My anxiety took over, so I’ve kept quiet. Sensing my unease, Jason talked to me the entire time. Told me all about his sick dog back home and how he’s recovering from a surgery that removed the cancer from his ear.
“You both will have to go to the station immediately after treatment.”
“Okay,” I say, injecting as much confidence in my tone as I can muster. That urge to run still lingers, but I push it away. I refuse to cower and hide any longer.
And this will be the last time Enzo and I will ever have to tell a lie in the name of survival.
“Do you have a last name, sweetheart?” the policewoman asks, her brow pinched with concern.
Her accent is strong, but her voice is soothing. She’s an older woman with white hair, gentle brown eyes, and soft hands. I don’t know why I remember that… It was the only thing I could focus on when she grabbed ahold of my own and said I was safe now.
Safe.
It’s something I’ve never really felt before. Not until Enzo—when it was me and him against Sylvester, and then again when Officer Bancroft held my palms between hers.
It only makes me feel worse that I’m lying to her.
My mouth opens, then closes. I don’t actually know the answer to that question.
We’re at Port Valen’s police station. We spent all of yesterday in the hospital, where my wrist was put in a cast and I was treated for smoke inhalation. Enzo was also treated for the smoke, along with his concussion. He has bruising across his face from when he was hit with the gun, and his back and right shoulder, assumingly from when Sylvester threw him down into the hole.
They allowed us both to stay the night there before sending us off to the station for questioning this morning.
“I’m not sure,” I say weakly, blood rising to my cheeks.
Officer Bancroft might assume it’s embarrassment, but truly, it’s because I’m terrified that I’m fucking this up. None of this sits right in my stomach or my head. Sylvester’s daughters deserve to have the recognition for what they endured, and here I am, selfishly erasing one of them for my own benefit.
It makes me sick.
“Okay,” she says gently. “Can you tell me a little about what happened when Enzo first arrived?”
I clear my throat, glancing around as if I’m going to find the answer written on the walls. “My… my dad saw him lying out on the beach u-unconscious. He, uhm, he told us to hide, then took the batteries out of the handheld radio and waited for E-Enzo to come in.”
The only good thing about being so damn nervous is that growing up sequestered on an island would result in social awkwardness, and I’m bringing it full force. It’s only embarrassing because I didn’t actually grow up on a tiny island, but at least she doesn’t know that.
“Do you know why he took the batteries out?”
I shift uncomfortably, idly scratching my arm just to give my hands something to do.
“When can I see Enzo?” I ask instead. I’m not a trusting person, but the only one Trinity feels safe with is Enzo. She would also be hesitant to talk about her father. He’s all she knows.
“You can see him soon, honey. I just need you to answer some questions for me, okay?”
I glance behind my shoulder at the door, mumbling, “Okay,” while also wondering if they’d let me leave right now and go find him.
“Can you—”
“He’s not in trouble, is he?” I cut in.
“They’re just asking him some questions,” she assures gently.
It doesn’t slip my attention that she didn’t answer my question.
“Can you tell me why your father took the batteries out?” she repeats, keeping her tone soft and patient.
She must donate to charities and volunteer at the soup kitchen on weekends—the woman is a saint. I would’ve lost my patience already.
“D-Dad was worried about him finding me and my sister and didn’t want him to have access to the radios in case he did.”
“Do you know why he didn’t want Enzo to have access?”
I shrug, scratching my arm again. “He likes to have friends.”
The officer nods and writes something down in her notepad.
“How many friends has your father had?”
I chew my lip, not wanting to answer that. Trinity might not want to rat out her father, but frankly, I have no idea how many bodies were buried in the cellar.
“You know he can’t hurt you anymore, right?” Bancroft asks, tipping her chin down to catch my stare.