The pen doesn't pause. "You struck him."
"I was trying to get to?—"
"Stop," the woman snaps. "You can explain it later."
Another cop walks past and glances at me, mouth curling. "This is the one from the therapist's building?"
"That's her," the sergeant replies.
He studies me. "Wild. You don't look like trouble."
Heat flashes up my neck. My fingers curl against the counter, ink smearing across steel. "Well, when your colleagues put their hands on me, an innocent woman, what do you expect me to do?"
"Tell it to the judge," he mutters and disappears.
The woman points to a yellow strip on the floor. "Stand there. Chin up."
I follow orders.
She slides a placard into my hands. Numbers glare back at me. The camera clicks, and the flash feels too bright.
She grabs the cuffs and demands, "Hands out front."
I wince. "Please don't put them back on me."
"Hands out front," she firmly repeats.
I move my shaking arms forward.
She cuffs me and points to a bench bolted to the floor with plastic molded into shallow seats. "Sit."
A man snores two chairs down, mouth hanging open. A woman rocks slightly, whispering to herself. The fluorescent light above flickers, stuttering in time with my pulse.
I glance at her.
"Sit."
I drop down on the hard seat and close my eyes. My thoughts won't stay still. Red's on the pavement. Red's knees buckle. The officer's hand is on my throat. The paper bag tears, and cookies scatter across the concrete like a stupid, cruel joke.
Where is he?
"Why did you arrest my boyfriend?" I question.
No one answers.
"Hello!" I say louder.
"Sit there quietly," the woman instructs, giving me a hard warning with her eyes.
I look away, trying not to let any more tears fall, but I fail. I tug at my fingers.
"Blue Ivanov," the sergeant calls.
I rise.
"You get one call." He points to a phone hanging on the wall behind a half divider, cord stretched thin from years of yanking.
"Who's your phone call to?" he asks.
