The Guily Ones

New York Police Department

Wow, I must have really been on quite a trip—and apparently, it wasn't over yet. I shook my head, trying to make sense of what had been said.

"What did Tom do?"

The man's expression changed from incredulous to sympathetic, which scared me more than any outburst of anger could have.

"Miss, I'm sorry to have to inform you, but your friend was found dead last night at 02:51am in the alley, next to your apartment building. All evidence points to a crime of passion..." The officer cleared his throat awkwardly and rubbed his forehead. "Your DNA and fingerprints were found all over the victim..." he continued, but his voice reached me only as if someone had wrapped me up in cotton. "When the officers searched the house for witnesses, they found you slumped in the elevator of your building, your clothes soaked in his blood..."

I tried to understand.

Tom. 

Was dead?

No, that didn't sound right.

Tom was gone?

Even that thought didn't make sense. Tom had never been gone. Since we met, we had never spent much time apart... Heaven, sometimes I could have used a break. Not that Tom would have granted it to me. He had hovered around me like an overprotective hen, almost obsessed with being near me and watching over me.

I felt dizzy and stumbled blindly against the sympathetic officer, who looked at me with concern. He seemed to believe in my innocence—or at least wanted to comfort me for the moment. But the question was, was I innocent?

With that thought, I had opened a door. And there they came. The images. As soon as I had actually asked myself the question about my whereabouts, everything came back to me. The elevator, the blood, the voices of the man and the woman, how I had hidden, how I had accidentally gotten that man, Erics, attention. How he had stepped on the elevator, stepping over Tom's body.

Oh my God, Tom's body.

My stomach turned, and I vomited loudly into the nearest trash can.

"For heaven's sake!" cursed a balding man in his mid-fifties who had just turned the corner with a donut in his hand. His whole appearance screamed bored and disgruntled detective hoping to retire soon. I was screwed.

My nice officer stood up straight and smoothed his uniform.

"Detective, the suspect is awake!"

"No kidding, Jones!" the man mocked him and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "You better be useful and get me a coffee..."

"Yes, Cohan, Sir!"

And with that, my nice officer disappeared, leaving me alone with the annoyed detective.

With a raised eyebrow, he looked down at me, his hands on his hips.

"So, do you have anything else to say in your defense, or should I just draw up the confession paper?"

I wiped my mouth and tried to sit up, dizzy. "Could you maybe get me a glass of water? Or a piece of gum?"

The man snorted. "You better get used to the fact that from now on, you'll only get your meals at predetermined times. Especially luxury items like gum..."

Nice. So, he would leave me in the interrogation room with the taste of vomit in my mouth and the burning stomach acid in my throat.

He put a bottle of water on the metal table in front of him and motioned for me to sit on the free chair opposite him.

"Shall we?"

Every muscle protested as I pulled myself up from the floor and dragged myself to the chair. I couldn't remember the last time I had been so exhausted, if ever...