Dabbling in Danger

Digging My Own Grave

Nothing is real. Every time I open my eyes they still feel shut. My throat feels like it's the width of a straw and my chest is burning with every breath and swallow.

"Miss Walker," says a man with a squeaky voice.

His pubescent voice doesn't match his middle-aged face.

I blink in response, afraid that the moment I speak the swallowed tears will expel once again.

"Would you like a water or anything?"

I only nod.

"Okay," he forces an unnatural smile.

My fingers are jittery.

*Glug glug glug*

The water cooler blubbers as he drains water into a plastic cup. I really hope I don't drop it, my hands just won't stay still.

"Here you go," he announces as he passes the water.

I go to reach, my grip strong but just as I bring it towards myself it drops, bouncing off my knee and onto his shoes.

I gasp and my eyes grow wide.

"I'm- I'm so sorry," I stutter.

His hands go up, he waves them and shakes his head, "no worries! No need to get worked up, I'll get you another."

I look down at my own feet, trying to take slow breaths.

Now his wet shoes squeak across the tile floor. More slowly now he passes the cup, I grab and keep hold of it successfully bringing it to my lips.

"Detective Tipper should be finishing up with his meeting shortly and on his way down soon. If you need anything else, I'm right here."

I nod and sip my water, he forces another smile and returns to his desk.

I wish that he would talk more. His squeakiness was a decent distraction. Now the endless loud thoughts crowd my head.

I can't even fathom what Adeen may be saying. What if he's telling the police that I did it? What if they believe him?

Salty tears cloud my vision, all I can do is hang my head and weep.

"Miss Walker," the familiar sharpness of the new voice, grabs my attention.

Standing next to squeaky guy's desk is a tall stoic man, thick beard, dark skin, bald head and a furrowed brow.

"I'm detective Tipper," he says. "Do you mind if we have a quick chat about what went on earlier today?"

My heart's in my throat.

I don't answer but I do stand up, cup still in hand and follow him down the halls into a room with a long couch, desk and chair and a fake house plant.

"Please have a seat," Tipper says, taking his seat behind the desk.

My feet feel like cement blocks as I drag them across the floor.

"I just have you in here to ask you a few questions." He leans forward onto his desk, "do you mind telling me what all lead to you two being brought to the police station?"