The coffee burns my lips, a harsh contrast to the icy questions that now barrage me.
"Monsters attacked," I repeat, my voice calm.
The steadier my voice, the higher their frustration climbs—a maddening cycle.
"Monsters, Eve? You expect us to swallow that?" Officer Martinez sits calmly on the other side of the table from me. I think he’s deliberately getting my name wrong, but that may be giving him too much credit.
The older, portly detective reminds me of every burned-out cop stereotype. A thick mustache, receding hairline, and spare tire around his middle that puts his lower shirt buttons to the test. His skepticism is a tangible force.
I hold his gaze despite the trembling fear that wants to take over. "That's what happened."
I’m not smart enough to come up with a lie that will account for what happened. So I go with what I know.
The horrible, messy truth.
"This is your favorite story, isn’t it?" Dark implications lace Officer Han's tone from where he stands next to Martinez.
Younger, leaner, with an angular face, his eyes narrow into sharp slits, hungry for action and eager to release the pent-up energy inside him. The bad cop to Martinez’s calm cop.
"We read your file. This isn’t the first time you’ve blamed bloodshed on monsters." Han says the word monsters with a mocking disbelief. "So tell us, are you delusional or just seeking attention because you were bounced from home to home as a kid, unwanted and unloved? Is that it? Are you so desperate for attention, you think we’ll care about the poor little orphan girl because she sees monsters?" His words cut like knives, leaving me raw and exposed.
Though indignity rises in me like a black cloud. Attention-seeking? That’s the farthest thing I’ve ever been. All I’ve ever done is try to keep my head down.
You think we haven't seen your kind before?" Martinez adds, a cruel dismissiveness underlining his still-even tone. "Troubledkids making up stories. But when people start getting hurt, that's when fantasy becomes felony."
"Someone else might see a crazy female making up stories, but do you know what we see in these situations, where people get hurt?" His palms connect with the table so he can lean close. A spritz hits my forearm as Officer Han literally spits the words out. It’s just saliva but the impact stings my flesh with little hot sparks.
"A common denominator. You."
My shoulders shake. A mixture of fear, anger and helplessness rocks me from the marrow of my bones and outward. The air is thick with the sharp smell of my own sweat and adrenaline.
The more I explain, the more they disbelieve, their frustration morphing into aggression.
"I'm not lying," I whisper, more to myself than to them. It's a plea for understanding in a world determined to misinterpret my every word.
Han straightens and walks around to loom over me. My hackles rise as the feeling of physical safety flees me. But he continues to walk around the table as he speaks. "You might think you can pull off this crazy act, but we’re not buying your bullshit. If you planned this attack, we’ll find out how and why. If you have an accomplice, we’ll find out who. And the second," he snaps his fingers in front of my face, sending a shockwave down my spine, "we have a shred of evidence on you, we’ll haul you in and lock you up."
An icy drip of water hits the pit of my stomach. I’d lived a modified version of imprisonment in the system, and my life was shit, but some of that shit I got to choose.
The idea of being locked up, of having no freedom, wraps around my neck like a chain. The chain is comprised of links offear and despair that strangle me as I imagine being forced back into a socially hostile, abusive environment.
Martinez folds his hands over his protruding belly. "One wrong step, and we'll come down on you so hard, you'll wish it was just monsters you had to deal with."
"You'll find yourself in a place where freedom's just a word," Han piggybacks. "Imagine being confined, 24/7 surveillance, your every move dictated by someone else. Or maybe," he turns to look down at Martinez, "we might just have to evaluate her mental state."
Martinez picks up a pen, fiddling with it as he regards his partner with a raised eyebrow. "There’s an idea." He turns to me, and leans in. "How does a nice, long stay in a psychiatric ward sound, huh? Locked away until we're convinced you're no longer a threat to yourself or others."
"Imagine that, all because you can't stick to the truth." Han clicks his tongue.
"You know the worst part about those places?" Martinez winces as if the very thought of it is painful. "Sometimes people get lost in their system and end up bound in straitjackets, drooling on pills, never able to get out."
"But if you give us the real story, you’ll be safe."
I can’t tell if I want to laugh or cry. Both urges fight for dominance, making my ribs jerk with a hiccup-like heave. I never feel safe. Not truly.
That’s not true. You feel safe with Shadow.
But he’s not here right now. And my stolen hours in the night with him are far and few in between.
