✓ 𝗗𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗻𝘁 ↣ 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐧

PART: 03

[▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎]

"Do you have anyone you need to call, Miss Thompson?" The officer says.

"No."

My parents would kill me if they found out I got arrested again. They never supported my idea of art. They will never understand who I'm supposed to be. To them, I'm an eighteen year old who lost her way. I didn't come out all perfect like they wanted. I didn't dress in the fancy clothes they bought me and acted all proper. I was who I was. And I am who I am.

"You do understand charges will be held against you?" he says.

"I know," I mumble. I couldn't see a life where you weren't charged for blowing up a cop car.

The officer leans back in his chair. The room is so silent that I can hear every time he inhales or his stomach growls. I sit back with my arms crossed, hood still over my head in my only defense. His reflection gleams in the silver, shiny table. The one-way glass mocks me when I look in it.

Interrogation rooms. My room away from my doorm room.

"If you tell me who all was involved, it won't have to go down like this," he says.

Silence.

"You couldn't have done that alone."

"But I did," I lie, saying each word with confidence.

"Impossible."

"Not entirely. The word it self says I'm possible, so thanks for the compliment."

"There was another bag there, Miss Thompson."

"And I left it there because I was being chased."

"Last time you were here, you had two other people working with you. What happened to them, huh?"

Lying to Officer Thornton is too easy. I've seen him before and he's usually stuck with me in these occasions. "Chickened out. Couldn't handle the rush."

"Really?"

"Yep."

This conversation will not go anywhere. We can keep going in circles if he would like. What they don't understand is that this 'band' of juvenile delinquents isn't just about the art. It's about a pact. A pact that can and never will be broken whether they want it to or not. And the thing is, I'm not a juvenile anymore. But they still treat me like a kid.

"Listen," I say leaning forward on the table. "I know that you're tired. I can tell by the bags under your eyes and the redness around them. Must have been a very early morning and a late evening from the fact your shirt is wrinkled indicating you had to leave quickly and come to your wits late after because you were so tired. I also know you're dying to stay awake because you have a coffee stain on your shirt that shows you've been chugging coffee down like you just lost your wife in a divorce and drinking whiskey to will it away. I know how that is. I get you, which is why you should let me go," I convince.