"Do you know how many victims we've found so far?" He asks me.
I shake my head. I don't want to know. I've been avoiding rolling that question around in my head, not wanting to dwell on how many people have died.
"Do you think Donald knows?"
I shake my head, not able to answer thanks to the golf ball sized wad of words mixed with emotions currently lodged in my throat. I will not cry-I will not cry-I will not cry. I look away, focus on a penny sized scuff on the wall and empty my mind of everything that may make me cry.
“You have kids?” The question jumps off my tongue the moment I return my attention to Spikes.
His brows scrunch together. He has no idea where I’m going with this.
Neither do I.
“Teenagers,” he says.
That explains it. He gives off that father vibe I’d always wished I’d known. Don’t get sucked in. Don’t get played.
“Whatever you are hinting at, can we lay it out? Speak plain?”
He nods.
“The Donny I know isn't a killer.”
His head bobs. He’s actively listening. Good.
“You believe that?”
“With all my heart. Donny…he’s different. He pushes me to be different, to be better.” I don’t hide the warmth in my voice, the smile.
"Trying to change your life around?" He glances up in surprise.
"I have changed my life around." There's no lie in my voice because it's one hundred percent the truth. Well...maybe more like 79% but isn't life all about a work in progress? I'll get there.
The point is, I want to get there and that's all he needs to know.
"Yeah? Why this time? According to your file, you're a regular at The Thompson Hopper Female Correctional Facility." There was no censure in his voice, no accusation. He said it with the same intensity as if he were reading out my home address.
"Three times the charm, maybe?" I say, lifting my shoulder in an indifferent shrug, but we both know it’s not. Why this time? Good question. Looking back, I wish I had done this sooner. It’s a lot of hard work, but I’m a better person for it.
"I never thought I could do anything different until I met Donny. He showed me a different way to live. A better way that doesn't have to include breaking the law."
Detective Spikes nods, writes something down on his notepad. "Must have been an adjustment."
It wasn't really a question, more like a statement and I must admit, I'm almost liking this guy.
"Keep in touch with any of your old contacts?"
"No."
"Sure about that?”
That part about almost liking him? Gone.
“We've got time,” he says, “don't feel you need to rush your answers or anything." Spikes leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest and waits, as if he isn’t in the middle of an active crime scene where time is of the essence.
"Who’s rushing? You asked a question, I answered. I severed all ties the day I walked out of prison." And yet, something niggles the back of my memory, something that tells me I'm not being as honest as I could be.
Could be, should be, does it matter? There's only one goal here - to walk out on my own, without cuffs wrapped around my wrists or ankles.
"Listen, Starla, I'm not your enemy.” His piercing gaze, almost hypnotic, has me wanting to believe him. “I get how you'd think so, from foster care to jail…how can you trust me, right? But who else can you trust right now? I’m the only one on your side.” He says this like it matters, like it holds weight when it actually doesn’t. I’m used to it.
Cops have never been on my side.
"I'm only here for answers. I'm not your enemy,” his voice lowers as he repeats himself, “but I could be your best friend, if you work with me."
Like I haven't heard this line before.
My skepticism is written all over me in invisible ink and he’s the decoder. I don’t like it. He leans forward, hands clasped on the table and for the first time since opening the door, gives me a mask-off, blinds-open, honest smile.
“The first cop who said that sent me to juvie for shoplifting.” I’ve been fed this line too many times as well. “Do you know what I lifted?”
Spikes says nothing. He taps his pen against the metal table, giving me the space, the room I need to talk.
I lace my fingers together and tap my thumbs. One. Two. Three. Three heart beats. Three blinks. Three breathes.
“A sandwich.”
He blinks.
“I have a hard time believing cops want to help.” The truth tumbles out before I can shut my mouth. Damn it.
“Rough foster life?” The tapping stops. His left brow lifts as if he just realized something.
“Same story, different kid.” I heard enough horror stories in prison to know foster care came with its own scars.
His head dips in a slight nod. “I’ve been in the system. I get it.”
That surprises me. Never have I had a cop be that honest like that. Never.
“Mrs. Cranberry, the foster mom, held a strict routine. Dinner at five on the dot. Miss it and you get nothing. I was always late,” I explain, as if it matters.
His brows curled inward until they resembled a giant grey caterpillar. "Seems harsh," he says.
Seems harsh? It was harsh. One small mistake and my future disappeared; my path written in cement.
"The shop owner made me an example. Said I’d threatened her with physical violence. What a joke. All anyone had to do was look at my scrawny body and they’d know."
I look away. So many years ago, the catalyst for all the paths taken since. The pain is still there. Still gnawing, still aching. Like a phantom pain, it’ll always be there.
This stupid sandwich memory has cost me. Stolen sleep, time and money.
The pain is still fresh from recent counseling sessions.
"I'm sorry."
Two words. Yet, how he says them, the honest softness of his face, leaves me believing him.
I’m tossed around like a volleyball between wanting to believe him and knowing I shouldn’t. I need barriers to be erected. I need my mask in place.
"Why apologize for something you didn't do?" Thank God my voice doesn’t betray how much this means to me.
It’s the first real apology I’ve gotten from a cop. That sinks in, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
"But, thank you," I give a very small I-know-I-need-to-be-polite kind of smile. "My counselor would be proud."
"Your counselor?" There's a look on Spikes face, a look that says I just gave him some information he'd been unaware of, information that would come in handy, information I could have kept as a bargaining tool.
Damn it. I need to stop speaking my thoughts.
"Therapy.” I once would have spat the word out, but not anymore. “I'm broken, go figure. Repeated prison sentences can do that. Donny found her for me."
"Have a name for this therapist?" Spikes pen is poised above his notepad.
"She's not going to tell you anything."
"She will if I have a warrant," he says. "Do I need one?"
Does he? "I’ve nothing to hide."