Always/Never

Chapter 22 / Do I At Least Get a Phone Call?

"What?" Accha gasped, her hand gripping mine tighter. "That's not—are you sure?"

Every iota within me did not expect her to resist. Especially not to a police officer, of all people, but two things were certain.

The first: if she did, she would win.

The second: I was infinitely glad she was on my side, now.

As the officer eyed both of us, he nodded, though it took him a second. He had no reason to look confused; he was the one bashing on Rory's door, presumably using reception as a source of information to figure out which room was presumably mine.

But still. I couldn't figure it out, but I had a sense there was more to this.

"You are Rory, correct?" he asked me. "If you'd like, I can drive you to the station. It's a bit far away and can be hard to find. We have to talk at some point today. Doesn't have to be right this instant, but if you're going somewhere, it would be better to do it now."

"Yeah, I mean—" I glanced at Accha and found her stance ready to defend me. "It's fine." The words were more for her than for the cop. I ran my fingers across hers. Slowly unhooked my hand from her grasp, though not without cinching my pinky to hers, like a promise—I will come back. "I should do it, Michaela. Then we can go once I'm free."

"It shouldn't take too long," the officer said, as though to reassure her. "Like the chat you had with my partner earlier."

Huh?

An officer talked to past Michaela? That explained why Rory wasn't answering the door. She was probably in Michaela's room, or anywhere that wasn't here.

"Okay, well..." Accha looked stricken for a second. "I'll hang out here. Maybe I can meet with Faith. Call Jessamine's place when you need a ride home?"

I nodded. "Yeah, okay."

The cop led me to his car; the one parked outside. He gestured for me to sit in the back, and I pushed my unease as far down as I could. I knew my rights. He hadn't read me them. I supposed he could be lying, yet that wasn't likely.

I struggled to get in a good position to see the road, or anything, through the bars separating the driver's seat from me. His police transmitter beeped and hummed with voices too low to hear.

Annoyingly, he whistled.

"What station are you taking me to?" I asked.

"Elmview. The military training base is right by it."

"What do you want to talk to me about?"

This was testing my luck, as evidenced by his lack of response.

I tried again, this time a little louder. "Am I under arrest?"

His car was utterly silent on the highway, as if the wheels hovered inches off the ground. I had the impulse to wave at every driver he overtook but kept it locked within. They'd probably think I'd lost my mind.

"Do you think you're under arrest?" It sounded like a rhetorical question, but I couldn't be sure. "What do you think I'm arresting you for?"

Oh, great. My veins surged. He thinks I'm going to confess to a crime.

I knitted my hands together in my lap. If this was how Michaela had been treated, had anybody told her what in the world was going on?

Guilt tore at me. This was what I got for playing with the fire of time.

Anyway, what would I get arrested for? It was a fair thing to ask in my own timeline, but nothing I'd done was a crime. I doubted it was the fake ID, which meant it was Parkland.