Page 56 of Severed Rivalry
me three
Sariah
I don’t get pissed often. I can’t afford to lose control.
Feisty? Yes. Pissed right the hell off? Rarely.
But this situation calls for it. And the worst part is, I did it to myself.
Fingerprints. Apparently, that’s digital now, not that I wanted to know that information.
Surrendering everything in my pockets wasn’t that bad since it was a Chapstick, a used Kleenex, a stub from a parking garage, and a receipt from King Soopers, both I’ve been meaning to pitch. My keys were still in the ignition, and Renée had my phone when I was hauled off and shoved in the back of the police cruiser.
It’s the mug shot that concerns me. For a variety of reasons. Employment, housing, renewing my driver’s license. That shit is public record, and Colorado and their open-records laws make it all too easy for this to resurface over and over again. Forever.
What’s worse is it gives away my location, my legal name, and my current appearance to anyone. And everyone.
Especially those I’ve tried like hell to keep in the dark.
I can handle it, but Renée… Like hell, I’ll subject her to what I went through. Or worse.
The jail cell is just like what’s on television. That research must be easy to come by. What I never considered was the noise.The sniffling, the screaming, the people talking to themselves. The smell of urine and vomit and the unshowered.
I blew a stop sign and sped through a residential neighborhood. I’d bitch and complain if it happened on my street, but a citation is more appropriate than an arrest.
The officer acted as if we were in a high-speed chase that required a helicopter spotlight to keep up with me. The Denver metro police have actually given up on high-speed pursuits, citing danger to civilians. So my measly fifteen over feels more like a power trip or someone trying to make a name for himself than is reasonable.
“Sariah Ocho-tee?”
Lordy, please. It’s not that complicated. “Ocotea? That’s me.”
The uniformed officer squints as if I’ve insulted him by correcting the pronunciation of my name.
“Yeah, that. Someone to see you.” He slides the bars open, and they hit the end of the rail with a clang before he slams it back home with a rattle. “Turn around.”
He smacks cuffs on me and pushes me forward toward the hall. For murderers or rapists, I’d be okay with this kind of treatment. Speeding home for a medical emergency certainly can’t warrant this kind of diligence.
I snicker thinking he expects me to headbutt or roundhouse kick him and then make a break for it. It often takes me two trips with groceries. I’m not weak, but I’m not an every-bag-in-one-trip kind of woman either.
“Something funny?”
I shake my head. The less I say, the better.
I’m not thrilled about a court-appointed attorney, but I’m smart enough to know theanything you say can and will be used against youmeans they plan to.
I move into a room with a gentleman with a cherubic face, wide button nose, and the thickest white hair I’ve ever seen. Male pattern baldness does not run in his family. His starched shirt looks expensive, and he has cufflinks. I thought local defense attorneys weren’t paid like this. Who shows up on a weeknight at what must be nearly eight o’clock with cufflinks?
“Please uncuff my client,” he says to the deputy. “That will be all.”
The deputy’s head shoots back as if he’s surprised he’s being given orders by a lawyer. “I stay.”
“You leave,” the white-haired gentleman extends a meaty palm to the door with a head tilt and waits to be obeyed. “Sheriff Denton is aware.”
The man looks around as if this is a trap or a test, before uncuffing me and leaving from the only door to the room.
“Sariah. May I call you Sariah?”
I nod.
