Satara tried not to stare at Melissa's house as they drove away from it, searching the road instead for the man who had failed to catch her like the police had. Why did he run off if we're supposed to be on the same side? I thought he had to get me back to Sin no matter what. The handcuffs clinked behind her and dug into her inner wrists. Maybe it's a good thing these guys turned up when they did. She snorted softly and knew she didn't believe that for a second.
“He was cuffed,” said the policeman in the passenger seat. “How the hell did he get out?”
“Did you lock the door?” The second turned the steering wheel and sounded more disturbed than angry.
“No. I didn't think he'd be able to reach the handle with his hands behind him.”
That makes you the idiot. The doors on either side of her were clearly locked. He didn't want to hang around the police. Then again, who actually does? She pressed her left foot against the rear tunnel in the centre of the car and craned her neck. Did he run because he's a criminal? Or because he works with Sin? She couldn't see him anywhere. I guess he wouldn't hang around where anyone could see him. That'd make him the idiot. Nevertheless she continued to stare out of the window as the police officers spoke back and forth amongst themselves.
They didn't ask her why she had attacked the man in the first place and she assumed whoever called them to the scene has already given their version of the events. Clearly it hadn't been the stranger who claimed to know Sinastar. If he's telling the truth, he'll let them know I'm with the police now. If I'm lucky, they'll find me instead. Less than ten minutes later, they pulled into a parking bay outside Chingord police station and the man who caught her first opened the car door on her left.
“Out you come, missy,” he said.
She stifled the urge to push past him and bolt again. It's not that far from Melissa's house. If I lose them out there, I can circle back and wait here until Sin or someone shows up. If they show up. Worst case scenario, I could always hide out in the clinic. That's the last place they'd expect me to go. Especially if they think I've got something to do with what happened there.
But the policeman who initially chased her caught her eye and shook his head. The second man grabbed her by the elbow and led her out of the car. She pretended she didn't care where they were as she entered the building. However, as soon as her foot crossed the threshold, she knew even a deaf and blind person would realise it was the last place they ever wanted to be. This is why we left town. Sin was so careful and now he's going to have to come here anyway. Self disgust rattled in her windpipe. I should've run faster.
The overhead glare, worse the the corridor lights at school, made her eyes prickle like freshly chopped onion fumes. The smell of police officers and offenders alike was both familiar and unwelcome. Similar to old pastries with excess cream mixed with the sweat of people who knew they had made one mistake too many. The chemical scent of printer ink burned into countless sheets of copying paper, and the metal of firearms and handcuffs swinging from belts. They reminded her of hazy late nights and colourless early mornings. Of a tightness around her ribs that wouldn't go away and trying to move her fingers properly the way she had before Saytarnia's blade pierced her neck.
Worst of all was the noise. An ongoing grumbling interspersed by sudden outbursts of anger from those who felt wronged or who had lost patience with all the form filling and lack of consideration for their individual needs. Doors in all parts of the building slammed shut and opened as people moved from holding cells to interrogation rooms to waiting police vehicles that would either transfer them to a bigger station or straight to jail.
“Come on.” The policeman behind her pushed her forward as she froze by the doors, his touch less harsh than his tone. “We haven't got all day,”
The pain in her stomach worsened with each step into the station. They're going to ask who I am. Even if I try to hide it, they've already got my prints in the system. I doubt I'll be able to stall them for long anyway and it'll just make things worse later on. A man with his hands bound behind him leered at her as they walked past.
“It's a baby girl,” he crowed, eyes blood shot. She wrinkled her nose at the sour tang of urine from his clothes. “Come to papa, baby girl.”
“Shut it and keep walking,” said the policewoman next to him.
Her stern yet not entirely unfriendly gaze roved Satara curiously but she didn't say anything else, nodding at the men escorting her instead. Half of the people in the reception area sat hand cuffed to their chairs, spaced out with officers in between them so they couldn't talk to or touch each other. The younger policeman led her further into the station as the other approached the front desk. The chains clinked as he secured her to a bench not far from the reception and he gave them a tug as if they had betrayed him.
“Don't try anything else,” he warned her. “There's more of us here and the rest don't know what you're in for. They might not play as nice as us.”
“Okay,” she muttered. It'll be better if they think I've given up.
He tried the handcuffs a final time, then joined his companion up front. They were probably trying to explain how the other man had escaped. She pulled against the metal discreetly and grimaced as it dug into her wrist but at least her other hand was free. She dragged it down her face as she leaned back into the uncomfortable seat and tried to block out the everything going on around her without closing her eyes. Free to dwell on the memories she had seen, she began to piece together a tale far more complicated than she had initially expected.
Sin was right. There's a lot more going on here. Saytarnia didn't just kill the Cunningham's and leave me behind for no reason. She's after someone else. The name was entirely foreign to her but something about it made the centre of her forehead hurt. Xade … Who are they? Sin hasn't mentioned them before so they can't have been anyone too important back in Chirean, right? But then why did Saytarnia act like that?
She remembered the change in her sister's voice as she repeated the person's name. The disbelief. The anger. The – Is she scared of them? Are they strong? I don't even know if they're from the island but with a name like that … She rubbed her forehead, features shielded from her surroundings. If they are from Chirean, it means they betrayed the tribe. Or, at the very least, our clan. They must've been the one who told the Cunninghams about the island in the first place and where to find me. Why did it have to be me though? Because of the curse? Wasn't almost everyone in our tribe cursed? Did Xade know Saytarnia would kill them? Is that how they tried to get away with it?
The pieces didn't fit no matter how she rearranged them. If Xade knows Saytarnia and what she can do, the only reason they'd be willing to risk going up against her is if they're stronger. The possibility could explain her reaction and why she hadn't taken Satara with her years ago. If that's the case, she wouldn't have had time to deal with a kid like me.
“Anyone'd get a migraine here,” said the person on the bench beside her. She turned her head as Satara swallowed a startled grunt. Her visible eye was a vibrant blue, the other obscured by a heavy curtain of black hair. “Want me to get you some paracetamol?”
“I don't take drugs from strangers,” she said quietly as soon as she was sure her voice was strong instead of breathless.
“You don't?” The young woman drew her right knee up to her chest, abandoning one of her black slip on shoes on the ground. “What're you doing here then?”
“Looking for someone,” she said. Why am I answering her? Is she an officer too?
The newcomer looked like a university student in her white, long-sleeved shirt and grey-blue jeans that stretched easily to accommodate her pose. The top buttons of her shirt had been left open, exposing her throat, and her peekaboo highlights complimented her eye colour. She didn't seem to have handcuffs around her wrists either.
“Not your dealer, I'm guess.” Her gaze flitted past Satara, who resisted the urge to turn and see what had caught her attention. “Who're you looking for?”
“Why should I tell you?”
The stranger folded her hands over her knee and used them as a pillow for her cheek. “Because I'm willing to listen.”
“And how's that going to help me?”
“It probably won't but I'd still like to know what the police found so criminal about a teenager looking for someone.” She smiled as if the expression were an afterthought.
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“I'm not here to stop you from being bored.” No one else seemed to be paying attention to their conversation. But that doesn't mean they aren't.
“Good thing too, otherwise I'd be very disappointed.” She made a noise that might have been a low laugh. “Sorry. You just look like you've got a lot on your mind and you might want to sort it all out in your head before they talk to you. You might not get the chance to focus once they move you to Holdings and I doubt anyone there's going to listen to you. Not as well as I can.”
“Don't you work here?”
“Kind of?” She tilted her head towards the inner part of the building. “I train here part time. I do admin stuff and field work sometimes but I work in Questioning most of the time.”
“Is it your job to sit here and get the truth from me before I make up my own lies?” Satara smiled wryly.
“No, but that would've been a good idea,” replied the trainee with a small grin. “Maybe I'll bring that up at the next meeting, as long as you're okay with me stealing your idea?”
“It's not like I can use it anywhere.”
“That's the spirit.” She straightened up but kept her heel braced against the edge of the bench. “If you don't get busted too badly, you should think about doing an apprenticeship here too.”
“Why?” She doesn't even know where I'm from. “Because the people you work with are obviously nice people?”
“Because almost all of them are either stupid or boring,” she replied after stifling a short laugh, nodding at Satara. “And you're neither.”
“Flattery is really suspicious. You know that right?”
“I've never flattered anyone in my life. I've either kept quiet or been kicked out for telling the truth.” She shrugged. “It's true.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Does it?” Her visible brow lifted in seemingly genuine surprise and a black, luxury ballpoint pen with a silver trim appeared in her left hand.
“Not really.” Satara forced herself to look away from pen as she spun it around her fingers. So cool.
Several seconds passed. “You didn't say who you were looking for?”
“That's because I didn't want to.”
“Oh right. I forgot.” The stranger stared at the wall opposite them, which hosted a noticeboard plastered with various helpline advertisement and self help leaflets, and looked like she wanted to blow a bubble with non existent gum. “Could you at least tell me why you ran away from home then?”
Satara focused on an ad displaying a sad teenager and the words child exploitation in huge white letters. “What makes you think I ran away?”
“You look like one. A run away.” She stopped flipping the pen between her fingers for a second. “No offence.”
“How?” Does she know who I am?
“First of all, you look angry about being here, not scared,” she said. “Secondly, you're not looking around as much as I'd expect. You might be a repeat runaway or, for some reason, this isn't the first time you've been here. I don't think they do field trips here for high school kids. And thirdly –” She nodded at Satara's legs. “– it looks like you're still wearing your pyjamas.”
“Do runaways normally leave home in their pyjamas?” Satara fiddled with her sleeves but stopped herself from re-adjusting her hoodie over her chest and knees.
“Spontaneous ones do, sometimes, but you've also got a bag with you so that's a little confusing to be honest.” The stranger's gaze lingered on her black bag, hanging from the policeman's hand, before she shifted it to Satara's face. “Was it only supposed to be a night trip?”
“Something like that.”
“Strict parents?”
“Yeah. Kind of.” If she really is working for the police, a sob story would sound more convincing if it came from her.
“Did you leave home because of them?” She smiled faintly as Satara kept quiet and looked away. “Sorry. You don't have to answer any of my questions if you don't want to.”
“Okay.”
“So the reason you didn't get back home in time.” Her eye swept up and down Satara like a metal detector. “Was it because you were in danger?”
“Yeah.” Satara leaned forward and gave herself a one armed embrace as if she were cold. “Some man tried to grab me.”
“Did he succeed?” Though her expression remained lukewarm, a stiffness crept across the stranger's tone.
“No. That's when the police came.”
“I see.” She smiled but her lips seemed leaden. “That's good.”
“It probably looked like I wasn't just trying to stop him.” Satara hugged herself tighter but didn't check her reaction. “I guess that's why I'm here and not him.”
“They didn't bring him in?” Surprise and dark disapproval coloured the trainee's question.
“No. He got away.” She shook her head. “I don't even know if they looked for him properly.”
“I see.” The young woman slipped her foot back into her shoe and stood up. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Where are you going?” Satara hoped she appeared nervous instead of curious.
“I'm going to find out why you're the only one here, of course.” She smiled, a parody of shyness, and tucked her hands – and the pen – in her pockets.
“Will it make a difference?” Satara tried to wipe the neutrality from her face. It was difficult.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” The stranger shrugged. “Give everything a shot and live with no regrets, I always say.”
“To who?” Why did I ask? I don't care.
“To myself.” Her eyelid lowered as she looked sideways at Satara. “And anyone else who'll listen.”
I'm listening. The fifteen year old frowned at her own thoughts.
“Ashley, don't harass her,” said the younger policeman as he left the reception desk. “We don't know what's going on with her yet.”
“Me? Harass someone?” she murmured even though he was too far to hear her. She slipped a hand from her pocket and held it out to Satara. “Nice meeting you.”
The handcuff chains clinked loudly and held Satara's hand back as she lifted it. Did she do that on purpose?
“Oh, my bad.” Ashley offered her other hand and the teenager hesitated before she shook it. “Let me know if you ever decide to train here. We'll show these doughnuts how to do their jobs.”
Why does it sound racist when she says it like that?
“Okay.” The fingers curled around her own were cold, as if the owner had been sitting under an air conditioner. “Should I bring you some gloves while I'm at it?”
“Thanks but don't worry about it. Some kinds of cold can't be cured no matter how much fabric you use.” Ashley winked lazily at her. “But I doubt I need to tell you that.”
What does that mean –? The trainee headed for the desk, joining the police officer, and was already out of earshot before she could ask her aloud. From their expressions and gestures alone, she could tell Ashley was either getting told off or dismissed. Probably both. However, as she stepped back from the people talking animatedly in the reception area, she glanced at Satara and smiled as if she had achieved something. She waved before vanishing from sight.
Doesn't look like they're going to do anything. As usual. She tucked her chained hand close to her stomach and curled over it to look as helpless as possible.
And then focused worked out what she needed to do next.
<><><><><>
They put her in a holding cell with several other girls at first.
“Sit down and behave until we come get you,” said the older policeman. The one she had led around the Cunningham house earlier. “That goes for the rest of you too.”
He wagged a finger at the other occupants and closed the door, locking it behind him. Satara located the nearest, emptiest spot which happened to be next to a girl, who cried into her hands as if her broken heart would never mend, and another with green hair and piercings who was clearly bother by the noise. Before she could take a seat, a girl in her late teens stalked up to her.
“Not so fast.” She grinned and her teeth had holes in them. “What's the password?”
If the situation had been different, Satara might have subtly enquired about the cause of such severe enamel damage.
“There isn't one,” she replied, leaning away from the stale urine-like scent Jason had so kindly identified as the unique smell of weed. “Move.”
“There is. You've gotta answer one question.” The girl lifted a finger and bent down as if she were about to whisper in Satara's ear. “What's your favourite se-?”
Satara placed a hand against her upper chest and shoved her back. She watched her totter on inconveniently high heels for several perilous seconds, then sat down a bench-length away from the crying girl who didn't seem to notice her presence.
“Ah, what the heck?” complained the green-haired girl. She slammed a hand on the wood beneath them and their upset cellmate cowered. “Go sit somewhere else! You'll make her come over here.”
“Make me,” said Satara. She let her head rest against the wall but slid both hands out of her pockets, eyes half closed as the older teen approached her again. Even if I wanted to behave, they wouldn't let me.
“Did you just push me?” she demanded as the green-haired one stood up.
“Yeah. Why?” Satara smiled wearily. “Did you want me to do something worse?”
“Cut it out, you guys,” said someone at the other end of the cell. “They'll just get angry at us again and I'm trying to sleep.”
The green-haired girl whirled on the speaker. “Shut the fu-”
“Sit. Down.” Satara injected the last of her patience and verbal energy into her voice. “You're giving me a headache.”
“We can give you a lot more than a headache, bit-” The first girl tried to corner her against the wall and gasped as a foot slammed accurately into her stomach.
I don't need this and neither do they. She lowered her leg and waited for the second girl's reaction. Her mouth was wide open. Why is it that the people I want to leave me alone, don't?
“Did you just kick her?” asked Green-hair.
“No, I massaged her guts with my foot.” Heat began to build up, deep in her stomach, and she inhaled carefully to cut off its escape routes. Breathe. Keep breathing. Even if it stinks in here.
“Wow, you really don't know how to shut it, do you?” Green-hair shook her head and laughed as if she had vomit in her throat.
Satara smiled thinly. “How's your stomach feeling?”
Before she could answer, the teen with holes in her teeth straightened up with a pained cackle, holding her stomach with both hands. “My dad said I can hit someone if they hit me first –”
“I don't care what your dad said.”
“You hit me.” She lunged at Satara and reached for her hair.
The latter slid off the bench and tripped her up.
“And now you've hit yourself,” she said, stepping back as she turned to Green-hair. Fighting them properly would be an insult to martial arts. “You next?”
“Sure. I've been waiting to beat the crap outta someone all day.” The other girl rolled up her sleeves and swung at Satara's face. The fifteen year old ducked. “You gonna fight back or just act like a pus-?”
Satara moved into her space and slapped a hand over her mouth, shoving her to the ground. “That's not what's going to happen here and both of you know it.”
“Why do you guys keep doing this to everyone?” whined the person at the other end of the cell.
She had a bruise on her chin but didn't look entirely cowed by her welcome. The same couldn't be said for the rest of the cell occupants. Next to her, a girl who looked entirely too young to have a stomach swollen in that suggestive way trembled in a corner. Some of the other young woman had tousled hair, tell-tale scratch marks, and reddened patches of skin on their faces and arms. One girl looked like she hadn't been able to get up from where she had fallen beneath the bench, her sleeve hanging off one shoulder.
Did those idiots do all this? Or were they hurt before they got here? Her attackers swore foully as they pulled themselves back up to their feet. She might have respected them for their persistence if she wasn't already annoyed by their existence and her own situation. I need to get out before someone dies – The blood stained door of the Cunningham house floated before her eyes. No. No, I can't let anyone die here. Otherwise I'll never get back to the others. Snatches of conversation reached her from further down the corridor.
I can't kill anyone but that doesn't mean they have to know that.