Page 121 of Crew Princess
Four, I’d asked for my lawyer, so the most I had to worry about was curbing the inner feral Bren I turned into when I was feeling cornered, which no doubt was their new agenda. It was in my files. I’d undergone counseling. It was well-documented that I lashed out when I felt pushed into a corner. So we were now on to their second attempt: emotional and physical intimidation.
Detective Broghers was making me wait, and she was doing it intentionally.
A full minute. Three. Then, after the fifth, she pretended to be done reading up on me. She closed the file and lifted her head, a smile on her face. She angled her chair toward me, at the side of the table rather than not across from me.
“Bren,” she said. “Would you like a water? Soda? Something to eat?”
“Water.”
“We can do water.” She nodded behind her, and that cop left the room.
While we waited, she looked me over and winced. “We didn’t let you wash up, huh? Would you like a washcloth?” She indicated my hands. They’d been scraped, the skin torn.
I pulled my hands down to my lap. The zip-ties were gone, but red lines from them remained. They’d pushed the line, pulling them tighter than was comfortable. In a sense, I knew they were just doing their job: push the line, make them uncomfortable, lean on me, get me to give up what they wanted, and then the case would be wrapped up.
“So.” She pretended to be bored, even tired. She yawned. “You were at prom earlier?” She gestured to my dress. “I bet the pictures are beautiful.”
All their tactics were working, but I knew what they were doing, why they were doing it, and I had to remember that. I had to keep a cool head, no matter how long they kept me in here. Had to, or I’d give them some reason to hold me. That’s the real reason they were pushing, because they hadn’t asked about Alex again since I’d said I wanted a lawyer. There were no pictures in that file. I’d been looking. Just papers with words, numbers, and signatures.
I had to wonder a few things.
Why would Alex take the time to tell me all of that about Drake setting me up, if he was going to die? The way he went down, he would’ve had to be drugged. For him to say Drake set me up would indicate he knew Drake was setting me up for killinghim. Alex wasn’t pleading for help. And he would’ve, if that had been the correct scenario.
Which meant he didn’t know he was drugged, and he was telling me Drake had set me up in another way. That’s the only thing that made sense. I hadn’t felt for his pulse, just saw that he passed out.
They’d told me Alex was dead… No, they’dimpliedAlex was dead.
Alex might not be dead.
It was ironic in a way. Here I was, hoping once again that Alex Ryerson wasn’t dead.
A knock at the door. The other detective came in and set a bottle of water in front of me.
Detective Broghers reached forward to take off the cap. She pocketed it, pushing the opened bottle to me. And again, she offered that same fucking friendly smile. “There you go.”
I didn’t reach for it. Not yet. “I asked for my lawyer.”
“You did.”
I hated how condescending she was.
She lounged back in her chair, fingers drumming on the table as if she were the impatient one, as if she were the one who wanted this over with. “We’re just waiting for them to arrive.”
There was no clock in this room, another thing they did on purpose. Take everything away from the criminal. Shove them in a room with no windows—a tight and confining room, and make them yearn for the bare necessities. Like time. Like water. Like conversation. You took it for granted until you lost it. That’s what they used against you.
“So you’re in school?’
I didn’t answer.
She didn’t care. Still friendly. “Senior, right? That’s what your file said. College? Plans after graduation?”
Again. Silence. But they weren’t expecting me to talk.
“I was so worried about what I was doing next when I was your age. Thought I had no time. A lot of pressure, right? Even more so now, these days with the internet. The Gram…”
She was talking, but I tuned her out.
I looked up, staring at the point between her eyebrows. It was a trick I’d once heard. You could look there, and the person thought you were making eye contact. It was a nonverbal cue that you were interested in what they were saying, and they’d keep going.
