Page 9 of Wreckage of Me
We walk briskly to the front desk where a policewoman with a very severe hair cut watches us suspiciously.
“How may I help you today?” Her voice matches the rest of her, I decide. Apparently, I am in the business of judging everything based on their looks.
“This is Rebecca Garner,” Sully points at me, taking over as my spokesperson. “She is here to give a statement in the case of Dylan Knight.”
By the time Sully finishes telling this woman what we’re here to do, I feel a little dizzy, and my hands are clammy, grossing me out. I start rubbing them up and down my thighs, trying to pretend that I’m not scared to death.
After a pregnant pause during which the policewoman looked something up on the computer, she waves us in.
“You’ll have to go through the metal detector,” she tells us in a monotone voice. “Any change and cell phones go in the tray,” she adds, and I feel like she’s drilling a whole in my head when she tells us all this. “Sir,” she addresses Sully only now, “your belt needs to come off.”
The assholes winks at her as he pulls the belt out of the loops of his jeans, and I want to roll my eyes at the sky and ask God why he put me in the middle of this mess.
We finally go through the metal detectors, and, as a side note, I had to go through three times because I kept on beeping even though I had nothing on me that could’ve triggered it. In the end, it was concluded that the underwire of my bra was the culprit. I wanted to die. I seriously prayed for it. Teleporting out of here would’ve come handy as well.
I’m finally in a weird room that only has a large table and four chairs, with John Smith sitting on one side, waiting for me. Sully has to wait outside, they won’t let him in with me.
“Miss Garner,” a male voice calls from the doorway just as I’m about to get comfortable in my seat. “Thank you for coming to talk to us.”
“Uh, yes, hi.” I swear I normally know how to put words together. I just feel flustered and out of place at the moment.
“I’m detective Crone. I understand you have information for us in the case of…” He pauses to flip through the pages on his notebook, and I take the time to stare at John Smith, who only gives me an encouraging smile. Weren’t we supposed to talk prior to me talking to the police? “Dylan Anthony Knight,” the detective interrupts my trying to communicate telepathically with John Smith.
“Uh, yes. That is correct,” I bob my head up and down in confirmation.
“How do you know Mr. Knight?”
“Uh, I, we, uh…” What am I supposed to say? “We met when I visited Texas couple of months ago.”
“I understand you’re not from around these parts?” Detective Crone watches me carefully as he starts writing in his little notebook.
“No, I’m from Montana.”
“Montana, huh?” he sounds amused by that piece of information. “And what does a girl like you do so far away from home, Miss Garner?”
“I don’t understand.” I turn my head to look at John Smith who’s just sitting here like a piece of furniture, not contributing with anything to the conversation. This is what I’ve been waiting for? “And what do you meana girl like me?” I bring my eyes back to the detective, trying to give him my best bitchy look.
“Just that you don’t seem like Mr. Knight’s type,” Detective Crone shrugs in amusement.
“And what is Mr. Knight’s type, if you don’t mind me asking?” I place my elbows on the table and lean forward to get more of his attention. I’ve decided that John Smith is useless, so I’ll have to ride this out on my own.
Detective Crone grins from ear to ear, completely unbothered by my implication that he’s an idiot. “Slutty,” he finally answers my question. “That seems to be more up Mr. Knight’s alley,” he shrugs, then writes something down in his pathetic notebook.
“I’d like to speak with someone else.” I stand up, ready to go, unwilling to listen to his verbal abuse. I’m here to help Dylan, not to get insulted by a damn serial donut eater.
Detective Crone doesn’t blink an eye at my distress.
“I’m all you got.”
4
Wrecker
“Ma,”I clear my throat when I hear her worried voice over the line. I’m sure she knew it’d be me calling when she got an automated message asking her to accept the call. The message sounded legit too, like it was coming from the county jail. Devereaux doesn’t mess around, I’m impressed.
“Dylan,” she sobs into the speaker. “Are you okay?”
“You heard then.” I don’t have to ask. I’m sure someone told her my situation by now, most likely my father, who, I’m sure, took great pleasure in telling her that she may never see me again.
