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“Ready, Miss Van der Zee?” he asks softly. I blink up at him and eventually nod. What else can I do? “Lead the way,” he says to the officer who hurried me along.
“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t come back there with your client.”
The professor says nothing but stares at the guy until he starts to squirm.
“It’s ah, not standard practice…” he stammers. Still, the professor just stares. “But, I guess we could, umm, make an exception…just this once.”
The prof smiles – though it’s more like a dangerous baring of his teeth – and we follow the officer along the corridor to where the holding cells await. Walking is like dragging my feet through quicksand, and my mouth feels just as dry. My heart rate increases with every step closer and chills cause goosebumps to rise on my arms, even though I feel clammy with sweat and fear.
The officer eventually stops and unlocks a heavy metal door, pulling it open on creaky hinges. I swallow hard.
“This is your stop, Miss Van der Zee,” he says nervously.
Before I can take a step forward, the professor moves ahead of me into the room and looks around the space. The room is scarce. A single bed bolted to the floor along one wall, with a thin pillow and threadbare blanket on top of a thin, lumpy-looking mattress.
In the corner of the room there’s a metal toilet – like the ones you’d find in public restrooms back home – and a matching basin. No wall. No privacy. No toilet paper.
The professor crosses to the taps and tests they’re working. He scoops some water into his hand, brings it up to his face like he’s going to drink it, but then suddenly pours it away with a shake of his head.
“Don’t drink that either.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Miss Van der Zee,” he says, turning to face me and standing up to his full height.
I nod past the lump in my throat. I’m not going to cry.I’m not.
“Umm, well, it might not be morning,” the officer stammers.
“And why not?” the professor challenges. The officer gulps. He can read the room, and right now it’s screamingdanger.
“B-b-because they m-might n-not get r-round to interviewing your client first t-thing.”
“My client is accused of committing several atrocious murders and you’re telling me that your colleagueswon’tprioritise this case?” The professor’s tone is heavily sarcastic. No response is required. “I’ll see youfirst thingin the morning,” he stresses to me. “Try to get some sleep.”
With that he steps out of my cell, and the officer hurries to catch up with him, closing the door and locking it with an ominous clang.
I eye my surroundings and begin the grounding technique that my doctor had me working on. No, not my doctor. Reef. I need to stop thinking of him as a real doctor.
Fuck. I’ve been through so much in such a short space of time.
Focus, Malia! What can you see?
The bed. The toilet. The sink. The bars on the window. The moonlight shining in from outside.
Good. What can you touch?
I run my fingers lightly over the smooth walls, the cold metal of the footboard, the scratchy blanket, the lumpy mattress.
Focus on three things you can hear.
The drip of the tap – that will drive me crazy.
Focus. What else? Two more things. You can do this.
The ocean in the distance. And the occasional sounds of traffic out on the main road. It must be late because the roads don’t sound busy.
What can you smell?
The ocean. Fresh paint. Better not to dwell on the other scents surrounding me.
