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Henry fucking Maxwell.
15
What came after was something of a blur to Billie. If she tries to remember what happened exactly and in what order, all that comes to mind is a loud, tangled mess of flashing cop lights, yellow tape sticking across the door, muffled voices and hands on her arms leading her out of the house.
The cops took her and Tonya to the station. The ride, she hardly remembers at all—only that Tonya was beside her. Crying? Silent? She can’t remember.
What she does know is that they took that water bottle right out of her hands—stole it from her grip, like stealing a teddy out of a crying child’s embrace, before the car door slammed shut.
However long she’s been separated from that bottle, the drink she craves in the thickness of tears in her throat, aches for in her churning gut… however long it’s been without the drink has been too long.
This ain’t Billie’s first time stuck in the cop station. They won’t give it back until they let her go.
But this is her first time in the station not picking up her mom or being in the drunk tank herself.
Instead, she’s trapped—door locked—in a plain white room with two metal chairs, one metal table and a single strip of glaring fluorescent light on the ceiling just beaming down at her, like it’s trying to blind her.
Billie doesn’t sit. Not for a long while.
She paces, to the door, to the wall, to the window, around the table—then back around again. A cycle she repeats while twisting her red-raw hands together, pausing to kick the toe of her boot on a table leg, lolling her head back and heaving a groan loud enough that she’s sure they can hear it on the other side of the door.
Sometimes, she pauses to cry. Not sob. Not weep. But that ugly, twisted-face thing that happens when she’s really trying to hold it all in.
Then—finally—a reprieve comes.
She’s leaning back against the far wall chewing on her nails when the door unlocks. Just as it opens, she looks up with suddenly alert and wide eyes.
The Deputy comes in. Wade, his name is. Once from the Southside.
His head is bowed, attention on the folder he’s holding limp in one hand—but his other hand is still on the door, holding it open for himself… and Billie can see what’s behind him.
Tonya.
Her breath hitches and she pushes from the wall. Just as she takes a single step, two others move into view. Tonya’s parents.
Billie pauses. She falters for a beat, then steps back to lean against the wall again—all three of them out there are crying.Sobbing.
It’s too private.
Billie hasn’t sobbed yet. Her tears have been a burn in her eyes, dampness on her cheeks, but no sounds—only silence.
Then the door swings shut and steals away the view of Tonya huddled by her mom and dad.
Billie’s trapped in the room again.
Billie has all sorts of nightmares to keep her tossing and turning all night. But this one right here feels like a waking nightmare.
The same fucking questions, over and over and over.
‘Did you call Gigi last night?’
‘What did she say?’
‘Oh, she didn’t answer?’
‘And you texted her, yeah?’
‘You thought you would just tag along with Tonya in the morning—or was it your idea to go?’
