The police will catch up with me at some point. Better make the most of my freedom while it lasts.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
NADIA
It’s been twenty-seven days,seven hours, and forty-two minutes since the police stormed into a motel parking lot and ruined my life.
Okay. That may be a bit amateur dramatics society but since this is the fifth time in as many days that I’ve been dragged into the police station, ‘just to clear up a few points’ I feel like I’ve earned the right to be dramatic.
Between the police and my complete inability to sleep more than three hours a night, I’ve taken a leave of absence from work. The principal called it a career break but with each day that passes, I’m more inclined to view it as the end.
I can’t imagine going back to school. Can’t imagine lasting an entire lesson let alone a whole day.
My concentration is in the gutter. All day long, I wander into rooms and wonder why on earth I walked into them. Sometimes I remember. Mostly I don’t.
Whatever reason won’t be anything exciting. Maybe that’s why my brain can’t be bothered to keep track. It’s far too occupied with other, more important, matters. Matters that are mostly framed by the starting thought, I wonder what Kai’s doing right now.
Since my detention—the police were offended when I referred to it as an arrest and took great pains to inform the media of the vast differences—I’ve spent a lot of time expecting to hear that he’s been caught. A fair few of those hours have been spent poking and prodding at the possibility he might not survive the arrest.
It’s unlikely. Deaths in custody are few and far between.
It’s notimpossiblethough. And not impossible means my head feels obliged to worry at it for as long as it likes.
Especially in the airless box where the police parked me and seem to have forgotten to return to. Considering how many times they’ve asked me exactly the same question on different days, prompting the same answers, perhaps they’ve wisely decided to refrain. Obviously, just upsetting my day by dragging me in here is enough.
I stand, pacing around the room, staring intently at the corners where I presume the small, mounted devices are cameras, recording my every move.
When I catch myself glaring at one for too long, I force myself to give it a friendly wave. You know. Just in case someone’s watching and writing notes about my psychopathy levels.
I’m not sure if the forced smile is a plus or a minus in that column.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” a young female officer says as she breezes in the room, carrying a stack of papers and balancing a sandwich trapped in triangular plastic on top. “There’s not much left down in the cafeteria, but I thought you might like this.”
I open my mouth to decline, then my stomach lays a half-minute long complaint. “I guess I do,” I say, an answer that seems to bring great delight to the young woman, though I’m unsure why.
“Don’t suppose you have a cup of tea handy, do you?”
“Sure. Just a moment.” She leaves everything on the table and strides back to the door, opening it and yelling the request along the corridor.
My eyebrows raise a little. The woman might look young but none of the other interviewers have issued orders like that. Perhaps she’s just audacious. Despite having been locked in a classroom with teenagers for the better part of the last eight years, I still don’t know what makes the younger generations tick.
“Now, I called you in because there’s a few discrepancies in your statement,” she says, propping a pad in front of her. “If you’ve got time, I wouldn’t mind going over them.”
“And if I haven’t?”
“Hm?” She glances up, confusion etched across her otherwise smooth brow.
“What happens if I don’t have time?”
“Oh, well.” She gives a small shrug. “I guess I’d have to arrange another interview that suits your schedule better.” Her eyes narrow slightly as she watches how the information lands. “Or, since you’re already here, you might just want to get it over and done with.”
I burst out laughing at that, then cover it by taking a bite of the sandwich. It’s still cold from the display fridge but the mix of ham, cheese, and egg is delicious, and I finish it in a few bites.
“I can fetch something else for you if you’re hungry,” she offers. “A pack of crisps?”
“Or you can ask your questions quickly so I can leave, go home, and forage for my own food.”
“Fair enough.” She recites the time and our names for the recording, then taps her pen against the page. “Now, when you were first brought to the station, you told officers that Mr Roberts was intending to travel to Marlborough Sounds and catch a yacht there to the North Island.”
