Page 46 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
"Elena." I keep my voice level. "Can you make sure she's comfortable until I get there? I'd owe you."
"Add it to the list." she says with a dry tone. "I'm still waiting on you to close the Mendez matter."
"Two weeks out from that."
A pause, shorter than the ones before. "I’ll make sure she’s ok."
"Thank you."
The line drops. The road opens up and I press harder.
Trespassing. Possible weapons. Her voice steady but scared.
William’s words come to mind.Sooner or later she will show her true colors.
I push the thought aside.
It comes back.
That's the thing about doubt that comes attached to someone you trust. You can't dismiss it the way you'd dismiss a stranger's opinion. It has weight. It follows you down the freeway at aspeed you shouldn't be doing, sits in the passenger seat and waits.
I don't have enough information. I don't know what the weapons note means or where it came from. I don't know what I'm going to walk into when I get there.
What I know is that she called me. And that she was scared.
I press harder on the gas like speed alone can get me to the truth faster.
17
SIENNA
The chair is what has my focus.
Not the cold, not the silence, not the fact that I am alone in this room. The chair. Metal with a slight give at the back that makes it uncomfortable to settle into.
If I shift my weight it scrapes against the concrete floor. The sound goes through me wrong. I shift again before I can stop myself and the sound happens again and I make myself go still.
My feet are cold. They took the laces from my boots when they brought me in. Standard procedure, the officer said. His voice flat with the routine of it. Now I've been sitting long enough that the tops of my boots are loose, the leather flopping slightly when I move, and it makes me feel small in a way I can't seem to snap out of.
I wrap my arms around myself. The AC is running hard. Without my hoodie I'm down to a thin t-shirt and the cold has moved past discomfort into the kind that occupies your chest and stays.
I breathe through it.
There was another room like this once. Different police station but the same fluorescent light that gives you migraines if you stay under it for too long. I was sixteen. The chair was similar to the one I’m sitting now.
Underneath my left sleeve was a bruise from three days before, yellow-green at the edges, along my ribs there were newer ones from that night, still sharp when I tried to breathe normally.
I sat in that chair and I did not cry. Crying would lead to questions I didn’t know how to answer.
I remember being cold that night too. I remember counting the tiles to have something to focus on.
I stop that. I press my thumb into my index finger and hold the pressure until that's the only thing I feel.
I'm not sixteen anymore.
The door opens.
The officer who arrested me fills the frame. "Your lawyer's here," he says and I can feel the disdain in his voice.
