Unveilded by the Depths

The conference room

Nixie

He tows me along the road in the direction of the packhouse. Curious, I think. When my mother drug me away for punishment, it was painful and demeaning. But his hold, while forceful, is not hurtful and his stride length allows me to keep up without falling. Vastly different from the days of being pulled down the stairs by my hair.

Just before the packhouse driveway, we veer off down a wide trail that ends at a ten-foot square concrete box. My calmness evaporates when I see it. The concrete is old but clean, devoid of any dirt or moss. In the center, directly facing the path is a large, blood red, metal door. It is completely out of place in the natural setting and the juxtaposition makes it even more terrifying. The minute we get close, the door opens, and a humongous man comes out. Marin's dad throws her at the man. "Put her in holding cell one!"

"Alpha?" the giant questions.

He growls, then commands. "DO IT!'

"Yes, Alpha." I blink in amazement as the huge man bows his head to Marin's dad before taking Marin away.

Once through the door, he continues to tow me along down a ramp. It makes sense, not having stairs. How do you carry a prisoner down the stairs? I'm nudged mentally before my questions spiral by my new mental companion. "Not the time for that."

He pulls off my backpack, tosses it to another man, not as large, but still built like the regulars at my gym, and pulls me into a conference room, of sorts, to the left just at the end of the ramp. I'm sure they call it an interrogation room. I'd rather not. Made completely of concrete, it holds a table, two chairs and a small floor drain. Innocuous, if not for the water hose in the hallway coming in. I also noticed several metal rings attached to the far wall. Not wanting to think too much about it, I refocus my attention.

The furniture is all made of metal and permanently attached to the floor. I notice the table has a rod along the edge and a hole through each corner just the right size to attach restraints. He seats me in the chair furthest away from the door then picks up a pair of handcuffs up off the table and handcuffs my right hand to the rod. There is no mirror or one way glass, but I do spy a small camera in the far corner of the ceiling.

I'm forced to sit with my right hand on the table. I tuck my free hand under my thigh. I would normally have my fingers interlaced and resting on my lap. I've always hidden my hands from people when I'm trying to hide the truth after reading an article that hands could betray you faster than your face if you were a frequent liar. While I didn't consider myself a frequent liar, I did often find it necessary to manipulate the truth. My stretching of the truth was easy enough to pull on regular people who didn't know me or have any real interest in me. But I doubt it will be so easy in his case, not if he's a regular on the other side of this table.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice carrying a tone of unquestionable authority.

"No one," I tell him.

"Obviously, you are someone," he tells me. "Someone strong enough to take out my daughter."

"She deserved it," I tell him again. "She could face criminal charges if the girl's parents press charges."

"We are not here to talk about that," he tells me.

"Then can I go?"

"No. We are here to talk about you. How did you get here?"

"On the school bus," I tell him.

"Why? You don't live here."

"Obviously, or I would have kick Marin's ass before now." I tip my head as I assess the man. He has an aura of power around him I've never experienced before, aggressive but not dark. For most people, it might make them cower. But having a mother like mine it's oddly comforting and not at all intimidating. Not telling him though. "Your daughter's not very nice."