This Story Might Save Your Life(83)
He loved me this way. I let him love me this way.
I don’t feel bad that he’s dead.
* * *
IT’S UNCLEAR WHAT time it is when Mitali visits. The light outside is gray, which means it could be morning or night, or midday shadowed by a passing cloud, but I don’t care. She smiles down at me, cheeks flushed, wearing the same navy sweatshirt and skinny jeans as the night we met.
“How was the doctor?” she asks. “Did you get what you need?”
I consider telling her but decide I don’t want to talk about it.
She doesn’t press. “Have you eaten?’
“A little while ago.” Another tray from Gloria I could barely keep down. I clear my throat with a slight cough. “Is there any news? Have you checked your email?”
She hesitates long enough that my heart begins to flutter. “Still nothing.”
“Nothing from Benny?” I’d assumed Benny would pass along a message as soon as he learned I was okay.
Mitali blinks hard. I can’t read her face. “Do you want me to reach out to the police again?”
I open my mouth to say yes, but something feels wrong. “No.” I should do it myself. I try to sit up, and I’m so lightheaded I may as well be floating.
“Don’t overdo it.” Mitali smiles. Presses a hand to my leg. “I’ve got this. You rest.”
Again, I try and fail to get up.
“I’ll go now,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”
I find myself unable to respond. A rush of cold sluices through my body as she pauses in the door. “Anything for my favorite podcaster.”
Benny Abbott
Day Six
They take my personal items. Make me remove my shoes. I stand on two painted footprints and spread my legs while a male officer pats me down, checks my hair, my mouth, the bottom of my feet. I go through a metal detector and they lock a chain with cuffs around my waist. These are less uncomfortable than the others, but my hand throbs as I sign receipts for the personal items they’ve stored in a locker. I sit in a row of plastic seats beside several other cuffed men until they call my name and take me behind a cubicle. For the second time in twenty-four hours, my vitals are taken. They ask a series of questions about my medical history, and then I’m guided down the hall, where I stand on a yellow line for mug shots. Again, I am fingerprinted, but not with black ink this time. They do it on a glass plate, and it hurts like hell when they paw at my broken hand. The scanner chirps when it’s satisfied with the images, and I’m taken to a holding cell. There are more men than seats in this square chamber that reeks of urine and vomit and body odor. I stand in the corner for an hour before someone shouts my name, at which point I’m granted my phone call.
“I asked Luna to put me in touch with a lawyer,” Sarah says. “His name is Philip Kim. She said he jumped at the chance to take you on when he learned who you were.”
I’m not sure how to feel about this. “Are they still searching my house?”
She makes a sound I take to mean yes. “It looks really bad. They searched your car too.”
I lower my head. “The dogs?”
“They’re with me.”
There are men talking on wall phones in either direction, and there’s a buzzing sound over my head. In the next room over, someone is shouting.
“Benny, I’m scared.”
She isn’t the only one. I shouldn’t have begged Keller to question Ted and Emil. If I hadn’t, Ted might not have told her I broke his stupid, expensive camera, or spitefully mentioned my “suspicious behavior” at Joy’s house last night, and Keller might not have been granted a warrant to search my home. And if no one had searched my home, they wouldn’t have found Joy’s computer and thus known I’ve been concealing evidence since day one. It’s all my fault, and I’m worried they’re going to find some way to use my previous offense as an excuse to hold me. I would let someone pound my throbbing hand into the concrete if it meant getting out of here sooner than later. “Did the lawyer say what to expect? Will I have to stay overnight?”
“He doesn’t know yet, but he’s doing everything he can.”
We talk another minute before I’m returned to the holding cell, where I stand and then crouch until my legs are so tired I have to sit on the filthy floor. At long last, my name is called.
“Be grateful for overcrowding,” the officer says.
Mr. Philip Kim must be worth whatever he’s costing me because I don’t have to post bail. I’m released on my own recognizance on the promise I’ll appear in court for future proceedings.
* * *
“CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY,” Philip says. “Next time they’ll make room for you.” He accepts my sister’s proffered coffee with a grateful nod and takes a seat beside Luna, who is ready with a notepad at the kitchen table. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, hair flatter on one side than the other, white T-shirt wrinkled and stained at the hem. She’s never seen this volatile, reactive side of me. I hate that I’ve added stress to an already stressful situation.
It’s dark outside, nearing ten o’clock, and my house is a wreck despite Sarah’s best efforts to tidy up after the search team left. We’ve probably exhausted half of Mr. Kim’s exorbitant retainer in this one day of employment, but I don’t care. I need to know where things stand before I cave to my exhaustion.