Dylan
IWAS SLEEPING off the worst hangover of my life Saturday morning when loud pounding woke me up.
Before I could even get my bearings, the door of my studio apartment burst open and two police officers blazed in with their guns drawn.
I sat up and tugged my comforter around me, instantly sobering up by at least three margaritas. “What... what’s happening?” I managed to get out.
Neitherspoke. The Hispanic cop kept his weapon trained on me, while the blond scoured the small space, checking behind my sofa, searching the closet, and peeking under my bed before he paused in front of the bathroom door. He swore, then squared his shoulders and entered. I heard the shower curtain slide over its rod before he reemerged.
“There’s blood in the bathroom. No other suspects. Let’s takeher in.” He turned and spoke into his radio, but I was too freaked out to pay attention to what he said.
“What blood? Wait, take me in? To where? For what? What’s going on?” I asked.
“We need you to calm down, ma’am,” the Hispanic cop said.
Which had the opposite effect of calming me down. Heart thundering against my chest, I asked, “What?! Why are you here? Am I being arrested?”
“Bloodin the bathroom?” he asked the other cop.
“Yes. We’ll need to get it roped off.”
The Hispanic cop turned back to me. “Yes ma’am. You’re under arrest for suspicion of murder. Anything you say and do can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Suspicion of murder?” I interrupted. “Whose murder? Where? What are you talking about?”
Instead of answering, he kept reading me my Mirandarights while he tugged me from my bed, revealing my tank top and panties. The blond kept his gun on me while the Hispanic officer gathered clothes and sneakers and tossed them on the bed. As soon as I dressed, he handcuffed me. When he tugged me past the bathroom door I peeked in. Dark streaks ran across the floor, the wall, and the shower curtain.
“What the hell?” I asked, leaning back as theyshuffled me forward. “That blood? Wait, I can explain that blood.” My face heated at the idea, but embarrassment was far better than jail time.
“Ma’am, anything you saycanandwillbe used against you... you heard that part, right?”
I bit back a snarky Addison-esque comment and dropped my head.
We stepped out into the hallway where the Hispanic handed me off to a female officer. She tuggedme forward, around two more cops who were roping off the area with yellow crime scene tape. I looked past them to see the body of a man propped against the wall, only steps from my front door.
I recognized the rumpled dark suit, thinning brown hair, and squinty little eyes immediately.
