Page 13 of Badges
But that sheriff had a genuine look of concern when he was talking to me yesterday. Almost like he cared.
Was it a game he was playing? Did he really know my mom?
She was happier when I was little, I think. I have happy memories of her reading me books and laughing when I was being silly at the park near our old house.
But I also remember her trying to hide the bruises. And how much she cried that last time when my father beat her so badly she could hardly breathe.
Maybe I should be grateful for the cops that showed up and took him away. Was it really the sheriff that was there?
I can’t recall. I was barely ten, and that whole thing is a blur of screaming and rage, followed by months of running while Mom tried to heal.
Then it was taking care of Cynthia while we tried to rebuild our lives in a new state with a distant family I didn’t even know.
They tried to shame her as if the abuse was her fault.
I still hate her sister for it.
Heavy footsteps echo down the concrete hall making me rush to sit up.
Is this how I want to spend the rest of my life? With a wall of bars and on display?
My stomach knots at the thought of never having privacy again. And what good will I be to Cynthia if I’m trapped in prison?
Or if I’m gone?
I fucking hate this, that’s what.
“Mornin’.” Sheriff Rowland stops in front of the steel cage I’m stuck in, a tray of bland food in his hand.
It looks tiny in his broad grip.
He slides it through a wide slit in the bars to land on an extended edge.
“Shooting those eye darts at me won’t help you none.” His palms raise. “I went and checked on my buddy and his wife yesterday. You know, the ones you’ve been harassing the last few weeks? Good news, he’s gonna live. Bad news, she wants to come down here and tear your head off.” He gives me a lopsided grin under his dark red beard. “I wouldn’t want to mess with her.”
Shit, I’d deserve it.
I don’t know them from anyone, yet I’ve caused them all that damn grief.
Guilt boils into a sour taste in the back of my throat, killing whatever appetite I may have had. It’s just another nail in my coffin. Not only did I fail my sister, but I’ve hurt innocent people and animals along the way.
“Let her,” I say quietly, tugging the thin blanket under my chin.
His brows knit over a frown, then he turns and drags a folding chair to the front of the bars.
He pulls his tan cowboy hat off his head, gesturing towards the silver badge that’s fixed to the front of it. “There’s no cameras, no interrogation room, Elena. Right now, I’m not a cop.” To emphasize his point, he tosses his cap onto the floor. “I’m a family friend. I really, truly, want to help figure out what is going on. Those people that own that dairy? They’re some of my very best friends in the world. I should be pissed beyond all belief about what you did.” He stops, his knuckles turning white as he squeezes his fingers. “I’m mad as hell that there’ssomeoneout there who wanted this done.” He takes a deep breath, slowly exhaling the smell of coffee through my cell. “But I know you ain’t them.”
He looks up, the pain apparent in his mahogany colored eyes.
Is this some new technique they teach in police school?
The touch of gray at his temples tells me he’s long out of classes.
Could he really be telling me the truth?
“How well did you know my mom?” I ask quietly, reaching for the tray. It’s a microwave breakfast, but it’s hot.
He props his elbows on his knees, his shoulders hunching. “I met her for the first time when you were brought into the hospital with a suspicious injury. It was one of my first cases.”
