If You Dare

by A. R. Torre

  I laugh and SumbitchWoman looks over at me, her jaw flapping shut. Sane. Is that what I think I’ve been? I sit up, rolling my legs off the side of the bed and speak to no one in particular. “Will they let me make a phone call?”

  Beneath me a woman’s face appears, white and pasty, her eyes mean, the folds of her eyelids cupping the hatred into place. This woman could smile, every piece of her face cooperating, and those eyes would still scream hate. “Shut it,” she snarls, and her voice matches her eyes, the vowels asphalt black and scratchy, the next words harder to hear because I choose that moment to lift my foot up and smash it down onto her face.

  I don’t know why I did it. I’ve been told to shut up before. A hundred times, in fact. And this woman is no doubt stronger, wiser than me. She has to know people, have family who know people, has to have a hundred advantages over me in this space. What was it that other woman had said? Right before she bent me over and pushed her fingers inside? Keep your head down and color. That was it. I keep my head down as I push off the bunk, the howling woman’s eyes following me from her position on the ground where my kick put her. One of my shoes landed on an outstretched hand, her scream almost loud enough to hide the crunch of her bones. Hand bones are so, so delicate. I color across her face with my heel as I give one last relatively gentle kick. I step off and away, moving forward, my view of her disappearing, the scrabble of her nails on this dirty floor the sound of a woman trying to get up. I hope she does. I hope she stands and brings that broken face closer. I hope she lunges out with that destroyed hand. I hope she tries to kick my ass. Really. Please.

  I try again. “Will they let me make a phone call?”

  SumbitchWoman just stares at me. I watch her jaw move, but nothing comes out. Finally, there is a wheeze of a breath from behind and I turn, looking past MeanEyes, her good hand pushing on the ground, her other lifted to her cheek, pain behind the blood on her face, a gash open on her right cheek, her nose similar to mine yet a hell of a lot worse. The fourth woman, her knees spread unladylike, her heavy girth comforting, the elbow she places on her knee thick and fat. “You could ask them,” she huffs, her words hard and heavy, the effort made not lost on me, and I smile in thanks as I turn.

  Oh, them. Three black uniforms at our door, one barking into a chest walkie, one unlocking the door, the other standing, eyes bouncing across the room, collecting details like trading cards. I walk to the door and wait for it to open. I speak to the only one who doesn’t seem busy. “I’d like to make a phone call.” I smile politely.

  My smile must be broken, because in this place, no one yet has smiled back.

  CHAPTER 63

  Present

  THE BEAUTY OF confessions is that they are one checkmark made. One task completed. One less case in a caseload of hundreds. Jeremy Pacer was avenged. When he, if he, wakes up, he will be happy to know that his attacker is behind bars. Brenda Boles can go on with her life and have one less blood-spattered crime scene to think about.

  A confession. Beautiful. Except in this case, when it is not.

  “I know that look.” David stops before her desk, and she lifts her eyes.

  “No you don’t.” He’s holding two bananas. She reaches for one; he holds it out of reach. “No.”

  “You’re telling me you’re eating both of those?”

  “Mattie says I need more potassium in my diet.”

  “Bullshit. You’re punishing me.”

  “Damn right I’m punishing you. We closed a case, she’s been booked, we’re supposed to be celebrating over something fried and delicious right now.”

  “You’re the one with the bananas.”

  “And you’re the one with that damn look on your face.” He sits down in the chair of the closest desk. “What is it? Is it the Henderson audio? ’Cause I told you the judge would—”

  “No,” she interrupts shortly. “It’s Madden. The confession.”

  He frowns. “What’s your beef with that?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “But you said—”

  “She’s guilty but it’s wrong.”

  He sighs and sets down both bananas. Her eyes follow them. The shit thing of it is, she doesn’t even really like bananas. Yet withhold one and she’s drooling all over the place. “Then we dig into the explosion. Go over it too.”

  “You know she only called one person? During her phone calls? One.” She holds up a finger and David nods.

  “Yes, I know, you told me. The hospital.”

  “The hospital. She didn’t even know what happened to him till we told her.”

  “So she’s blocked it out. It’s traumatizing to try and kill someone.” He shrugs. Peels open his banana. She follows suit.

  “I called booking. To get an update.”

  “And?”

  “Waiting on a call back.”

  “It’s booking. She’s sitting in a cell trying not to get her white ass kicked. What are you expecting them to say?”

  She takes a bite of banana. Too ripe. She eyes his. It looks better. “Maybe we should call the shrink.”

  “For what?”

  She has a sudden recollection of his voice, the comforting drawl in the tones, the way his voice had changed when she’d said Deanna Madden’s name. “An update. Let him know his client has been charged.”

  “He’s a shrink, what does he care? She’s probably one of five hundred patients.”

  She pushes a boot on the edge of a file cabinet and swings the chair around. “He’ll care.”

  “Then call him, let him know, and move the hell on.”

  Her fingers peel back the rest of the skin and toss it in the wastebasket. “I will,” she says, pushing the final piece of fruit in her mouth. Spinning the chair straight, she reaches for the phone, brushing off her other hand before snagging the correct case file and flipping it open.

  Dialing the number, she settles back in her chair and listens to the ring. Flosses her teeth with the edge of her nail. When the man comes on the line, she straightens.

  “Dr. Vanderbilt?”

  “Yes, is this Detective Boles?”

  Oh, goody. He remembers her. “I’m calling about Deanna Madden. She’s been arrested.”

  CHAPTER 64

  Present

  WHAT I DID to MeanEyes turns out to be against the rules. I absorb that information while, inside my head, a part of my brain does a little happy dance. Blood seems to do that to me. What is more disturbing, and what I muse over while I sit in a new room, by myself, handcuffs pinning my wrists together in my lap, is that the woman hadn’t really done anything to me. As screwed up as my life has been, there was always, somewhere along it, a moral code. I killed because he was evil. I killed to save another. I killed or hurt because of something. But there, back in that cell, I had hurt for no reason at all. And I had enjoyed it. I have always dreaded jail. I may have been right to. This may be, after all, the most dangerous place for my brain to be.

  The door opens and a new stranger comes in. He’s a sheriff, not a cop, a brown uniform instead of black. I don’t smile at him. I’ve noticed that the more I smile in this place, the more people look at me like I’m crazy. He stops before me, his hands on his hips, the buckle of his belt in my direct eyeline. “Three hours and forty-five minutes.”

  I don’t look up. He moves his hands from his hips and places them on the table before me. Dirty fingers. I pull my gaze to them. Dirty fingers, short nails, hard hands. Has he been so busy that he hasn’t had time to wash his hands? Three hours and forty-five minutes. I don’t even have to ask what he’s talking about. I already know. I know because I counted those three hours and forty-five minutes down. Every second, every minute, every hour in that room with those women was noted. “I didn’t think you’d be a problem, Madden.”

  I sit back. God, it’s hot in here. I can’t be the only one who thinks so. This man, with his long pants, has to be hot too. I lift my eyes to his and realize that he’s waiting on a response.

&
nbsp; “I’d like to make a phone call.”

  He raises his eyebrows, twin caterpillars hopping on an ugly desert. “Oh, we all know about your need to make a phone call. I’m sure the EMTs tending to that woman’s face are hearing about your precious phone call. Who you calling, princess?”

  I suck a piece of my cheek between my teeth and test the gummy surface’s strength. Look in his eyes and say nothing.

  “You know, you look real familiar.” He pushes off the table and stands, ambling around the table toward me. I watch him, the air around me infecting as he moves closer. “I couldn’t figure it out, but that face… I’ve seen you somewhere before.” He stops next to my chair and leans against the table. Lifts a hip and perches on the edge of it. I wish I were a unicorn and I could just tilt my chin down and impale this asshole with one hard headbutt.

  “I thought it was from a prior arrest… but it looks like you’ve never been booked before.” I blink slowly and wonder if he’s inner monologued this whole bit. And if so, please God let him be close to the end.

  “Then I spoke to one of the cops, who told me about your apartment.” He moves a hand to his thigh, and I admire the way the hair on his knuckles brushes over his wedding ring. Sexy. “A camgirl, huh? That’s when I put two and two together.”

  Oh. So this is where this asshole’s thought process is headed. I lift my eyes to his face.

  He’s grinning like he just won something. I look at his rows of teeth and wonder how much it will hurt my fist if I punch him. “NascarGuy44.” He raises his brows in eager expectation. I stare at him, my face carefully schooled into place. “That’s me. Remember me?”

  Is he kidding me? Not to brag about my client list, but I’ve cammed with thousands of men. This guy’s probably a member of my fan club. Might have splurged once or twice and taken me private. A big deal for him, one of a hundred daily transactions for me. I sigh. “A phone call.” At this point, I don’t even know if I want the damn phone call. Not if it’s going to mean more quality time between me and this asshat.

  “Hey now.” He has the gall to look hurt. Then he leans forward and I focus on his hand, the one lifting off his knee and reaching for me.

  I don’t move, everything in this world freezing as I wait. I can see my future very clearly right now. Can see the moment when his fingers touch me. Can see the moment that this space goes white and my body reacts. I reach inside, search for the place where I had just, moments ago, mused over control, morals, a bit of resolution to not be violent. I was going to control myself, learn to behave in this new place, find strength and peace in these walls. His finger connects with my cheek and trails across my cheekbone, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. I lift my eyes up to his, I can feel the heat of his breath near my eyebrow, a heavy exhale tickling the eyelashes of my right eye. I can do this. I can be stronger than this. I close my eyes. “Take your fucking hands off me.”

  His chuckle flips my eyes back open and I see his smile hovering in the place past his dirty wrist, a gold chain peeking from underneath his shirt sleeve, momentarily distracting me. “Now that isn’t what you said to me in our chat.” His hand drops down my hair and hits my shoulder, his breath heavier as his hand slides down the fabric of my sweatshirt. “You see, sweetheart, I know exactly what’s underneath this—”

  You know, I tried. Really I did. I can’t help it that right now, my madness is stretched a little thin. I can’t help it that when he squeezes my breast, hard and rough, I say fuck it. I can’t help the fact that his small dick doesn’t like the feel of my fists—he was the one who put it right there for me to rain down my linked hands on. I can’t help it that when he wheezed and doubled over, I snapped my elbow across his scrunched face.

  I’ve been in a few altercations with men, yet am still caught off guard when I’m hit. His punch lands on my stomach, my chair moving, falling back, my hands and feet left behind, my chest lifting forward, and that saves my head from a second interaction with a hard floor. Dr. Pat will be so pleased. I scramble out of the chair, spots in my vision, my chest struggling for some bit of air, but I can only wheeze, my feet skidding across the floor as I try to get away. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Picking a fight I can’t win, in a place where I shouldn’t try. I close my eyes and manage one painful breath. Find footing and straighten. Open my eyes, my hands closing into tight fists, and meet my opponent’s eyes. NascarGuy44 may end up kicking my ass, but I will drag hell into his life first. NascarGuy44. I’m gonna remember that username. NascarGuy44. I chant it in my mind, and raise my fists. Lift my chin and dare him to bring the fucking rain. NascarGuy44. I will personally bankroll Mike’s research into and destruction of this man’s entire life.

  The door behind my future project opens, and I look past the asshole’s face into the black woman’s, the one who strip-searched me. Ms. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor. Her gaze narrows on my fists, then her head turns to the man. I can’t help but smile when she speaks.

  “You. Get the fuck out.” He stares at me, a threat in his eyes, and steps over my chair, a big dramatic gesture that really isn’t necessary, there’s lots of room to just walk right by it, and passes her, his hand going to his face. Pussy.

  I drop my fists and test my inhale. It doesn’t hurt. She stands in the doorway, one hand on her hip, one on the door frame, her large body filling the space. “You don’t follow directions real well,” she finally sighs.

  I shrug from the corner of the room. “Never have.”

  She shakes her head and looks at my overturned chair. “Shit. Paperwork.” She pushes off the door frame with a loud huff. “Come on. We’re putting you in solitary. Try to not pick a fight with the walls there.”

  I laugh and step out of the corner.

  CHAPTER 65

  Present

  I EXPECTED MORE from solitary confinement. Padded walls, a dark place buried underground with a giant padlock on the front. A tiny slit where my meals would be slid through, three times a day.

  Instead I’m in a normal-ass cell. Just like the other one but smaller, one bed instead of six. The same toilet and sink. Same walls. Same dirty white color scheme. Same smell, a combination of bleach and urine. I lie in the bed and stare at the ceiling. Wonder about that damn phone call. I should have let him cop the feel. Maybe if I had, I’d have the phone pressed to my ear right now. I practice breathing. One deep sigh, till my lungs burn and my cheeks puff. One long, long, long exhale, till my stomach cramps and my chest starves.

  In. In. In. Hold.

  Out. Out. Out.

  In. In. In. Hold.

  Out. Out. Out.

  I cough. God. Six hours in and I’m bored. My master plan did not take into account the fact that I would not have a computer. Suddenly, the prospect of a year or five or ten seems impossible. What was I thinking? That I’d sinned, so I should be punished? That my apartment no longer seems to be working, so I’ll take more drastic measures? I’d walked into jail thinking I’d be punishing my evil into submission. Yet, six hours in and I’ve already had a bloodshed fucking carnival. I reach up and touch my nose. Spread my fingers over the soft spots under my eyes. Tender. Probably both black.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  I turn my head to the far wall where, wrapped in protective caging, the clock sits: 9:12 p.m. I close my eyes and decide to sleep.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  This place will drive me crazy. More crazy.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  Breathing is boring.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  I wake when the darkness is interrupted, a bright light flickering to life above me. I roll over, my back aching, my eyes searching for the clock on the wall. Six forty-five. Seriously? I roll to the other side and pull the lone pillow over my eyes.

  I close my eyes but sleep runs a coward’s retreat out from under
the pillow and away. Six forty-five. These people should be shot.

  Sometime later, someone jiggles at my door, the sound loud and jarring, not that I was sleeping anyway. “Madden, you have a guest.”

  I sit up and yawn. Look at the new stranger, another sheriff’s uniform hung on a person I’ve never seen. “A guest?” I push off the bed and stand. Maybe it’s Jeremy’s sister. Maybe he’s woken up. Maybe he’s dead. The second thought pushes past the first, its ugly voice loudest. “Who is it?”

  The man holds up a set of cuffs. “Turn around and put your hands together.”

  I obey. “Who is it?” I ask again, this time nicer.

  “No idea. He signed in with one of the other officers.”

  He. I can’t think of a single He that I want to see. Except for Jeremy.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To an observation room. You’ll meet him in there.”

  This is infinitely more exciting than breathing. I perk up despite myself, my feet speeding up in tempo, the man steering me down a hallway to the right. We stop before a door with a 4 on it. The man pushes open the door and holds it for me. Chivalrous. I step through. “Thank you.”

  He nods. “Please sit down.”

  I sit, I am secured, then he speaks. “I’ll bring him in.”

  I nod, a perfect picture of behaving, the room a copy of the one with NascarGuy44. Same chair, same floor, same table. In tiny ways different. A black scuff on the white table before me. A break in one of the tiles to the left. The mirror to my left is tinted blue instead of white. I lift one of my hands to my back and try to scratch an itch, the entire production much more awkward than it needs to be. I give up on the itch and jiggle my right foot against the leg of the chair, and it makes a soft tapping sound. A guest. I know a grand total of no one in this town. Maybe it’s the cop. David something-or-other. TheOtherOne.

  I flex my shoulders. Wonder how long I will have to wait.