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CHAPTER 42

Tasha's POV

I am banged up in a station with an officer, isolated from the outside world without a lawyer by my side. I know I am entitled to one but I don't wish to have them present.

"Are you okay Miss Nettle?"

An officer enters the room and closes the door behind him.

"I'm okay," I insist. My nerves quiver and my hands start to shake – so I lift each thigh and sandwich my fingers beneath them, forcing my hands to remain still so I don't twitch.

"Are you sure you don't wish to have counsel?" He holds a document in his hands and gestures towards me. "Once you sign this, what you say here become admissible in court, do you understand that?"

Yes.

I nod my head, remembering the note to self I made since before I committed this offensive deed: tell the truth.

My guard was always low in the presence of authority but I couldn't tell him everything. I had to protect myself and not tell the entire truth otherwise they would see the heinous effects their presence is having on my body: the jitters he is shooting down my spine. I clench my teeth to stop them chattering and sway to disguise my shivers – pretending I'm in my own world when in reality I am firmly in his. And I am totally receptive to his every gesture.

If I moved my hands now, I couldn't control how much I'd be shaking.

"Please pass me a pen."

He does as instructed and I sign where he points.

"You look nervous."

"What next?" I demand self-consciously. I'm already in his world yet I'm drawn to spurring deeper inside his head and suspicions of me. His judgment is radiating.

"Now we talk," he responds flatly, his expression becomes solemnly and I scrunch my face. "Whenever you're ready, I'll begin recording."

He says it like it's a cold taunt of which he has no qualms about – as if he doesn't believe I will divulge any information that is worthwhile to him. I wonder if he can see the inebriation whirring through my body.

"I'm ready."

His finger presses the machine and his face grows hard.

He asks me if I remember being at George's house at the time of the attack. I want to insist au contraire; whack him off the high horse of knowledge he has pedestalled himself upon and tell him that he is wrong. I attacked nobody. I simply performed a deed. But I don't, instead I stay silent and conjure a witty retort instead.

"No I don't."

Another look. "Really? Because it looks like you do."

He is testing me with those big studious eyes that I can't seem to look away from. They are so big, they dwarf the rest of his features tenfold. The only feature that rivalled their size was the hexagon jaw that framed his face.

"I don't know where I was."

No change in expression: just that same hard, studious look settling into his features and hardening his gaze. I keep my composure in hopes he will not see through this façade I am performing.

"Yes you do," he tells me.

I don't let myself soak in his words. "How do you know?"

"Because I have evidence."

The ambiguity of his words gives me anxiety and I start to feel nauseous – the vodka and memories are catching up on me. I should've drank more shots – that way I'd be so inebriated all memories of George's demise would blur into one. I wouldn't be able to remember what I did last night let alone last year. But I didn't. I held my own, knocking down enough shots to wear me down, but not enough to actually break my defences. They were fragile but intact, rearing themselves every few seconds during this conversation before tipping back down again. And much to my despite, I remember how the events unfolded exactly.