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I’m not stupid. I know there’s cameras recording my every move, and I’m pretty sure that there’s always at least two people watching me from behind the glass ‘mirror’ on the wall. I’ve not looked at it. I’ve not looked at anything. I feel like my body has turned to stone, rigid with tension and fear.
If I were braver, maybe more like Summer, I could bang on the door and demand they give me a drink or my phone call or something. They’ve not even let me use it yet. I don’t know who to reach out to when they do. I only know two numbers off by heart, and I don’t really want to dial either of them: Summer or my parents. I’d rather die than call my parents. Besides, they’re all the way over in the U.K. so even if theycouldhelp me, they’re too far away to do much. And they definitelywouldn’thelp me if given a choice.
I’ll have to call Summer. But I don’t know what she’ll be able to do. Maybe I can ask her to reach out to Cove or Bhodi for me? Cove was amazing coming to my rescue before, getting the others involved and going above and beyond to not only get me out of there, but to keep me safe since. Perhaps he could do the same thing now? But how would I explain that to summer?
Oh, hi, bestie, it’s me. I know we haven’t spoken much since I disappeared after finding a dead body in a restaurant bathroom, but maybe you could call the guy who helped me cover it up, because I’m kinda in trouble again because they think I killed her?
The door to the interview room opens, making me flinch. The sound is so loud after being alone with only my thoughts for so long.
She doesn’t look like a killer.
I almost weep in relief when I hear that thought, coming from the first police officer to enter the room. She’s female but doesn’t look overly approachable. Her face is set in stern lines and she has a no-nonsense expression.
Jesus, the crazy haired ones are always the worst. Bet she’s a full blown psycho, like my ex. Definitely guilty.
My heart sinks when her partner walks in and his opinion hits me square in the face. If ever there was an advert for not judging a book by its cover, this is it. He’s tall, well-built, and – I suppose – good looking. His uniform fits much better than hers, and his shoes are nicer. I notice that he’s a leftie,like the professor, and he has a warm smile on his face. He passes me a disposable cup of water but I don’t take it. A flicker of annoyance passes his features so quickly that I swear I imagined it, before he slides the water across the table to me anyway.
“Malia, hi. How’re you doing?” He’s presenting as the good cop then, but I’m not buying it. This guy has a chip on his shoulder the size of London and he’s already condemned me as guilty. My gaze flicks to his partner as they take their seats and place a Manila folder on the table between us. I don’t look at it. I don’t answer their question.
“Would you like something else to drink?”
I don’t answer.
“Can we get you anything?”
I say nothing.
“Do you need a lawyer? We can assign one to you. You don’t have to worry about money.”
Answer me you fucking piece of shit! You think you’re so much better than everyone else with your rainbow hair and your alternative vibes? You’re just a lowlife piece of shit killer, just like the rest of them.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me react to his vile thoughts. Wouldn’t surprise me ifthisguy was a damn killer.
“Miss Van Dee Zee, if you’re not going to talk to us, we have other things to be doing,” the woman’s voice is like a whip. Ah, so we have good cop, bad cop going on. I thought that was just in films and bad TV shows.
I stare at her.
“Who are you?” I eventually ask, flatly.
“I’m Detective Moyes and this is my colleague, Detective Payne.”
“Do you know why you’re here, Malia?” Payne cuts in kindly. I’m not fooled by his using my name to get me on side, and it takes every ounce of control to not shudder at his silly question.
I also know not to react to that question. I know why I’m here; they told me when I arrived. But if I admit that, it’s like an admission of guilt to the charges. If I deny it…well, that doesn’t bear thinking about either.
So I say nothing.
They take it in turns to try several more times. The good cop gets agitated, his thoughts towards me becoming more and more threatening, while the bad cop gets outwardly aggressive and pissed off. Her thoughts don’t bother me because they match her tone and the expressions on her face. No. It’s the guy faking it I’m much more wary of.
“I think we should terminate this interview and come back to it later when Miss Van see Zee has had some time to think,” Payne suggests. Moyes agrees. They pause the recording and their chairs scrape noisily across the floor as they stand, almost moving as one.
“I want my phone call,” I say.
“Ah! She speaks,” Payne guffaws.
“Maybe you can get your phone call when we get some answers,” Moyes snaps.
The door to the interrogation room opens and a tall, dark skinned man walks in. Instantly the temperature of the room drops and I shiver.
