Page 46 of Roman Petrov

“Tell me.” There’s a clanging noise in the background and a shuffle.

I bet she’s dropped her scissors and is already running towards the door.

She’s the kind of friend that everyone needs. No questions.

“They took him to jail.” The tears start to sting as the reality sets in.

“Oh, no. Don’t worry. I got you. Meet me there.” Her keys jingle.

I wonder if she remembered to lock up.

No, I really don’t care.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” I sob. The street signs blur through my welling eyes.

“Where are you? Park. I’ll get you.” Her determination pushes through my anxiety and calms me enough to focus around me.

“Um. There’s the parking lot next to the Cornpot Cafe.” That should be easy enough for her to find.

I’ve hardly switched the vehicle to park before I lose it over my steering wheel.

The man I never thought I’d like, I suddenly feel like I can’t be without.

How badly is he hurt? Will they find out about Vlad?

Oh my god, do they know already?

A rapid knock on the window has me looking up to find Rochelle pounding on my door.

“Come on, let’s go.” Her bracelets rattle as she clutches me around my shoulders in a fast hug.

Pushing her broad glasses up over her nose, she settles me into the passenger seat before prancing around the hood in her six inch heels.

She makes it look graceful in a hurry.

But, when she sits down, she quickly digs her inhaler out of her leather purse. “All this excitement has kicked up my asthma.” She expertly spins us out of the lot while puffing away.

I find myself clinging to her arm as we take the steps leading into the concrete building.

A surly, squat officer sits behind a bullet proof glass window. His squinty eyes don’t even move when we approach him.

“Um. Excuse me? I’m looking for my husband.” It feels strange to say it, but also, somehow, right.

His thick neck wrinkles as he turns his head. “‘Kay? What’s his name?”

“Roman Petrov.”

His face turns a mottled shade of red. “I’ll have him sent down. You need to go through that door—” He points a fat finger at a heavy steel barricade. “—and the guard in there will set you up.”

Rochelle leans close to me once we’re far enough. “You know this isn’t normal. Usually there’s no visiting until after arraignment. Your man must be special.”

“He is,” I whisper.

The thin man in here points me to a cold chair facing a thick plexiglass window with a phone.

It isn’t long before Roman is led in, chains hanging from his wrists and ankles.

His orange jumpsuit hangs off of him, and his sleeves are rolled up, exposing his tattooed forearms.

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