"It is," I argue. It is the reason my hands won't steady, and my breathing keeps stuttering. I pace the length of the cell, four steps forward, four back, trying to keep the images of Red on the ground from swallowing me whole.
I glance around the cell, feeling sicker. A metal bench hugs one wall. A toilet squats in the corner, seatless and unapologetic. A thin mattress lies folded, its surface cracked and shiny.
From the corner, a woman with smeared eyeliner watches me with open curiosity. "You cryin' over a man?"
"Mind your business," I snap.
She laughs softly. "Everything's everybody's business in here."
I turn away, focusing on the wall and the scratches carved into the paint by people who needed to leave proof they were here. The light flickers several times, then stays steady. Somewhere nearby, a door slams.
I slide down the wall and onto the metal bench, staring at my stained fingertips. Then I curl my fingers into my palms, ignore the girl whenever she talks, and stare at the bars until the vertical lines blur together.
Where is Red?
My name echoes down the corridor, sharp and clipped.
"Blue Ivanov."
I lift my head slowly, pulse thudding hard enough to bruise. The guard snarls. "On your feet."
I stand.
The woman with the smeared eyeliner snorts softly from her bench. "Good luck, sweetheart."
I ignore her and step into the hall. The guard's grip lands between my shoulder blades, not hard, just firm enough to remind me where I am in the hierarchy. We walk past a row of closed doors, each one humming with whatever or whoever's trapped behind it.
He stops at a small room with a bolted table, two chairs, and a glass window. On the other side, it's mirrored. A camera's in the corner, and a man in a wrinkled suit leans back in his chair like he owns the air.
"Sit," the guard says.
I obey.
The man in the suit smiles, all teeth and patience. He doesn't introduce himself. He flips open a thin file, as if he's already bored. He grunts, "Looks like you've had a rough morning."
I stare at the tabletop. The scratched surface has the same initials that were in the cell carved deep enough to last longer than apologies.
I wish I had a knife to carve into me right now.
I dig my fingernails into my thigh, wishing I could give myself more pain.
He asks, "You want to tell me what happened out there?"
Silence stretches.
He sighs, then leans forward. "You understand the charge, right? Assaulting an officer isn't a misunderstanding. It's serious."
I keep my mouth shut. My jaw aches from the pressure.
He studies me, eyes flicking over my face and posture. Then he adds, "You don't strike me as someone who ends up in here. Good family. Good education. No record. Adrian isn't going to like you're in here."
My throat tightens. Of course, he knows my father.
He lowers his voice. "People make bad decisions when emotions get involved. Especially when men are involved."
My nails dig deeper, but I barely feel the pain. I need more, so I twist my wrists under the cuffs, just to feel the sting.
He casually states, "You were upset about Dr. Mercer. That's understandable."
