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Torin must be right. It’s woven so tightly into the fabric of our lives that we don’t see and if we do, we don’t believe, heck, I didn’t believe when it was right in front of me.
A refracted light from the window snared her attention and expecting to see a black Charger, she cast her eyes to the drive. Her heart leapt into her throat as a blue and white police car, caught in the glowing rays of the setting sun, eased up the drive.
“Oh, my God, what now?”
She turned and though her once piece, low cut mini was skin tight, she ran lickety-split to find Makayla. Just shy of their bedroom Makayla opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. She was dressed in a slinky red silk blouse with a black skirt and stiletto heels. Seeing Donja’s distress, she froze.
“The police are here,” Donja blurted.
“Oh shit,” Makayla hissed, her eyes like saucers. “Someone must have filed a complaint about the fight outside Observers.” She seized Donja by the arm, dragging her toward the stairs. “Listen closely,” she whispered. “We have to stick to the same story.”
“Which is?” Donja asked, clutching the bannister, fearful of a fall in heels so tall they defied gravity.
“That we got to the club, we were hassled by some guy and left. We ran because of a fight outside, but we know nothing! You hear me, nothing!”
“Makayla, they wouldn’t know our names.”
“Our names are in the computer system at the club. It scans your license and the waitress’ know me. I go there a lot.”
“Shouldn’t we feign ignorance and say we had left already and didn’t see a thing?”
“No, some bystander must have seen us running and told the police or someone may have gotten your license plate number on the bridge, hell I don’t know why they’re here, but we admit nothing. You got it?”
“Yes,” Donja hesitated, “I think,” she breathed, her heart pounding.
“Let’s hope so. All our lives depend on this performance.”
Rebellion
Seated side by side on the antiquated sofa in the living room, Donja and Makayla listened as Carson and one of the two Michigan Soo Police officers made small talk.
Eventually, one of the officers moseyed over and identified himself as Don Blackfoot. He dragged one of the antique chairs, which perfectly matched the sofa, and sat down facing them. The chair creaked miserably as he leaned forward with both hands gripping his knees. He cast his blue eyes to Donja then back to Makayla, sizing them up. He smiled and though it was meant to set them at ease, it only intensified their anxiety. “The two of you were at Observers over in Ontario on Saturday night.”
“Yes,” Makayla breathed.
“I’m told by some of the attendants at the club that on the night in question, the two of you made a hasty exit around midnight. We have a couple of reports that outside the club, the two of you were running. Can you tell me what you were running from?”
“An ugly man who kept wanting me to dance,” Donja blurted with a flat demeanor.
The officer tilted his head with a suspicious stare. “An ugly man?”
“Yes,” Donja retorted, “with a mole on his face.”
Damn, why did I say that? Donja thought.
“A mole? Hmm. Did you get a name?”
“No, we ran.” She said, trying to keep it short.
“Did you notice anything unusual outside the club when you,” he paused searching their faces, “ran from this alleged, ugly man?”
“Yeah,” Makayla said. “I think there was some sort of brawl between a few drunks further down the street. We decided to get out of there fast. We didn’t want to get caught up in anything like that.”
“Did you recognize any of the drunks involved in the brawl?”
“No.” Makayla answered as she met his look of inquiry.
“Where did you go when you left the club?”
