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ONE
FRIDAY, JUNE 9TH 10:00 PM
Tonight
“Place your hands behind your back and turn around. You’re under arrest for the kidnapping of a minor,” an officer commands, his voice husky and raw.
I’ve only heard these rights spoken on TV, usually after a high-speed car chase, or drug-bust. Nothing like this.
The last few minutes of my life are a complete blur, and my brain is struggling to catch up. “I—you don’t understand. I didn’t—I would never take any of their children—anyone’s child.” No matter how many times I keep saying it, it’s as if I’m not speaking at all. No one is listening.
“I said, turn around,” the officer demands. He grabs my arm and jerks me around. I stare at the lush arrangement of pale pink peonies on the decorative table in the middle of the foyer. A whirlwind of voices swirls around my head as a cold sweat climbs up my limbs. My knees threaten to give out, but I can’t give this officer another reason to believe I’m resisting arrest.
Cold steel rings clang together as the officer’s handcuffs engulf my two wrists. The handcuffs tighten one at a time,pinching my skin so I can’t twist my hands in any direction. My chest aches from how hard my heart is pounding. This is beyond anything I could think up in a nightmare. This must be a misunderstanding—an awful one.
“…Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law…”
Desperation writhes through me as the shrill of words bark up my throat. “I didn’t do this! Please, I’m begging you! You’re making a mistake. You have to—you need to believe me. Why would anyone think I’d take a child?”
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.”
The officer circles around me, stopping when we’re face to face. He’s unaffected by the tears forming in my eyes. “Please,” I whimper, along with a ragged breath. “Please, just let me speak.”
“Ma’am, we’ve stated these rights for your protection. We don’t place citizens under arrest without the presence of probable cause, which we have.”
Mr. Smith, the stiff-necked affluent father of the two little girls I was watching tonight, paces through each room like an animal searching for its prey, his blonde hair fringed in every direction and his tuxedo unbuttoned and ragged. “And she tried to flee the scene,” he snaps, following the officer’s reminder for me to keep quiet. Mr. Smith swings doors open one after another, bellowing a name that I’ve only just heard for the first time.Fallon. His voice echoes through the house like thunder against a rolling hill. “Fallon, sweetheart, it’s daddy. Where are you, baby girl?” Hysteria grows heavier through each word.
“I didn’t try to run,” I cry out under my breath.
Another officer is holding Mrs. Smith upright as she stumbles in her skintight sequined dress toward her white leather couch in the sitting room. She’s gasping between eachloud wail. Inky black mascara tears streak down her cheeks as she combs her manicured nails along her plunging neckline.
“She was here—our baby, Fallon,” she croaks. “She was here when we left.”
TWO
FRIDAY, JUNE 9TH 11:45 PM
Nausea sloshes through me as pedestrians stare at the passing cruiser. I’ve always been the one watching from the outside, wondering what the person inside had done. How many times had I assumed wrong about someone like me?
“Please, can you hear me? I didn’t take their child,” I shout, my voice bouncing against the thick glass shield between us.
The ride isn’t long enough to suffocate my burning thoughts and fears. When the back passenger door opens, I’m pulled from the seat and guided toward a steel door on the side of the police station.
Inside the interview room, the walls close in on me. Panic jolts through my blood, making me hot and cold at the same time. Sweat beads across the back of my neck. I’m desperate for air, but this enclosed space with glossy gray painted brick, white speckled linoleum floor, a faux wood cafeteria table and two folding metal chairs has no windows.
The other chair is on the opposite side of the table. I’m still in handcuffs, re-secured after they took digital scans of my fingerprints and a mugshot to keep on file.
In my twenty-seven years of life, I have never been in trouble. I was never even sent to the head office in grade school. Theone time I almost got in trouble was for standing up from my desk in my seventh-grade English class before the bell rang. The teacher pointed at me and with a sharp tongue, said, “See me after class, Ms. Vaughn.” The kids around me made the “ooooh” sound, highlighting the trouble I was in. I had never cried in school before, but I instantly burst into tears and couldn’t catch my breath. The teacher rushed to my side to calm me down. She seemed remorseful and even apologized. The punishment had ended with a whispering statement that we all make mistakes, and she was sure I wouldn’t let it happen again. She didn’t make me stay after class that day. But the memory still sticks with me. I never look for trouble.
I wish tears would help me right now. I want to cry and beg for them to let me go.
A female officer makes her way through the heavy metal door, letting it close with a nerve striking metallic clang.There’s no use in intimidating someone already intimidated,and I’ve cooperated despite my cries of innocence. I’m shaking so hard all my muscles ache.
The officer has shoulder-length coffee-brown hair tied back into a low ponytail. Her uniform is decorated with a badge, patches, and the embroidered nameMead. Her muddy-tan shirt and pants look snug, making her seem uncomfortable as she eases down into the seat across from me. She tightens her grip around a yellow-lined notepad full of scribbles then drops it onto the table and pulls her chair in closer. I wish her presence gave me relief, but there is a look in her eyes that says she’s already made up her mind.
“Ms. Vaughn, do you know why we’ve detained you tonight?” Officer Mead pulls a pen from her breast pocket and clicks the top. Her cold stare sends a chill down my spine. She’s ready to jot down what she hopes will be my confession. Her scrutinizinginflection demolishes the last bit of hope I had of defending myself.
I shake my head as my chin trembles, and I try to think of words that will mean something more than what I’ve already tried to convey. “No, ma’am. The Smiths accused me of kidnapping their baby, but I swear to you, I never knew that this baby existed,” I reply, my voice broken and breathless. A shuddering inhale warns me I might fall apart at any second. I can’t swallow against my dry throat. My bravery is wearing off.
