just tell me this is a really bad joke,” I croak out.
“I’m afraid that’s not the case, ma’am. I do have good news in all this, but you’re not going to like it, and as far as the location of Howard Stapleton, we don’t know. We were hoping to get that information from you, but it’s become clear over the last eight hours that the name Howard Stapleton is an alias and not the man’s legal name. I’m sorry to inform you, Ms. Turner, but your assets are currently being seized by the United States government and all your bank accounts locked until further investigation can completely clear your name in all this.”
“I’m going to throw up again,” I say, lowering my face to look at my hands in my lap like they somehow have the answers.
“How the fuck did this happen? How the hell did he get away but yet I’m sitting here losing everything. Am I really going to go to jail for something I didn’t do?”
I look Graves dead in the eye with the fiercest glare I can manage as my anger rises and boils my blood, and I’m sure it shows all over my face.
“Well, ma’am, I did say I had some good news. We have tracked the illegal paper trail to your partner and are doing our best to clear you of all charges. We just need your cooperation and not your temper,” he says with a professional glare right back in my face.
That cools me a bit. If best case scenario gets me the hell out of here and not serving time, I’ll play ball and try not to lose it. “Of course,” is all I can say between gritted teeth.
