The Abductor

2.

2.

So, here we were—me, Chuck, Marie, Courtney, Jack, Patrick, and, surprisingly, Alex—sitting in the interrogation room, waiting for some kind fat, donut-eating, bald policeman to ask us some questions that we’re probably not gonna know the answer to but still going to try to rack our head for sober and decent ones, which, in most cases, not going to be successful.

And we looked like something that’s worse than hell: all of our hairs were messier than our lives and our clothes were dirtier than our minds; mine and the other girls’ make-up were all smudged, and we all have dirty bruises on our faces and bodies.

I was hugging the blue book I found at the corner of Tiffany’s Diner to my chest that seemed to be the only thing that’s keeping me awake and not numb like Courtney who’s already past asleep on the silvery table. And I think the wrinkled band shirt I was wearing was Cooper’s.

The handcuffs that were wrapped around my wrists were definitely going to leave a nasty mark, but I sure can careless right now because all that mattered to me at the moment was the location of Cooper and what we did to the said diner where I found the book.

Then finally, finally, a girl in a pantsuit—which I assumed was the Ms. Oliver they keep on telling us to wait for—that looked liked she was in her mid-thirties that has chocolate brown as the color of her medium cut hair and also has the darkest shade of green I have ever seen as the color of her eyes.

So all in all, I’d say she’s probably the prettiest detective I have ever seen in my entire being—she even beat the ones in the movies and series I watch. And I think we probably have the same body size because even I know that I could pull off that pantsuit she was wearing.

The slamming of the door and the screeching sound the chair made as it scraped across the floor made all of our ears burn and our mouths let out an uncontrollable groan. It made my vision blurry and see some kind of spots that made my head spin.

Some of the guys even managed to whisper a whistle.

‘Ms. Oliver’ intertwined her fingers on the desk beside Courtney’s now open but obviously pained eyes; she eventually lifted her head as the detective didn’t say anything for a while and just stared at her.

“So,” Even her voice was as perfect and as proportion as mine! “Would someone like to volunteer to tell me what happened to that diner?”

No one volunteered, of course. We’re not as brave as Katniss fucking heroic Everdeen.

“Anyone?” She was looking at us one by one, but none of us were looking back at her; all of our heads were down.

It was calmly quiet for a while, until Ms. Oliver spoke again. “Okay,” she sighed, “let me get this straight for you, kids, yeah?” She forced a smile.

“Hey, I’m not a kid, lady,” Chuck’s drunken, husky voice echoed through the room, and when I turned my head to look at him, he was pointing at accusing finger at her. “I’ll have you know that I am legally an adult and is going to college…” he looked up, trying to remember, “…maybe tomorrow or the day after that or the day after.” He looked proud as hell with the smug smile that arouse on his lips as he lowered her finger.

Ms. Oliver was still smiling forcibly, but more calmly. “That’s good to know…uh—?”

“Brisley. Chuck Brisley.”

“—Mr. Brisley. And I’ll also have you know that if you’re not a minor, then I’m afraid that you can stay in prison for…at least six months.”