Page 75 of The Hitch
Helena
Aweek in the underground prison. Twelve hours of interrogation. One lawyer ending it all, allowing me my freedom. My body feels hollow and numb, like none of this is really happening. The lawyer leads me out of the police precinct, gently holding the crook of my arm. I don't know his name, but he mumbles comforting words I don't care to hear.
At the curb, a familiar black SUV gleams in the sunlight. It's too bright. It hurts my eyes. The lawyer releases my arm and nods to the driver, who quickly steps out and stands atattention. I don't move. I can't move. The driver remains silent, acknowledging the lawyer with a brief nod. He disappears.
I squint and look at my feet, shuffling toward the passenger side. The driver shakes his head and opens the rear door silently. I don't have it in me to argue, so I clamber in and try to keep myself from curling up into a fetal position. In the seat beside mine, a clean-cut man with sorrowful eyes smiles sadly and fiddles with his phone.
"I'm sorry you went through all of that," the man says.
I don't respond. I can't.
"We know that you did everything you could. We commend you for your service." He sighs. "You've been through a horrible ordeal. Truly, you're a stronger person than I. However, you're being put on administrative leave, Helena. Do you understand?"
All I can do is nod.
"Good. This will be good for you. You need to decompress from this traumatic experience. The facility we have is top-notch—the best therapists and psychiatrists in the world work for us. And we know that they'll be able to help you. In time, we look forward to welcoming you back with open arms. Do you want to bring anything with you?"
I shake my head, no.
"If you're sure? Well, then. The plane is ready to go as soon as we get to the airstrip. Your passport is in the bag."
The bag? I look down at the floorboards and finally notice a small duffle bag. Army green. Stamped with The Dantalion's symbol. It's for me. I unzip it and inspect the contents: a new pack of underwear, two sports bras, my passport, and a toothbrush.
"Our apologies for the lack of luxuries. You'll be supplied with anything you need in the facility." He pats my arm gently, and I flinch. He yanks his hand back and gives me an apologetic look.
"The facility?" My voice sounds strange. Scratchy. Almost alien, like it's not even me speaking.
"Yes, it's almost like a vacation. The staff will wait on you hand and foot. I've heard the massage therapy is particularly effective."
I suppose that doesn't sound bad. One of my squad mates in the Navy had rich parents, and they paid for the best rehab available when he got a little too hooked on cocaine. He said it was more like an extended stay at a resort than rehabilitation. If I know the Goetic Consortium like I think I do, I might be in for a similar stay.
A pang of guilt slithers through my lungs. I'm going to a fancy recovery facility, and Melody is likely already in jail. Ella's a detective—she probably has an in with the district attorney. No bail, no bonds, no special treatment. With how much she hates Melody, my best friend isn't going to have a cushy stay in the county jail.
The sound of that man's skull cracking open on the concrete floor echoes in my mind. I suppress a shudder and force myself to look out the window. The city skyline is hazy in the distance, and we're almost to the airport. Not the commercial airport where families hustle and stress about making their flights to Costa Rica, no.
GoCon utilizes a hobby airport north of the city, where they can fly in and out with their small private jets. I wonder if I'll be in a nice one? Will I get to relax in a comfy seat? Or will it be one of the tiny planes where you can barely stand?
Anxiety rockets around my bones as my thoughts ping-pong around. Melody. A private jet. The sound of her murdering that man. Heated towels.
Will I ever be okay again? Will she?
What if the Seraph has people in the jail—what if they dispose of her? Make it look like a suicide attempt?
I don't even realize I'm trembling until the man signals the driver to halt the car.
"Hey. It's going to be alright. I promise." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
My heart is racing, and sweat coats my palms. I need to get away from this man. He isn't safe, I'm not safe, this isn't right. This can't be right. Why is he looking at me like that?
Why is he leaning back toward me? What does he have in his hand?
Why does my arm sting?
My mouth is so dry. I smack my lips together, trying to gather even a smidgen of saliva, but it doesn't work. I crack open an eye and quickly slam it shut again. Too bright. Too many colors. Toomuch.
Something cold and heavy clamps around my ankle with a metallic clang. I try to shake it off, but the rattle of chains is tooloud.
Chains?
