Crossed: Chapter 20

I’VE NEVER ACTUALLY BEEN INSIDE A POLICE station before, and for some reason, after Detective Fuller asked if I’d come to the precinct, I expected to stay in Festivalé. Instead, we drove to Coddington Heights.

Makes sense Andrew would go to a local strip club.

He’s dead.

I’m not torn up over it. Honestly, I never am with things like this. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me because when it comes to death, everyone grows sick with grief, but my insides stay a steady numb slate like a hard drive that’s been wiped clean.

I feel a similar sensation now, except there’s a fog of curiosity looming over the situation. I’m assuming they’re calling me in because I was the last person to see him, but other than the information I already gave, I’m not sure how I can be of much help.

Serves the prick right for trying to assault me, quite frankly.

But the farther we move into the station, the heavier my body feels, and when they lead me to a small room with a metal table and chairs, a wrecking ball blows apart the numbness. Because this feels a lot like I’m a suspect.

Breathing deeply as I sit down, I tell myself that I don’t even know if there’s been foul play, and it doesn’t do me any good to jump to conclusions. They probably just want to ask me some questions, which makes sense if I was the last person Andrew was with and now he’s dead.

The back of my mouth sours, and my knee hits the bottom of the table every time my foot taps on the ground.

I’m jittery. Does that make me look guilty?

“Do you want something to drink?” Detective Allan asks, closing the door behind him.

“I’m fine,” I reply. “Am I…I’m not— ”

I don’t finish the sentence, because I’m afraid of what they’ll say, and right now I only have assumptions. I shift in my seat, staring down at my hands, fingers tangling in my lap.

“You seem nervous,” Fuller notes, slinking across the table and tapping his fingers on the metal top.

“You guys aren’t really forthcoming with information, and this all feels very…aggressive. Wouldn’t you be nervous?”

He shrugs. “Not if I was innocent.”

“I am innocent,” I snap back before the weight of his statement sinks in. “Wait, am I a suspect? Was Andrew—was he murdered?” My lungs clamp down tight in panic.

“We’re just ruling out everything we can, Amaya.” He smiles. “Can I call you Amaya?”

I think I nod, but I can’t be sure. My vision narrows into a tiny circle, edged by black. My chest is heaving and I’m certain my heart’s beating at a rate that can’t be sustainable for a long period of time.

Maybe I’ll just drop dead of a heart attack right here.

That only makes my chest squeeze tighter because if I’m gone, what will happen to Quinten?

“It’s all right, Amaya,” Detective Fuller says, dragging the chair beside his partner out and sitting down. He leans back, one knee propped on the other like he’s relaxed. Like he has all the time in the world, and this is just an average conversation. “Just take a few deep breaths, and tell me about that night.”

My head is spinning but I try to think logically. I know I’m innocent, but I also know at face value I’m a low- income stripper with almost no family and no friends. It’d be so easy for them to pin this on me, lock me up, and throw away the key. And I don’t know what the hell to say to convince them otherwise, because my last interaction with Andrew doesn’t exactly scream I’d like him alive.

Slowly, I take a deep breath and force my head up until I’m looking Detective Fuller in the eyes. “I think I’d like a lawyer.”

I’ve been sitting in silence for the past two hours.

My ass is numb from this metal chair, and my ears ring from how quiet it’s been. There’s a long wall of mirrors on the far side of the room, and I cross my arms, staring directly into them. I just know somebody is on the other side watching my every move.

Anxiety slowly eats away my insides like maggots on rotten food.

There’s been plenty of time for my thoughts to spiral until my cuticles are picked clean and my lips are chewed through.

The door opening jars me from where I’ve been burning a hole through the two- way mirror, and I twist toward the noise.

Anticipation fills my chest…

And in walks Florence Gammond.

“Amaya Paquette.”

She looks as professional as ever, a dark- blue pencil skirt with a crisp white blouse tucked in at the waist. She saunters over, sitting down across from me with a smirk. “Who knew I’d be defending you?”

“No.” The word passes my lips without even having to think about it. I look toward the mirror, sitting forward, jabbing my finger in the air. I know somebody is watching me. “I want someone else.”

Florence shakes her head and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose like I’m an annoyance. “Who are you talking to, Amaya?”

I look back to her, the panic I’ve been trying so goddamn hard to keep subdued rearing up and smacking me in the face. “Don’t belittle me, Florence. This is a major conflict of interest.”

A slow grin spreads across her face, and she leans in. “You’re right, it is. But I’m your only choice. Take it or leave it. Now… tell me about the other night. When you were working at…” She looks down at her file and then back up. “The Chapel.”

My stomach sours.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I press my lips together instead of saying what I want to say because there’s no chance in hell that Florence Gammond is going to represent me.

“I’m not telling you anything, Florence. Get out of here. I don’t want you.”

She cocks her head. “It’s either me or no one, honey. You made your bed, and I can’t wait to see you lie in it. Does Parker know you’ve been stripping?”

I grit my teeth. “Don’t talk to me about Parker.”

“Can’t imagine he’d still want you if he knew.” She sneers down at me. “Although you’d think everything else about you would have turned him off, so who knows what he wants?” Her words burn.

“You’re right,” I say. “Easier to know what he doesn’t.” I shouldn’t goad her, but God, she pisses me off.

Her eyes flick to the mirror and then to me before she smiles tightly and lowers her voice. “Keep pushing me, you piece of trash, and I’ll make sure you’re locked up and never heard from again.”

My heart falters.

“Can’t wait to see how Quinten fares in foster care.”

I stand up so quickly the chair screeches on the tile floor. “Get fucked, Florence.”

“Oh, sweet girl,” she jibes. “No one’s as fucked as you’re about to be.”

She laughs as I march to the door and throw it open, storming out into the hallway where Detective Fuller and his partner are lounging against the wall, the former stirring a stick in his paper cup of coffee.

“Do I have to stay here?” I ask, marching up to him.

My lungs are cramping, and I feel like I’m on the verge of a breakdown.

Detective Fuller straightens, looking past me to the room and then back. “Miss Pa— ”

I throw my hand in the air, cutting him off. “Legally, I mean. Do I have to stay here?”

He clears his throat. “No.”

“Great.”

I shove by him, making my way outside, and I don’t stop moving until I’m a block away. A sob threatens to tear free from my throat, but I shove it back down because I’ll be damned if I let Florence fucking Gammond be the reason I can’t hold it together.

My fingers are shaky as I pull out my phone and dial Dalia’s number, and it isn’t until she picks me up that I break down entirely, because I have no clue what the hell I’m going to do.