A two-way mirror on the wall to my left indicated I was being led into their interrogation room. He marched me across the short expanse of the brightly-lit room before he slung me into a worn, wooden chair. My body lurched back as the chair grunted, struggling on its ancient legs to stay put under me.
I didn’t resist when the man caught my left wrist in his tight grip. He cuffed my hand to a round metal bolt that had been drilled into the center of the wooden tabletop. I scanned my surroundings as the sound of the cuffs locking into place signified the finality of my capture.
The room was standard size, large enough not to be constricting with the big men hovering above me. Aside from another wooden chair that sat near the door, the table I sat behind and the chair I sat in were the only furnishings. A checkered black and white pattern made up the dirty floor tiles. Uncovered florescent lights hummed above me.
The scent of urine and cleaning products dominated the air. Whoever they’d tortured before me had pissed themselves, and the strong power of bleach hadn’t gotten rid of it.
How the hell was I going to get myself out of this one? Growing up poor, motherless, and running the deadly streets of the Crestwood Neighborhood, I’d had no choice but to be tough, but I was worried this might be insurmountable.
I claimed being motherless because my mother had been a zombie my entire childhood. Crack, heroin, meth — she didn’t care what drug she shoved into her body. Monique Parker hadn’t had a desire to live in the reality of her existence, so drugs became the magic she used to make herself disappear.
My current situation yanked me from my childhood despair. With my forearms pressed into the table, I started to shake against it and allowed my gaze to volley between the men. I was sure they assumed they were intimidating me, but I’d been stared down by bigger and better.
“Stop shaking the fucking table, you hard-headed little bitch,” the one I’d bitten edged out through bared teeth. He wanted to beat the shit out of me.
“Cover your ass. Oh shit, my bad, that’s your face resembling a fat hairy ass,” I tossed at him, adding tension to his already infuriating expression.
What the hell did they want from me? Earlier, they’d mentioned a friend, who I believed was Megan, which brought forth the memory of the visit Beverly and I had gotten from the fake detective who’d come sniffing around after her. Their comments had me believing they knew where Megan was.
As soon as the one I’d bitten shuffled to the door and took the seat, I sent my foot repeatedly into the table leg to my right. My interrogator attempted to question me, yelling above the noise I made. “Stop kicking the fucking table, you crazy bitch!”
His irritation was etched in the deep frowns on his face. He drew his gun again, threatening me with the same tired line about blowing my brains out. High on adrenaline, I was ready this time, my body set abuzz by the natural drug.
He may as well have pulled the fucking trigger because the only two options I had were to die or escape.
When the crack of the wobbly table leg sounded, I stopped kicking it. I eased back in the chair, the old wood creaking beneath me as I stared my capturer down as solidly as he stared at me.
He hadn’t caught on to the fact his intimidation tactics weren’t working on me. While he holstered his gun, I tilted my head, glaring around him to find the one I’d bitten.
His shoulder rolled, no doubt feeling the sting of my bite. A smirk twisted my lips before I clicked my teeth together in a biting gesture, taunting him. He pointed a stiff finger, shaking it at me. “You’re going to pay, bitch. Let’s see how smug you are when I make you drink your own piss.”
My eyes rolled with ease, dismissing him and his words before I shot my gaze at the one standing over me.
“What the fuck do you want? I don’t know shit, so you might as well let me go or put a fucking bullet in my head.”
“Megan Jones. Lacey Daniels. Pick a name. I don’t care. Where in the fuck is she? And before you tell me you don’t know, we know you have been in contact with her.”
My gaze remained locked on his, unblinking. My nonverbal response put a deeper crease in his forehead. His fist clenched at his sides as his heaving breath blew spit from his chapped lips. When his hand came down on the table, it shook as the unsteady legs danced under it. The leg I’d been kicking leaned inward, barely holding in place.
The man’s fists remained planted on the table as his strained glare stayed on me. His tanned skin had turned a glossy pink and was glistening with a fresh layer of perspiration. I took pleasure in the fact I was working his last nerve and stretching his patience like hot gum.
A deep sigh escaped before I tossed my chin up in defiance and awaited his next move.