I’m not in the mood to talk.
They transfer me to Central Booking in another part of the borough, where I’m moved from cell to cell, from place to place, in a piss-scented building filled with a lot of nosey-ass people.
Hours.
So many hours.
Signs posted everywhere guarantee the process will be over within twenty-four hours, but as I surpass hour twenty-three, I start to think the signs are lying to me.
Finally... fucking finally... I’m allowed to make a call, dragged to a room by a disgruntled officer and shoved in front of a phone.
My charge doesn’t seem to elicit friendliness from their kind, that’s for sure.
“You get three calls,” the officer says, glaring at me. “Make them quick.”
There’s really only one number I can think to call.
I dial it once. No answer.
I dial it twice. No answer.
So I try for a third time, thinking I’m out of luck. Either it’s coming up blocked on his caller ID, or he recognizes the number and doesn’t accept jailhouse calls. It rings and rings and rings, and I frown, about to give up when the line clicks and his voice cuts on, annoyance in every syllable. “Gambi—”
“Don’t talk,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m being recorded. There’s a big sign right above the phone that says so. So I wouldn’t have called, but I kind of needed to, okay?”
He says nothing, but I know he’s listening.
Or well, he hasn’t hung up yet, so I know he’s still there—pretending to listen, at least.
“I went on sabbatical to my favorite precinct and got arrested in the alley near it. I’m going to be arraigned tomorrow sometime. But really, that’s beside the point. I just...” Shit, how do I say this without giving up the goods? “Remember the time at my apartment where we went falling off the roof of the building and I played a bit of Hide & Seek? My hiding spot was so good they didn’t find me, but you did... you found me easily. I was hoping to play again, you know, if you want to go do some seeking, same basic spot this time.”
He’s still quiet.
I don’t know if he understands.
I don’t know if I’m making sense.
But I can’t just say ‘look at the fucking dumpster beside the precinct’ because who knows who else is listening and might go look themselves?
“I got you,” he says after a moment, his voice low.
“You got me?”
“I got you.”
He hangs up without another word.
I don’t know if he’s got me, really, but I’m hoping like hell he does. Hanging up, I look at the officer, who watches me curiously, like I’m speaking in riddles and he’s trying to crack the code.
“So, any idea when I’m getting out of here?” I ask, motioning to one of those ‘twenty-four hours’ posters. “Pretty sure time’s up.”
“Time’s up when we say it’s up,” he says. “We can hold your ass here for as long as we want... especially if we misplace your paperwork.”
“Ah, so you’re one of those...”
His eyes narrow. “One of what?”
“Those big guys that get off on picking on women. What, your mommy didn’t love you enough, so you’ve gotta take it out on us?”
He looks like he wants to punch me, but being as there are cameras everywhere, he can’t. Instead, he roughly grabs my arm and drags me back to a holding cell, whispering, “you should probably get comfortable,” before shoving me in.
More hours.
So many more hours.
I doze off, lying on the filthy concrete floor, but it doesn’t bother me much, considering I used to live on the streets. Do you know how many nights I slept on the cold ground when I was fourteen?
Pfftt, that’s nothing.
Do you know how many days I survived chained up in a basement?
I’m eventually woken, taken to yet another cell. Time passes, almost another entire day, before someone shouts my name. “Morgan Myers!”
“Showtime,” I mutter, staggering off to a little room, where I see a bald guy behind plexiglass with a file on me. Public defender.
“They’re offering a deal: plead guilty to misdemeanor disturbing the peace and you walk right out of here a free woman, the rest of the charges dropped.”
“Wait, what? What other charges?”
The man rattles off a whole host of offenses, like they’re trying to nail me for every teeny-tiny infraction they could possibly think of.
“Okay, wait... so what if I don’t want those charges dropped?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You’ll probably end up in Rikers for years.”
Ugh, don’t want that, either, but I’m not sure just walking out of here is something that’s possible. I’ve been stationary for too long under my real name, which means Kassian has had forty-eight hours to sniff out my very public location.
And my suspicion is confirmed a few minutes later when I’m ushered into the courtroom and see him.
Him.
I come to a halt.
My feet won’t move anymore, cementing right into the floor. Shit. Kassian stands in the back corner, dressed impeccably in a dark suit. I’ve heard his voice, and I’ve breathed his same air, but this is the first time, in so many months, that the two of us have come face-to-face. The first time I’ve looked at him the same time he was looking at me, our eyes meeting for no more than a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity.
I’m pulled away, forced to keep going, and avert my gaze as I’m lead to the front of the courtroom.
The District Attorney and the judge exchange words, but I’m not paying them much attention. I keep glancing over my shoulder, toward the back corner. I can’t help myself.
Kassian isn’t smiling. He isn’t laughing.
He just stares at me, his expression a blank mask.
“Miss Myers?”
I turn to the judge when he calls my name. “Yes?”
“You need to plead on the charge of disorderly conduct.”
“Oh.” I hesitate. “Guilty.”
He says something else. I don’t know. My ears feel clogged, everything foggy as my heart crazily pounds. I glance behind me again, stalling this time when I find back corner empty.
Kassian is gone.
The judge is still talking but all I keep thinking is Kassian is here somewhere, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce.
“Miss Myers is hereby ordered to be held for pick-up by the seventeenth precinct...”
Whoa.
I look at the judge, confused, before turning to the public defender. “What?”
“You have an outstanding warrant,” he says.
That only confuses me more. “A warrant? For what?”
He shrugs.
The man shrugs.
Like he doesn’t give a shit at all.
I raise my hand, trying to get the judge’s attention before he can bang his gavel.
“Put your hand down,” the public defender hisses. “He’ll hold you in contempt if you disrupt his proceedings.”
I ignore that, because really, at least those charges would make sense. The seventeenth precinct is in Midtown, Manhattan. There’s no reason for me to have charges there.
“Excuse me?” I call out. “Your honor?”
The judge looks at me.
Man, he looks like he’d like to smack me with the gavel, but instead he says, “Yes, Miss Myers?”
“A warrant?” I ask. “What kind of warrant?”
“Conspiracy,” he answers.
That’s it.
Conspiracy.
“What kind of conspiracy?” I ask, but it doesn’t matter, because the man bangs his gavel and I’m dragged away.
Hauled back to another holding cell to wait again.
Back to being watched by the disgruntled officer, who personally seems to be monitoring me, a fact that isn’t really surprising.
He’s probably on somebody’s payroll.
A hundred bucks says it’s Kassian’s.
“So, any chance you know what a ‘conspiracy’ charge is?” I ask him.
“It means you conspired to do something.”