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“Is this really necessary, Officer? You’re scaring my children.”
“After what you did to Ethan Striker, we have to treat you like a dangerous fugitive. Now get moving,” he says, manhandling me down the steps.
“What do you want me to do, Will?” Ashton calls after me in a tone of desperation.
I yell over my shoulder, “Call Vanessa and Carter. Tell Carter to get in touch with Marlowe.”
The officer wrestles me into the back seat of the patrol car, and we speed off towards town. When we arrive at the police station, Four Eyes drops us at the back door and Chrome Dome leads me to the booking room.
“I’ve never been arrested before. How does the process work? When can I get out on bail?” I ask as he’s logging my personal property.
“On Monday morning when the magistrate court goes into session.”
“Wait. What? I have to stay here all weekend?”
“Afraid so, pal.”
After fingerprinting me and taking my mug shot, Chrome Dome guides me into the cell block. He slides open a cell door and shoves me inside, clanging the door shut behind me.
“Hey! Wait. I have a right to make a phone call.”
“You’ll get your phone call. After I’ve eaten my lunch.”
I glance around at the cinderblock walls, stainless steel toilet, and metal cot fitted with a thin mattress and flat pillow. I’m prone to claustrophobia, and I immediately feel the walls begin to close in on me. With no watch or wall clock, I have no way to mark the time. I stretch out on the bed and begin counting in sixty-second increments. Exhausted from lack of sleep and the events of the morning, I soon doze off. When I wake, I have no idea what time it is, how long I slept, if it’s even night or day.
On an orange tray just inside the door is a bowl of chicken noodle soup that has gone cold. Presumably my lunch. Fortunately, I ate extra waffles for breakfast, and I’m not yet hungry.
Based on the eerie silence, I’m the only prisoner currently occupying the cell block. Then again, we don’t have much crime in Water’s Edge.
I resign myself to spending the weekend in here. With nothing to occupy my mind, I lie on my cot, staring up at the ceiling, and think about how I got myself into this situation. I am a victim. I’ve done nothing wrong. Yet a lot of people are determined to ruin me and send me to prison for life. Tracy’s parents. Detective Rourke, whom I’ve never even met. Ethan Striker, an opportunist who is willing to destroy a man for a lead story. And Julia. Although I have yet to figure out how she fits into the picture.
My anger festers into rage. My head pounds and my vision blurs. None of Clemmy’s coping mechanisms work. Punching the walls is the only thing that releases the fury consuming me.
I tell time by the delivery of meals. While I’m lying on my bed, fantasizing about the awful things I would like to do to Tracy’s parents, an officer delivers my dinner on Sunday evening.
“I have your dinner, sir.”
I sit bolt-upright in bed. Did he just call me sir? A young officer with a baby face and blond hair is standing on the other side of the bars with a tray.
“I pulled a few strings and got you a home-cooked meal,” he says.
I move closer to the bars. The hunger pangs have been gnawing at my belly for hours. “Seriously?”
“Yes and no. Yes, your sister sent the lasagna. It smells amazing. But no, I’m too far down the totem pole to ask for favors. I could get fired for sneaking this in here.”
I look from the silver-domed plate to him. “Then why did you?”
He glances around, making sure no one is in earshot. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m working undercover for Detective Marlowe. He sent a message. He said for you to keep the faith. Your attorney will arrange your bail first thing in the morning.”
My shoulders sag as some of the tension leaves my body. I hope this attorney is the woman Vanessa recommended. I glance down at his nameplate. “Thank you for being one of the good guys, Cody Porter. I will not forget your kindness.”
Sliding the door open, he hands me the tray. Noticing my bloody knuckles, he asks, “What happened to your hands?”
“I had a run-in with a cinderblock wall.” My face warms. “I would say it’s not what you think, but it is totally what you think. My anger got the best of me. The whole world is out to get me, and I can’t seem to catch a break.”
In a sympathetic tone, he says, “I get it, man. You may feel like the lone wolf, but you have a lot of people on your side. Do you think anything’s broken?” he asks about my hands.
I rub my sore knuckles. “No. They’re just cut and bruised.”
