Page 21 of Bristol

One of the guys cuffs me and shoves me down the hall and out the door. He’s reading me my rights or some shit, I don’t really know. My ears are ringing and I can’t focus on what he’s saying.

“Let her fucking go!” Sebastian shouts as they all but drag me past him. His eyes are wild with rage and they have him cuffed and bent over the front of a cop car.

“I’m gonna get you out! Don’t worry!” he yells, his eyes trying to promise me something that even he himself doesn’t seem sure of.

All I can do is cry. I don’t know what’s going on or why I’m being arrested, much less by the FBI. And then I see it. That smug little bitch standing in the corner of the parking lot talking to one of the agents dressed in a pressed suit. The smirk on her face reminds me why I beat the hell out of her to begin with. I should’ve broken her fucking jaw, then she wouldn’t be running her mouth.

“Have fun in jail, charity case. I knew something wasn’t right about you from the start. You killed your whole family and you deserve to be locked up.” She sneers as I’m shoved into the back of an unmarked sedan.

I sit there, handcuffed, alone, and in the deafening silence. The man in the suit that was talking to Princess gets into the driver’s seat.

“I’m Agent McCreary. I’ll be in charge of your case.”

I let his words bounce off the roof of the car. The black metal gate between him and I does nothing for a sound barrier. I sit in silence, unsure of what to say. These people think I killed my family and just ran off, living my best life for the last six years.

Agent McCreary doesn’t say anything else. The drive to the police station is short but it feels like forever. When we arrive, he opens the door and as soon as I step out, he grips my cuffed hands and shoves me forward. I stumble but catch my balance, not without giving him a side-eye of disapproval. Prick. He hands me off to one of the officers who brings me to a small holding cell. He closes the gate, leaving me caged inside like an animal. There’s a small cot to the left and a toilet and sink to the right. If I thought my room at Patrick’s was bad, this is much worse. It’s cold. Isolated, yet noisy as hell.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes but that urge quickly fades and morphs into terror when I realize just how alone I am. I want to scream, but instead, I just sit here. Silent tears continuously stream down my face while sobs wrack my body without my permission. I don’t know what to do. This feels like being captive all over again. The last few days feel like a dream that I’m forcibly being woken from.

I am fed two small, mostly unappetizing meals that I pick at each day for two days. On the third day, I’m finally acknowledged. One of the officers retrieves me from the holding cell and brings me into a small room with one of those two-way mirrors. In the center of the room is a rectangular metal table and two metal chairs.

The door opens abruptly, making me jump. Agent McCreary enters holding a few manilla folders in his hand. I’m surprised they didn’t have him bring in an empty box with my name on it as a scare tactic. His grey suit compliments his light features. Dirty blond hair, clear blue eyes, and a clean-shaven face with a sharp jawline and perfect teeth. If he wasn’t such a prick, I could see how someone might say he’s attractive. However, I can’t see that at the moment, all I can see is the person who is taking my freedom away from me all over again, but in a different capacity.

He sets the manilla folders down on the metal table between us and sits down in the chair opposite me.

“So, you murdered your family then ran off to enjoy your life with your boyfriend,” he begins and opens the manilla folder. He didn’t ask a question. He made a statement. He’s already decided that I’m guilty.

Images of my mother and father lying lifelessly on our kitchen floor covered in blood are thrown in front of me.

I can’t control the wail that escapes my throat as my body shakes with pain at the sight. My chest feels like it’s going to explode from the pressure. I scream and cry and shake until Agent McCreary closes the folder.

“I didn’t do that!” I shout through the tears. I know enough to know that I probably look guilty because I’m crying but I can’t control it. The feeling building inside my chest is overwhelming.

Agent McCreary stares at me, dumbfounded. “If you didn’t do this, then who did?”

“You’re not going to listen to me anyway,” I whisper.

I’m crying so hard that there’s snot running down my nose, I’m still handcuffed so I can’t even wipe my face, and this bastard is just sitting there looking at me like I’m some sort of science experiment that he’s afraid is going to explode at any moment.

“Try me.”

I try to calm my breathing so I can speak clearly, but it isn’t working.

He gets up and exits the room without a word. I remain sitting at this cold, metal table, in this cold lonely room, waiting. On what, I’m not sure. I’m able to calm down and slow my breathing enough where I’m no longer sobbing, and I manage to wipe my nose on my shoulder, so now there’s snot on my shoulder but at least it isn’t all over my upper lip anymore.

Agent McCreary re-enters the room with a set of keys. Without a word, he kneels behind me and uncuffs my hands. I instantly pull them to front of my body, rubbing them where the cuffs bit into my skin.

He takes his seat across from me again and offers me a folded handkerchief from his pocket.

“So what happened? What happened on the day that your family was murdered?”

“I was kidnapped by a man named Patrick, transported to a warehouse here in Mississippi that he owns and runs some sort of business out of, and held captive for seven years. I was rescued a month and a half ago and found out after I escaped captivity that my whole family was murdered. I had no idea that this whole time they haven’t been alive and well and missing me just as much as I was missing them.”

“Who is this Patrick guy?”

“I don’t know. I was walking home from my friend Tracie’s house and he asked me to help him with his radio. I was a seventeen-year-old, naïve little girl. I never met a stranger and I was always willing to help anyone in need. It was stupid. I got into his vehicle to help and he knocked me out. Next thing I knew, I was tied up in the back of the van for hours on end, mouth duct-taped, circulation cut off to my fingers and toes from how tight I was bound. It was a nightmare. Then I was held in an industrial warehouse in a room with concrete floors for the last six years.”

“Do you know where the warehouse is?”

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