Page 90 of Miserable Marionette

“Aubrey Fisher.”

“Pick someone else,” a voice warns from the back of the station. I don’t bother turning to look at Officer Braylon or encourage his outburst. “Pick someone else, you sick piece of shit!”

“Hey, head out! Take a breath, man!”

I recite her phone number, staring blankly as Brady shakily jots it down while someone else urges Braylon to cool down elsewhere.

He doesn’t go easily. “Her father trusted you! He fucking took you in!”

Yes, he trusted me, and I took care of her, took care of her better than anyone could. I assure myself, only I know what Audrey needs.

“Braylon, take a walk!”

After that, the monotony of the booking stays consistent throughout. Mrs. Maybelle smacking her gum as my handcuffs are removed, allowing me to unload my pockets. The mostly forgotten pager falls to the small plastic box with little fanfare deserving of such an attentive crowd. It’s hard to enjoy it; it’s a big day for me, and all I can do is log the weak spots in my mind. Wondering how hard they’ll make it to get back to my sweet Audrey. Assuring myself, something I’ve never needed before, that if I’m quick… smart… it won’t be hard. The thought of her, scared and alone, worried for me, is equal parts titillating and wrenching.

The buzzing is loud as they fumble the camera for my mugshot, fucking up the exposure the first time. I could bolt now. My body is deceptively loose, unhurried as they direct me to turn to my side, the flash blinding. I wouldn’t get far, but Brady… he could be helpful soon. I don’t know what the rookie did to get on the sheriff’s bad side, assuming he has a good one. It’s clear this is a punishment for the newly minted cop, judging by the disapproving satisfaction of the other officers hanging around. Raised voices barrel from the back of the station, where the sheriff's office lies. Altman’s forced southern twang nearly drowned out by the older man as they enthusiastically compare dick sizes.

“Do you think I did it?” I ask simply. Nobody has said what I was arrested for, but we know. Although what murder specifically they’re using to press the charges, I’m sure Altman will inform me of shortly.

He ignores the question, the officer at my back shoving me into a metal chair while Brady readies his fingerprint paper and inkpad. “Hand.”

I should be standing upright for this. My hands should be washed and dried with a non-porous towel. They do none of these things. I stretch my hand across the desk. His paper is flipped; all the fingerprints will be upside down on his sheet. My jaw clenches as he grips my hand, pressing straight down into the pad. When he lifts it, I wait, grinding my teeth just as he’s about to place my finger on the paper. “Rotate it,” I snap, making a show of my annoyance.

Brady flinches, smearing the print across the paper.

“You rotate it on the pad, Officer Harrington. Like this.” I mimic the proper motion.

“Shut up,” the cop behind me hisses. “I’ll go get a wet paper towel.” He shoots us with a glare. “Don’t move.”

“I could help you. Tell you how before he gets back,” I offer simply.

“N—"

I cut him off. “It’d be unfortunate to piss off the sheriff even more with Altman around.”

His gray-blue eyes flick up to me before he drags out another sheet of paper. “Show me the motion again.”

“Of course.”

As much as I loathe to admit it, the stale, cramped holding cell has its desired effect. Hours pass slowly as I pace, worried about Audrey, Altman biding his time, waiting me out. The only light, aside from the harsh fluorescents coming in from the hall, is from a window across the way. It’s a big, old-style sunroom window. The ones with the twisting crank knobs that open in wide slots horizontally. A thoughtful yet unwise design choice for a police station. It wasn’t often I went to the homes of my victims, but I had done it once or twice. It’s little things like this, the presence of failed puppet number six’s sunroom windows, that make me second-guess if Audrey was onto something when she declared at seventeen that everything is outlined by the universe. That everything we’ve ever done or would ever do is already drawn out before us.

By the time Brady returns, guiding me silently toward the opposite end of the station, Altman is already waiting, his binder pressed under his arm just the way my puppet described when he ambushed her in front of the alterations shop. It’s a shame I won’t have an opportunity to hurt him. Not the way he has me, by hurting her. He smirks, his aftershave overwhelming and unpleasant in the stuffy room, his mustache tilting as he gestures for me to sit across from him. I do, knowing how much this means to him, how hard he’s worked for the past few years, making my life a living hell.

How he suspected.

How he was right.

There’ll be another press conference. He’ll make his statements, take his credit, go home with a full dick to a wife who stopped caring years ago. He’ll probably even call his daughter, if she bothers to pick up with her busy English Lit schedule. He’ll feel safe knowing I’m no longer a threat. I smirk back, not hiding, not masking, like my dad taught me. I let him see me as I am, absolutely thrilled by the aspect that the world is filled with sick, unright fucks like myself. That safety is an ignorantly willful state of mind and there are hundreds, if not thousands, of monsters waiting to take my place in the headlines. This victory will be brief and fleeting because I may be gone, but I will never be far from his mind.

“You gonna talk, Bell?”

“About what?”

“Where is Jessica Jordan?”

I pause, making a show of thinking for a moment. “Couldn’t say.”

“Was she one of the girls, or did you do her like you did her brother because she was close to Audrey?”