Page 19 of The Accident

The cop at the desk says nothing. He studiously ignores us, playing something on his phone. The only sound is the click of Stella’s long nails against the bars and her heels on the floor.

I sit on the metal bench, knees together, staring at the concrete. My pink bandage dress is a disaster—ripped up the thigh, makeup smudged along the collar, and the heel of my left shoe snapped clean off in the car. There’s a spot of blood drying on my calf from where I grazed it on the broom.

I should cry, or shout, or maybe just call a lawyer, but I can’t do any of it. My mind is a static hum, empty except for one endless calculation: How long until my mother finds out? How long until my stepbrother is asked to intervene? After all, he runs a legal AI firm, and was once an attorney himself. Trevor’s going to be pulled into this, for sure.

Stella slaps the bars and keeps ranting. “And another thing—if Boyd really did give her an STI, then why is she coming at me? He’s the asshole. I literally haven’t touched him for months, and even then, it was only once and it didn’t even count, because we were both really drunk and he couldn’t get it up. Not that anyone cares, because the only narrative that matters is the one where Stella is a total slut. Un-fucking-believable.”

Her voice bounces off the cinder block walls, echoes, comes back twice as loud. Still, the police officer on duty ignores us, his fingers tapping away at the phone screen without a care in the world.

I pull my knees up to my chest, hug them. The bench is so cold it burns my skin. I stare at the drain in the middle of the floor, a rusty circle ringed with old stains. There’s a spiderweb of hair caught there, and a single eyelash that might be mine.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Maybe the phone call. Maybe the processing paperwork. Maybe just the sound of a key in the lock, some grownup voice telling me that the fun part is over, that it’s time to go home and face the music.

But the only sound is the hum of the lights, and Stella’s endless voice, and the buzz of my own humiliation in my ears.

I think about Trevor. About what he’d say if he saw me now: dress torn, hair raggedy, mascara smeared down to my jaw. Would he laugh? Would he care? Would he even notice, or would I just be another dumb story he tells at the next wedding, some joke about “when my stepsister accidentally fucked a girl with a broom handle?”

I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

The tears pool up in the corners of my eyes. My back hurts. My knees hurt. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but I can’t—not with the lights, not with Stella still pacing, still talking, still unwilling to let the world forget her for even a second.

And I realize, suddenly, that I’m jealous. Of her noise. Of her nerve. Of her absolute refusal to disappear, even when the whole world is stacked against her.

I make a promise, quiet and private: next time, I won’t just stand on the edge. Next time, I’ll be the one with sass and verve. Or at least, I’ll be the one with the louder story.

But for now, I’m defeated. I say nothing.

I curl up on the bench, pink dress twisted under me, hands locked and cold.

And I stare at the drain in the floor, praying for Trevor to save me.

8

DANCING FOR THE GUARD

Kayleigh

The cells at the downtown precinct are nothing like in movies: no raucous yelling, no slouching drunks, no sad-eyed perps pleading their innocence to a balding detective. In fact, it’s just me and Stella in this row of reinforced glass and steel, the color of a brain scan, and a six-foot rectangle of concrete inside. Benches run the length of the cell, wide enough to stretch out, but low enough to put your knees above your heart if you try. The fluorescent lights buzz and buzz, never off, never even soft, their angle calibrated for maximum humiliation. The place is spotless, but smells like cold hot dogs and metal polish.

Stella paces the perimeter of her cell like an athlete before a race. Her eyes are wide and white in the blue light, mascara smeared in a slash under one, blonde hair looking like a rat’s nest but somehow still sexy. Her blue dress is still holding up, barely, but one shoulder strap is ripped all the way down to the elastic, and her right breast keeps threatening to pop free with every angry stride.

She’s narrating the night for the benefit of anyone within shouting distance, which at the moment, includes only the bored cop sitting at a desk near the door.

“I’m telling you, this was entrapment,” Stella is saying, knuckles white around the bars. “Tammy started it. Did you see that? She straight-up clawed my face first. Then she tried to rip my dress, which is literally a hate crime if you think about it. I’m not even exaggerating. Then—oh my god—she was full-on commando under her skirt! Who does that, like, ever?”

Her words ricochet down the corridor, each syllable bouncing off the cinder block.

I sit in my cell, right next to hers, knees tucked tight and my dress riding up with every shift. The bench is cold, numbingly so, and I’m hyperaware of how my thighs look—exposed and blotchy, the pink mesh of my dress rolling up to nearly obscene heights. My phone sits in my palm. There’s no service down here, but I keep checking it anyway. I keep imagining Victoria and Henry waking up to find my room empty, no note, no nothing, and what then? A missed call from the county jail? Or, worse, a call from Trevor, reading my rap sheet back to me in his slow, cold voice?

A cough from the front desk. The guard on duty leans back in his chair, eyes on Stella. He’s in his forties, maybe, but carries himself like a varsity tight end who never quite got over his last homecoming. His uniform is too snug in the biceps, and the badge on his chest reads “Morris.” He’s handsome, but mean-looking. His mouth is set in a way that says, Go ahead, amuse me. You’re just ants under my shoe.

Stella must sense the attention because she pivots, switches from ranting to performance mode. She lowers her hands from the bars and drops her voice to something sly and confidential, like a late-night infomercial.

“Hey, Officer Morris,” she purrs, smoothing her hair with both hands, her cleavage somehow getting even bigger with the motion. “How long do we have to stay here, anyway? I mean, we’re not, like, murderers. We’re just two girls in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes track her, up and down. Stella leans in, her lips pouty, and then glances at me with a little wink.

“Honestly,” she says, “there must be, like, some kind of arrangement we can make. What do you think, Kayleigh?”