“C’mon, Trev. Go on and get some new clothes and a couple towels.” He looks at me, at the lady cop staring at us, then back at me, and I can see the short convulsions of his chest. I nod at him, make my eyelids lift up like I don’t got no worries.
Trevor puts both hands on the pool edge and lifts his body out, boxers soggy and trying to drip off him. He holds them up with both hands and starts jogging toward the stairs, up them, back to the apartment.
“We’ll give you a minute,” lady cop says, standing and walking back to the man cop behind her. Her hair is pulled into a bun so tight, I wonder if she’s got a headache.
Trevor comes back a few minutes later with a bundle of towels and a shirt. He’s already changed into some new boxers and shorts. I grip on to the edge of the pool and lift myself out, grabbing the towel Trevor hands to me. I rush to dry off enough to pull on my jeans and T-shirt. Trevor puts his shirt on, with a picture of a mountain on it, and he looks like a Boy Scout. The cops stand there uncomfortably, trying not to look at us.
I stand up, taking Trevor’s hand. He doesn’t really let me hold his hand much anymore, but I’m not asking now. If we’re tethered at the skin, they’re gonna have to rip us apart at the cells.
“You need something?” I ask.
I’m still dripping, forehead down. Both cops come forward now and I can’t look at anything but their lips. There’s something about the way they hold them together, something about the way they’re cracked that makes me think these people have mastered how to dry out a phrase, give some bad news with a straight line carved into their mouths. The man has lips bordering on red and I don’t know if they look bloodied or like he drew lipstick on this morning.
The woman is clearly in charge here, walks stomach first, everything secondary to the pit of her, target in her belly button. “We’re looking for a Kia Holt. Guessing that’s you, miss?”
I know one of them sent her ’cause that’s the name I gave Camila, gave everyone that ever saw me on the street. They must have found me out. Maybe this is the day they take me in, enter my fingerprint into their computers, and leave Trevor alone. “Maybe. You need something?”
The man takes his turn now, after lady cop tilts her head. She doesn’t even look at him, just gives this little head tilt and they must have rehearsed this before because his mouth opens a beat later. “We’re undergoing an internal investigation and we’re going to need to speak with you. I’m Detective Harrison and this is Detective Jones.”
I rub my free hand across my face, wipe up the water still running from my hairline. “Trevor, why don’t you go upstairs and start on that cake? I’ll be up soon.” I squeeze his hand, look down at him. His face maps fear like a direct route to a panic attack, but I don’t got time to comfort him when they’re still standing here, staring at me straight out the shit pool. I release Trevor’s hand, and give his shoulder a nudge toward the stairs, watch him go all the way up, and wait for the door to slam.
The woman, Detective Jones, scrunches her lips up toward her nose so they wrinkle. “Actually, we think it would be best for you to come into the station with us. We’re going to need to complete a recorded interview and some paperwork and it would be best to do it all at once. Don’t you think that’d be a whole lot easier?” She tries to make her voice higher than it is. I can tell because the pitch squeaks at the end of each sentence and the corners of her eyes squeeze, trying real hard to keep herself soft. I bet she’s the good cop in their role-playing. Bet she don’t like it that much.
I should have known it would end in this. The station. Cuffs must come next. “How long this gonna take?” I cross my arms to cover the way my bra shows through the shirt, sticky and wet.
Detective Harrison puts on his bad-cop face, knits his nose upward, chin tilt. “You’ll be home before dark for sure. Unless you wanna make this harder on yourself and then it might take longer.”
I don’t know what he means, but it’s clear they’re not about to tell me, so I nod, pull my sneakers on. Jones motions her arm for me to follow Harrison out the gate. I trail behind him, sandwiched between them, trying to get one last flash of Trevor on the landing. He isn’t there.
* * *
—
Lived here my whole life and never been in OPD headquarters. The building is larger than any other one in the area, plopped between Jack London Square, Chinatown, and Old Oakland. It hovers in the center of the city like a camera hidden in plain sight. All the cop cars emerge out of the headquarters, swarm the area.