Jailhouse… rock?
This is rock bottom.
I’m shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, sweating so much you’d think I just finished a marathon in a sauna, and my makeup? Oh, it’s in full Picasso mode. But honestly, my smeared eyeliner is the least of my worries.
I can’t wrap my head around the situation. Me? A criminal?
Will I get a phone call? Will I have to shakily dial my mom and say, “Hey, remember your law-abiding daughter? Well, she’s a felon now. Could you swing by with bail money?”
I thought last year was bad when I accidentally told my neighbour that his girlfriend was a crazy bitch at 2 a.m. (while dropping hints that I’d be a much better fit for the job). But here we are—me, in a police station, sweating bullets and one questionable decision away from orange jumpsuit chic.
I would rather be called a million other things than a criminal.
Yet here I am, sitting in a police station, waiting to be questioned like one.
I wish I knew how this whole “suspect at the police station” thing worked. I should have gotten a brochure or a quick orientation. At least then I’d know whether to panic quietly or just go all-in on a full-blown meltdown.
It is so quiet where I sit, waiting for them to bring me in for a “little talk.” The way I am acting—sweating, shaking, looking around nervously—I will be stamped guilty before ever moving from the hard plastic chair I am sitting on.
Maybe they are watching me on surveillance. Maybe this is a test.
Okay, calm down. I bet they can’t even see the sweating on camera.
Hopefully.
Still, being called in as a suspect is enough to make anyone spiral.
I wonder what my mom will say when I call her. Will she ever forgive me? Or will I forever be the outcast of the family?
I had a perfectly normal life—safe, predictable, maybe a little dull.
And now that life might be over.
After two hours of waiting—an eternity that I’m convinced shaved a few years off my life—I’m finally called in.
Once seated in yet another unforgiving plastic chair, this time across from a young policeman, I exhale, relieved. At least I didn’t faceplant on the way in.
Small wins, right?
I stare at the wall, trying to channel my most innocent look.
The officer steps out briefly and returns with two cups of coffee, like we’re about to have a cozy chat instead of, you know, the interrogation of my life.
He sits down, shuffles some papers, and opens a notebook.
The silence stretches out like a rubber band about to snap.
Then he speaks.
And I do the dumbest thing possible: I look him straight in the eyes.
Big mistake. Huge.
His eyes are serious and intense, the kind that make you feel like they already know your darkest secrets.
But the worst part?
I know those eyes.
Him: Maya?
My stomach drops.
Me: You?
Him: Greg.
Me: Yes. Greg.
The few seconds of silence feel like minutes. I’m about to launch into a rambling explanation—about what, I’m not sure—but he speaks first.
And if I didn’t want to die before this, I definitely do now.
My fight-or-flight instinct goes rogue, and “hide under the chair” suddenly becomes the most appealing option. Or better yet, could I just melt into the floor? Preferably without leaving a puddle.
Him: It’s nice to see you again, Maya. As my colleague mentioned on the phone, this is just routine. Your DNA was the only other DNA found at the scene, so we need to ask you a few questions. I suggest we jump right into it and get this over with. So—how well did you know Mr. Dubrow?
Me: Ehmm. Mr… who?
Him: Mr. Dubrow. Were you not briefed before coming in?
Me: Ehmm, no… yes, I mean—I don’t remember…
Him: Okay. Mr. Dubrow, whose death we are investigating. How well did you know him?
Me: I don’t know him.
Him: Okay…
Me: Yes, erhm.
The truth is, I don’t know who that is. I don’t know him, and I definitely don’t know how my DNA ended up at a crime scene.
It must be some kind of mistake.
Or maybe someone stole some of my clothes or cut a few strands of hair to frame me. That kind of thing happens all the time in movies.
Unless…
Him: Okay. Maybe you recognise him.
He pulls out a photograph.
I stare at it.
An old man. Seventy-something. Ordinary face. Ordinary clothes. The kind of person you might pass on the street without noticing.
I search my memory, but nothing clicks.
Him: The picture is about a decade old, but it was the newest we could find. If you don’t recognise him, this complicates things.
He studies my face.
I remember those eyes.
They were sparkling the last time I saw them.
I breathe out nervously. This is not the time to get flustered.
Me: Ehm… no?
Him: Okay. Have you been in or around King Street in the last week?
Me: No.
Him: Okay…
This was not promising.
How did it ever get to this?
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