Page 102 of Careless Whisper

My heart cracks open like a fault line.

“Well, finally,” I hear his sister’s friend Melody snicker as she steps into sight, right when they’re reading me my Miranda Rights like we’re in an episode ofLaw & Order.

Cain’s jaw tightens, his eyes glued to me, enraged.

The deputies guide me roughly from the restaurant. I stumble outside into the biting air, gasping, disoriented. I don't protest—I can't. I’m too stunned.

They shove me into the patrol car, just like in the movies, by pushing my head down.

My head stays down.

I’m ashamed. Embarrassed. Confused.

As they shut the door of the patrol car, the metallic click feels like a full stop to my life.

How can this be happening? Why is this happening?

I coil into myself, like when Jamie used to beat me—because that’s what this feels like:an assault.

They take me to the Marion County substation, a squat brick building tucked behind a post office, less than a twenty-minute drive from Silverton. Inside, it smells like bleach, cheap coffee, and desperation. Death. The end of life as I know it.

There’s a flickering light above the front desk that buzzes like it's dying.

The room I’m put into is a narrow box—a metal table, plastic chairs, and a mirror that hides more eyes than I want to think about.

The walls are beige, smudged with fingerprints and years of quiet misery.

I focus on the metal table that reflects the glare of fluorescent lights that murmur overhead like angry insects.

The air is stale, thick with disinfectant and fear. My fear.

They remove the cuffs, but the phantom burn of them lingers on my wrists. I rub them, slowly, over and over, trying to ground myself, to push away the dizziness threatening to take me under. My hands are trembling. I curl them into fists and press them against my jeans, swallowing hard.

“Miss Baker,” Kyle begins coldly, sliding into the chair across from me. “How long have you lived in Silverton?”

When did I become Miss Baker?

I lick my lips because they are parched. I want water. I want a blanket. I want a hug. “Six months,” I say hoarsely.

“And how long have you worked at Ripley’s?”

“Six months,” I whisper. He knows I got the job there on the day I came here. I stayed in a motel for two weeks until I got my first paycheck and then moved into a studio apartment in the shadiest part of town.

“You can’t live here.” Cain looks horrified seeing where I live.

“Oh, it’s fine. Thanks for the ride.” I scramble out of his car and all but run, promising myself that I’ll never let him drive me home again.

I don’t have a car, and it’s raining, so he insisted.

I should’ve made an excuse, I admonish myself.

I’m ashamed, embarrassed that my boss now knows how poor I am. I dress as nicely as I can with the few clothes I was able to bring with me. I’m clean, taking a shower every day, even when the hot water is shut off, because those are luxuries I have learned to do without.

I know what he sees—a crumbling building next to an old auto shop at the edge of Silverton, far away from the cute small-town appeal of Main Street. The walls smell like oil, and the windows don’t close all the way.

He doesn’t know the half of it—how much worse it is on the inside. A mattress on the floor, my clothes still packed in a suitcase because there’s nowhere to put them. The heater rattling like it’s choking on its last breath.

The owner lives in the building and takes advantage of the desperation of the people who live here, people like me who don’t have a choice.

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