Dylan
THE WORST THING about being in jail was that it felt like home. Although I’d never been in the MCDC, much of my childhood had been spent reading or doing homework outside my dad’s cell while he slept off enough whisky to drive us home. The cops probably should have taken his driver’s license away, but instead they called him a “harmless drunk” and continued to let him off with a warning. It helped that we were related to most of the police force.
Regardless of my father’s disregard for the law, I’d never been on the inside of the bars before. In spite of the townies who predicted otherwise, I’d done well. Desperate to escape my dead-end hometown, I busted my butt filling out forms, grant requests, and applications to receive a full scholarship to a private boarding school in Portland, where I stayed from sixth grade on. Hell, I was the first person in my family to even step foot in college, much less earn a degree. Yet none of my hard work and accomplishments had kept me from this moment… handcuffed to a very nervous nun and waiting to get fingerprinted.
The nun was gnawing off the fingernails of her free hand, and they were getting pretty close to the stub. Worried for the safety of her fingers, I tried to distract her.
“What are you in here for?” I asked.
She pulled her hand away, studied the damage, and replied, “Drugs. And family.”
A nun with a drug problem? That was unexpected. Still, I kind of got it. I snorted. “I feel you. Being around my family would drive me to drugs too.”
“Oh, no, sorry. Not my drug problem... well, since I’m in here, I suppose it kind of became my drug problem. My stupid-ass brother.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry. I’m working on my swearing problem.”
“No judgment here,” I said.
She smiled. “Thanks. I’m Alexa... I mean, Sister Maria. What’d you do?”
Not like I was an authority on nuns or anything, but this girl definitely didn’t sound like one. Still, I decided to play along. “I’m Dylan. They found a body outside my apartment.”
Her eyes widened, but before she could say anything else, an officer uncuffed us and led us to the fingerprint scanning station.
Once I was fingerprinted and booked—dressed in thin sweat pants, a plain pink T-shirt, tube socks, and plastic shoes—a big male guard and I were buzzed into a room with two levels of cells. The small jail I’d basically grown up in didn’t have a catwalk, so this was a new experience for me. It was like the place was built to intimidate. Every footstep echoed as he walked me down the loneliest hallway I’d ever encountered. It smelled like a bizarre combination of cold metal, cement, body odor, and desperation, suffocating a little more hope with every step we took.
I could feel people watching me, probably wondering what my story was, and I caught glimpses of my new neighbors through their small barred windows. My stomach clenched as I fought the urge to tell the guard I didn’t belong there. No doubt he’d heard that line before. Besides, a voice in the back of my mind kept reminding me of who my old man was, insisting I deserved to follow in his footsteps. Only Dad was never booked. Jail for him had been more like an overnight stay at a free motel.
Before showing me to my cell, the guard handed me two small blankets, a towel, threadbare sheets, and a pillowcase. I clutched my new belongings to my chest, wishing they could magically transport me back in time twenty-four hours so I could take Addison up on her offer and crash in her spare bedroom.
Instead, here I was, sinking even lower than my old man. And I hadn’t even done anything wrong.
Mentally flipping genetics the bird, I slid past the three-inch thick door and into the eight-by-eight cell. My temporary home contained a stainless steel toilet, sink, reflective surface, and a foam mattress on a platform.
There was an ominous click, and I turned to find myself alone. The guard had left without so much as a good-bye. I rushed to the window and peered out, seeing his retreating back. Feeling defeated, I slunk to the ground, dropping my belongings so I could hug my knees to my chest.
It’ll be fine. Addie and Ash will come for me, I reassured myself, rocking back and forth. The cement floor felt cold beneath me. I eyed the bed, quickly dismissing it. I didn’t care how long I had to stay awake, I would not stoop so low as to sleep in jail.
Minutes ticked by in a blur as I fought the alcohol in my system, which alternated between making me sleepy and making me nauseous. In the back of my mind, a little voice kept whispering that Addison and Asher weren’t coming. That they’d finally come to terms with my white-trashiness and had written me off for good.
I don’t know how long I wallowed in self-pity before metal slid across concrete and someone called out, “James, your lawyer’s here.”
I pushed myself to my feet and looked out. The guard standing outside my window directed me to turn around, then he opened the door and handcuffed me. We clomped past several cells and down a set of stairs into a room where Asher was waiting. Both relief and shame warmed my cheeks when his eyes took me in and widened. I had a pretty good idea how awful I looked.
“Those aren’t necessary,” Asher said, gesturing at my handcuffs.
The guard removed them and then left us alone. Asher pulled me into his arms and held me for a few precious seconds before releasing me. I rubbed my wrists and sat in the chair on my side of the table.
“How you holding up?” Asher asked.
I forced a smile. “It’s like summer camp, with better food.”
“Dylan.” There was more emotion behind the word than I could deal with. I looked anywhere but at Asher, knowing if I saw pity or disgust in his eyes, I’d lose it. “I’m going to do everything I can to get you out of this,” he assured me.
“I know. I appreciate your help. I’m sorry you had to come down to—”
“Don’t apologize,” he replied. “None of this is your fault.”
Relief threatened to drown me, flooding my eyes with tears. “You don’t think I did it.”
“Of course not.” He sounded almost offended. “I know you… who you really are under the tough-girl exterior. Besides, you’re smart. You wouldn’t have used your own butcher knife and you sure as hell wouldn’t have dumped the body outside your apartment like some sort of trophy.”
“Ohmigod, it was my knife?”
“The report says your fingerprints were the only ones on it, and it matches the set on your counter.”
Well, that pissed me off. “The cops must think I’m either a complete idiot or a nutcase.”
“Nutcase seems to be the consensus. They interviewed a couple of your coworkers.”
“Already? It’s Saturday.”
“And almost noon. They’ve been busy.”
I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling, knowing I was screwed.
“Tell me what they’ve found out. What happened after you were fired?” Asher asked.
“I might have had a crazy red-headed white girl moment and told Kirk off,” I conceded.
Asher sucked in a breath. “Bad timing.”
“Hindsight. What else do they have on me?”
He frowned. “Blood in your bathroom. They’re running tests on it to see if it matches the victim’s.”
My stomach plunged down to the Underworld, danced a jig with Hades, and then leapt into my throat. I’d forgotten all about the blood, and the mere mention of it made me want to crawl in a hole. Didn’t jails have some sort of “hole” you could be sent to where you never had to talk to anyone ever again? That’s where I wanted to be.
“It won’t,” I said. “It’s not Kirk’s blood.”
“Okay, whose is it?”
I stood and started pacing. “I can’t talk to you about that, Ash.”
“You have to. I can’t defend you unless I know everything.”
“Trust me, there are some things you don’t want to know.”
Now he looked worried. “Be that as it may, as your attorney, I can assure you every word said in this room stays between us.”
I groaned. That was exactly what I was afraid of. “I don’t want it to be between us. I don’t want you to know.”
His brow furrowed. “You didn’t kill him, so just tell me why there’s blood all over your bathroom.”
“I’d honestly rather get the chair.”
He stiffened. “Not funny, Dylan. And here in Oregon, we use lethal injection.”
I hung my head, unable to even look at him. “It’s my blood.”
“What?” He stood. “Are you hurt? Did something happen to you?”
“No.” I swallowed, hoping he’d get the hint.
The look on his face told me he didn’t.
Sighing, I added, “It’s not that kind of blood.”
“Not that kind of… oh. Oh! How the hell did… uh. Jake said there was a significant amount of blood and… uh.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked away.
He wanted an explanation? Apparently I wasn’t good enough for lethal injection so I’d just have to die slowly of humiliation. “Let me just preface this conversation by reminding you how much I care about the environment.”
He faced me again, and his eyebrows were halfway up his forehead.
Desperate to save face, I plunged ahead. “Feminine products stay in landfills forever and… and there’s this new environmentally-friendly blood bucket I was reading about on line, and—”
“Blood bucket?” Asher blanched.
“That’s not the real title. It’s something way more fem, but blood bucket is fitting, trust me. Especially when you’re drunk and trying to remove it for the first time ever, and there’s no string or anything and—”
“Okay I’ve heard enough.”
“Oh, thank God.” I collapsed back in the chair and buried my head in my hands. “Let’s never speak of this again.”
“Since I’m confident the tests will corroborate your story, I can make you that deal.” He grabbed his briefcase from the floor and set it on top of the table. He removed a couple of prints and put them down in front of me.
Thankful to be done with the subject of my bathroom bloodbath, I scooted forward so I could see. “I can’t believe he’s dead. I mean sure, the guy was a douchebag, but I didn’t want him dead. I just can’t figure out why he was in my apartment building. As far as I know, Kirk didn’t even know where I live, which is how I was able to sleep nights.”
“Well we’re going to figure that out and make sure you get cleared of all charges. We need to work on your defense, so pretend I’m a jury of your peers and tell me why I should believe you didn’t kill this man.”
I studied the crime scene photos, glossing over Kirk’s lifeless eyes, the way his body was leaning, and the knife sticking out of his chest.
“Son of a … that is my knife.” And it bugged the heck out of me. “What kind of idiot would stab someone in the chest with a fat meat cleaver?”
“Not the weapon you’d use?” Asher asked.
I shook my head. “No way.”
“Why?”
I took a deep breath, wondering how much I could tell Asher without sounding like a total psychopath.
“Dylan?” he asked, watching me.
I expelled the oxygen from my lungs, blowing my bangs into the air. “Keep in mind that when he wasn’t drunk, my dad was a pretty decent butcher.”
“Right.”
“Which is probably why I sprung for sharp, quality knives but didn’t spend a penny on a cheap television set.”
“Uh-huh.”
I picked up one of the pictures and pointed to the knife sticking out of Kirk’s chest. “And this is not the sort of thing the daughter of a decent butcher would do.”
He crossed his arms, eyeballing the photos. “Explain.”
“Based on the positioning, I can only assume Kirk’s attacker was trying to stab him in the heart. But the cut is too far off to the side, like they didn’t really know where the heart was. Your heart’s more to the center. About here.” I patted my chest. “I keep my blades sharp, but getting through the bone with the butcher knife would have taken work. It would have hurt. A lot. Even if the killer surprised him, there would have been a struggle, a chance he could have survived, and it would have taken too long. I have a really thin fillet knife that would have slipped right between the fourth and fifth ribs and pierced his heart, easier than bobbing for an apple.”
Asher sucked in a breath, and I realized I’d lunged over the psychopath line.
“It would have been quick and easy and he wouldn’t have suffered long. I’m not cruel, Ash.”
His eyes widened. “Perhaps this isn’t the best approach to take with the jury.”