Page 173 of They Are Mine

God, I love them.

I sighed the whole way here, thinking about how perfect my life is.

Except for this little speed bump.

I step inside the police station, and immediately wish I hadn’t.

It’s drab as hell.

Smells like stale coffee, sweat, and stress.

The kind of place where time crawls.

There’s a desk up front, cluttered with paperwork, a fingerprinting kit, and one of those stupid cat calendars.

The officer behind it? Bored as hell. Flipping through paperwork, barely looking up when I approach.

“I need to speak with the detective,” I say.

His eyelids move slower than evolution as he looks at me. “And that would be…?”

I pull out my phone, flipping to my notes.

Like I don’t already know. “Whichever one is asking about Tammy Walters. I’m Juliet Lovelace.”

That gets his attention. He gestures lazily to a hard plastic bench against the wall. “Have a seat.”

I glance over.

There are three other people waiting.

A guy in wrinkled khakis and a polo that’s seen better days, sweating through his collar like he’s about to be booked.

An older woman, probably someone’s grandma, holding a purse like it’s a grenade.

And a teenage girl with pink streaks in her hair, arms crossed, glaring at the officer like she’s personally offended by his entire existence.

I look at the bench.

Then back at him.

Then at the bench again.

Would it be rude to take out a sanitizing wipe?

Or… maybe just wipe down the people sitting here?

I sigh, shaking my head.

Fine.

I sit, perching lightly, like I might catch a disease if I put too much weight on the seat.

And now?

I wait.

Because that’s the worst part about dealing with cops.

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