The soft patter of rain sounded through the expansive studio. The floor to ceiling windows gave a more subdued view of the city. Rather than facing expansive blinding lights of the downtown core, it faced the river. The shimmering water transitioned daily depending on the cast of the sun. On select days when the sky was overcast and the sun had all but disappeared, the waters were darkened and appeared as foreboding as they would in a hurricane.
Today was one of those days where the sky had closed on itself, covering the city in a cloak of darkness that was reminiscent of one of the several plagues set down upon Egypt. The clacking of lightening in the sky was the only form of light illuminating the studio save for the candles that she had delicately placed on several mantles and on the floor.
Even in the darkness, practice had to continue unabated and undisturbed. Her pointe shoes and rehearsal in the absence of light truly embodied the critical mantra of 'the show must go on.' The routine was strenuous and even in her position as an understudy she had to be as perfect as the leading performer. Exhaustion, burnout, and general injury were not only expected but integral to the position. The level of dedication required to become a second lead was astronomical. Those who had taken the mantle of second-in-command were seasoned, invaluable, and admired by those involved in production.
It was an honour to be selected as an understudy even if they were always going to be cast in the shadow of the lead. It was rare that they would be required to perform on stage during a show, but their rehearsals were just as vital.
This was precisely why Laila was dancing under the cover of darkness.
She had been in the studio for seven and a half hours, only taking a half hour break in the middle of her rehearsal time to eat a protein bar and hydrate. She had been granted access to the space beyond company hours with the intention of practicing for the performance of Romeo and Juliet.
It was grueling practice that she believed that the Shakespearean Juliet could never hope of maintaining. As she was smiling to herself, she was in absolute agony.
The theme of ballet truly was smile rather than cry. Even with tears in her eyes, she had to give a graceful smile in hopes of not breaking out into tears. Panicked expressive eyes did not convey the illusion of happiness that a smile hoped to achieve.
Ignoring the searing pain that radiated in her ankles and feet, she finally ceased moving. Turning off the rehearsal music that had to be played on her phone, she instead began to use it as a flashlight. The power had been gone for hours. The halfway point in rehearsal was when she was cast into the true depths of darkness. She had gasped and held her hand to her chest at the outage, startled to have the experience of music cutting out suddenly and the lights flickering off as she recovered from nearly stumbling.
Grasping for her phone in the dark, she had taken a moment to gather herself and take a break, giving herself ample time to consume her protein bar, take a drink of water, use the washroom, and get back to dancing.
The next action of hers was to begin pulling out candles from the supply closet to illuminate the studio.
After her gruesome practice, she was going to check the office for the true rehearsal times to attend with the larger group. As she used her phone's flashlight as a beacon to navigate the darkness, she slowly ascended up the stairs to the office. The metal staircase made several groaning noises on a good day, but today it seemed particularly distressing as the metal screeched on the floor.
Stopping midway to balance her weight, she shook her head and continued her trek to the hidden backroom. As she reached the platform to the upper level of the studio, she breathed easier as the metalwork above was much sturdier than the staircase leading up to the higher floor.
Her bare feet barely made a noise as she had abandoned her pointe shoes next to her small backpack downstairs. Crossing the vast metalwork, she made her way to the door of the office. Reaching her hand out to grab the knob of the door she cringed when her hand came away sticky. Ignoring the disgusting substance on the door, she figured it was someone who had used adhesive to plant in their pointe shoes and managed to leave amounts stuck to their hands when they entered the office space.
Twisting the knob, she left her phone in her right hand to shine in the darkened office. Nothing could prepare her for what she saw next.
On the wide office desk, her colleague and despised competitor was laying still on the surface, covered in blood. Deathly pale and barely covered by a bloodied white bodysuit, an article she had to wear for her rehearsal for Juliet. Her tights were ripped into shreds near her knees. Upon closer inspection she noticed the horrific angle in which her legs had been broken. Two identical compound fractures were in both of her shins in the same place. The bones sticking out of her pale legs was a gruesome sight to behold and she nearly vomited. Somehow it managed to become a lot worse in a matter of seconds.
Her skin in her chest was cut open in expert precision and her ribcage was torn apart as though someone had taken two of their hands and ripped her bones apart. Her mouth was closed, her head positioned so she was looking towards the ceiling, her crystallized eyes open and glazed over.
Scrambling to get the horrific sight out of her line of vision, she fell backwards on her legs as her knees gave out. She screamed as the lights of the studio suddenly flickered back on.
In the light it was so much worse.
Blood had pooled over the desk and onto the floor and as she laid there still, her wavy blonde hair was framed around her head, a mockery of serenity given the appalling scene that was her body.
Not being able to bear the sight of her dead competitor and lead in the ballet, she ran from the office. Stopping only to pick up her bag, she abandoned her shoes and jacket in a heap on the floor.
Dashing off into the night, she was an oddity as she ran back to her small run-down apartment in absolute terror. She was barefoot and still clothed in her long sleeve bodysuit and black tights. Her hair was in a tight bun, but she had tendrils escaping near her hairline.
She wasn't sure how long her competitor had been lying on the table, but she had been practicing for hours. Her body laid mutilated and unresponsive just above where she was dancing.
Stumbling over the steps of her apartment, she fumbled for her keys. Hands shaking, she dropped her keys several times before being able to shove them into the lock. Twisting them was a challenge with her shaking hands, but after a moment she made her way past the small lobby and up the stairs to the third floor.
Shivering from the cold and from fright, she ignored the pain in her feet; it was the last thing on her mind. As she nearly fell into her apartment, she brought herself up and locked her door.
Trying to flicker on the lights, she was thankful that they turned on. Running beyond the small space that led into the pathetically run-down kitchen, she went past her shoebox of a living room and into her bedroom, shutting the door quickly and turning to lock it.
Crossing the space, she slammed the bathroom door open and began vomiting at the image of Harper on the desk and mutilated and staged. The smell, the fact that the power had come on right as she was flashing her light at the scene, and the sheer horrific nature of a chest splayed open. It looked as though a monster from the depths of her worst nightmares had torn through her body. Her ribs were shattered, cracked in half, and her organs were exposed to the room where she had been murdered.
Lifting herself from the floor after emptying the contents of her stomach, she clutched the sides of the sink raising and balancing herself as she hung her head. She couldn't rid the image from her mind. Focusing on anything else, she began washing her hands furiously, trying to rid them of the blood that stained them. After rubbing her skin raw, she looked up at her reflection.
Her chestnut eyes were filled with silent terror, red from crying. Her lashes were wet from the tears and the rain. Her olive skin was flushed, and her high cheekbones reddened as she felt too warm. Her full lips were nearly bleeding as she bit down hard.
Wiping her jaw with her hand, she turned away from the mirror in fright at her expression and closed the door.
Unsure of what to do, she knew she had to call someone.
Reaching for her phone, she shakily dialled 911 and waited for a response.
"Detroit emergency services." The attentive voice responded.
Scrambling to say anything she began panicked, "There's a body in the Detroit Dance Academy on 42 Emerson Street. I don't-I-"
Laila swallowed roughly, feeling a knot in the back of her throat.
"Ma'am are you there right now?"
"I was. I was rehearsing and I went to the office and I found her. I-I don't know what happened. Oh my God."
"Ma'am take a breath; can you please tell me what happened?"
Laila struggled to form a coherent sentence, "I was rehearsing, I went to the office to review the schedule. I found her. She's dead, I-I."
Laila felt like she stopped breathing.
"Where are you now Ma'am?"
Laila let out a shaky exhale, "H-home. I'm home."
"Are you safe?"
Laila's eyes shot to the door, "Yeah, I uhm, I think so."
"Where do you live Ma'am?"
"1248 Queen Street, unit 11. Ten minutes away from the Academy."
"Alright, we're going to send some officers to speak to you shortly."
Laila nodded, "Okay, s-sure."
The dispatcher told her she could hang up and to stay where she was. While she was sitting waiting, ten minutes away there were two members of the DPD responding to the scene.
….
Two members of the Detroit Police Department were standing over the body of a mutilated woman. The scene was particularly grisly. She had been injured beyond what they had ever witnessed and the way in which she was staged was something they had not seen.
Congealed blood leaked onto the sides of the desk originating from the gaping wound in her chest. Her chest cavity was torn open, ribs cracked, broken, and displaced.
"She is missing her heart, Detective." A cool voice broke the silence that had descended upon the Academy.
At a loss for words, the Detective shook his head, absolutely speechless.
"This is a level of fucking torture I've never seen in my twelve years working homicide."
"Indeed."
The man standing next to the Detective began analyzing the scene carefully, "Two dislocated shoulders, two broken wrists, contusions lining her arms, neck, lacerations to her legs, and two compound fractures. Her compound fractures and dislocated shoulders occurred while she was still alive. Blood loss and myocardial infarction were the cause of death."
"I would have a fucking heart attack too."
"Her heart was ripped from her chest while she was still alive."
"The fucker stole her heart?"
"It appears to be so."
The two men began compiling notes of her position, how long she had been there, and what had happened to the poor girl. As the man was analyzing the scene, he found a card sticking from where her heart should have been.
Delicately plucking it from her chest cavity, he held it up to the light. The name on the card was clear: Laila Ayad.
Handing the card to the Detective with the gloves on his hands, he was able to see the name.
"Nines, this is the woman who called it in, isn't it?" Gavin questioned still fairly speechless.
Nines nodded, "Yes. Shall we pay her a visit?"
Biting the inside of his lip, he spoke accusingly, "She'll know something. Even if it's talking about the victim, we need her statement. She ran from the body and called after she had arrived home."
"The brute strength necessary to precipitate this level of mutilation would not come from her hands. The victim, she is showing signs of anorexia nervosa, an affliction most common in the dancing profession. Her bone density would have been an aggravating factor in her sustained level of injury. The mutilation achieved by our suspect was aided by her disorder."
"Jesus fucking Christ."
"The victim, Harper Montgomery, she is the lead on the call sheet for the production of Romeo and Juliet."
"That the ballet they're rehearsing?"
"Yes, the production is debuting in a month."
"I would be willing to bet that under her name on the call sheet is Laila Ayad."
"Your wager would be correct Detective."
…
The wait until the police arrived was a long and uncomfortable one. Feeling paralyzed on the couch in her small living room, she felt nearly overwhelmed at the thought of talking to them. She felt like she couldn't breathe properly, nor form a coherent string of words together.
She got up from her place on her couch, pacing the room and kitchen in a back-and-forth motion. The waiting was the worst part.
She had seen Harper's body, twisted and contorted. Her eyes were glazed open terrifyingly. Laila hoped she had a fast death, but she knew in her heart that her fears were correct and that it was a prolonged process that was meant to torture her.
The number of times that the members of the Company had deemed her Heartless Harper was a sick irony now. Feeling a twisted pain in her stomach, Laila's anxiety felt unparalleled. She would be the first to admit that Harper deserved to feel her own pain that she doled out so willingly and freely, but she never wanted Harper to be killed much less tortured.
She had done some truly horrific things to the members of the Company, but everyone knew that Harper hated Laila with a passion that could not be understated.
Oh my God, they're going to think I have the strongest motive to want her dead. I'm her understudy.
These thoughts rang out in her head and she felt petrified of the consequences. As she kept rethinking what assumptions they would have, the knocking on the door resounded through her dingy apartment.
"Oh God." Laila whispered to herself as she flitted to the door.
As she unlocked the door, she stood petrified at two men standing on her welcome mat. The first thing they noticed when they regarded the young woman at the door was her frightened expression and doe eyes. Her irises were dark chestnut and in limited light, they made her eyes appear nearly black. Her face was small and heart shaped, her brows delicately furrowed as she gave the two Detectives a shaken expression.
Her black hair was tied up tightly, its hair confined in a sophisticated bun. Small tendrils of baby hairs escaped its bindings and had come undone in the rain. She anxiously ran a hand over them to smooth them back.
"Miss Ayad, we would like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?" Nines' voice was civil but firm, brokering no argument.
The two men flashed their credentials and pointed to their badges as they stood patiently.
Laila opened her mouth to speak but felt as though her throat would close in on itself and she shut her mouth just as quickly, her lips tightening. Opting for a nod instead, she slowly opened the door as the two Detectives regarded one another with a familiar look.
As she led both men into her hilariously small apartment she gestured to the worn and aged couch while she sat perched on a small oak bookshelf.
Although cramped and dingy, the space was well organized and clean with an order to the apartment the size of a shoebox. As both men sat side by side, she noticed the substantial height difference and demeanor of the two.
While the man who stood over six feet was calm and stoic, his eyes were indecipherably calculating and analyzing, and she felt as though she were under a microscope. His visage was clear of tension and he looked remarkably unfazed but remained cold and analytical. While the other Detective seemed more at ease and less rigid, his eyes were wandering around the apartment seeing her intimate space.
The shorter detective was about to speak when Laila interrupted hastily and with a panicked voice, "Everyone hated her! We all called her Heartless Harper, which now in light of absolutely everything is even more poetically terrible, but it was her nickname amongst all of the dancers! We all have been hurt by her! But I'm the only one who is her understudy…oh my God I sound guilty. I swear to God I don't know anything about what happened!"
At her horrified expression, she crossed her legs and held herself tight. The two Detectives gave her a hard stare but the taller one spoke first, "Miss Ayad, please take a moment to breathe. We are here to ask questions; we are not accusing you of anything."
Seeming to ignore exactly what he was saying she had another outburst, her eyes lighting up once more, "I was the last one to see her alive, I think. I was in the studio yesterday. I went to confront her…she had put Ambien in my protein shake a few days earlier…she wanted me to be injured because she knew I was already tired and would likely hurt myself on the beam or doing our routine. I was angry with her. I yelled at her. This was yesterday afternoon…I don't know how long she had been there laying there dead when I was there today."
As the taller Detective was about to speak, the shorter detective with narrowed storming grey eyes held up a hand subtly, wanting Laila to continue to unravel her story.
"I was dancing while she was dead! For eight hours. How-I don't know who could do that. Her chest was open. I struggle to open up jars, let alone be able to open someone's chest. We don't have any men in our company, we have to request the men's academy to send their best. I don't think any of them would even begin to imagine doing that to her. I mean, she caused another dancer to break his leg by sabotaging his routine…but he wouldn't be capable of hurting her. I don't know! We all had our reasons of hating her! I nearly got a concussion from falling over and I woke up in the studio hours after, groggy and feeling disgustingly sick after she drugged me. Who does that to a person?!"
Realizing that she had not taken a breath the entire time she spoke, the taller Detective raised a hand in a calming motion which went unheeded.
"How could someone do that to her? I had to use my flashlight going up the stairs because the power was out. I had to use candles to see myself actually do the routine…practice couldn't stop because of the electricity being gone. I needed to continue…I had to. I went to the office to see the schedule properly outside of my time…and she was there. The door was sticky. I thought that someone had leftover glue on their hands that they used in their shoes, not blood; but it was hers."
Laila whispered the last words, horrified as she recollected what had happened.
"Please Miss Ayad, I must insist you take a deep breath. Again, we are not here to accuse you. We would like information and details."
"She was always trying to outdo us. She knew I had authorization to be in the studio, she didn't. She wanted to be there so I would confront her…she told me yesterday that she was trying to convince our instructor that I wasn't good enough for the part. I've been doing 50 hours of dancing a week! I was working harder than she was!"
Laila inhaled sharply and jaggedly as she had barely taken a breath as she was explaining everything.
Seeing the intense expressions on the faces of both men she was about to open her mouth again when the shorter Detective spoke harshly, "Listen, you need to calm down. Relax. We. Are. Asking. You. For. Information. Not. Arresting. You."
Laila hugged herself tighter and they could both see her bare and cut up feet that were horribly blistered and bruised.
"I don't know if she had family. She never talked about her personal life…oh my God, how are her parents going to bury her? My God." Laila whispered at the thought of Harper's parents seeing their little girl dissected, tortured, and left for dead in a place she had loved so much.
Laila began self-soothing by scrunching her toes over and over despite the pain she felt.
"How long have you been dancing in the Company?" The tall Detective spoke carefully guarded trying to distract her from her wandering thoughts.
"Six years." Laila answered openly as she focused her panicked eyes on the stoic Detective.
"How long had Harper been dancing in the same Company?"
"Seven years."
"Was there an age difference between you two?" The tall detective spoke, his voice a soothing baritone.
"She's…was five years older than I am. She was slated for retirement in a year or two."
"Retirement at what? Thirty?" The shorter brash detective questioned in disbelief.
Laila nodded seriously, her eyes becoming increasingly wide, "A dancer's lifespan is at most fifteen years. She's nearing the end of the line."
"And you are not?" The tall Detective spoke once more.
"I have seven years left before my career is dead." Laila informed carefully.
"Are you compensated for dancing?"
"Not well enough to afford a single bedroom apartment near the waterfront. I have another job; dancing is more of an enjoyable pastime with consequences."
"Consequences?" The tall Detective tilted his head at her word choice.
"Ballet is an art. It takes years to hone your practice, it takes your time, slowly begins to destroy your body, takes years off your life if you let it. It's unforgiving. Most of the Company suffers from some form of eating disorder, insomnia, or some other mental health condition. It's grueling. But when you look at it in such a myopic way it loses its appeal. It's an amazing feeling that knows no equal when you're able to partake in a production, to get the respect of your colleagues, from your instructors. It's where I've met most of friends when I arrived here."
"And where are you from, Miss Ayad?"
"Bahrain."
"When did you move here?"
"Six years ago, the time I started to dance with the Detroit Academy."
"Why did you leave Bahrain?"
Laila gave an uneasy glance at the tell Detective, "That's irrelevant."
Her voice was anxious, but her tone was laced with finality. She would not discuss family matters with those who had no reason to know of her family.
Reconstructing the conversation, Nines moved past asking her about her family and her background, choosing instead to elaborate on the victim.
"Harper had few friends at the Academy?"
Laila bit her lip, "We were friends once, but something changed when she realized she had competition and had to work with other dancers. She had come from another Company in a smaller town, and she was the best dancer in her region. Moving to Detroit, she had more equal or better competition."
"That bothered her."
Laila's visage was marred with confusion, one long eyebrow raised as though she shouldn't have to elaborate, "She drugged me, she caused another to break their leg, she sabotaged countless others, our broken in pointe shoes would go missing, our items in our lockers mysteriously began disappearing. When I said she was hated by everyone, I meant everyone, Detective."
The two Detectives gave her a harsh and critical glance.
"Why did you wait so long to phone emergency services?"
"I'm sorry?" Laila wanted clarification.
"You stated that the Academy was ten minutes away from your apartment. If that is true, the time you left the academy equates to 38 minutes of waiting to phone in."
"I couldn't have taken that long. I was here in ten…I couldn't-I didn't."
Laila was confused, she had come home, washed her hands, and had stared at her reflection. It couldn't have been that long truly.
"I-I, I don't know."
"Take a breath, Miss Ayad."
Laila sprung up from being perched on the bookshelf and began pacing the small length of the apartment. Her hands were raw from washing them and it seemed the taller Detective noticed.
"Miss Ayad, your prints would undoubtedly match the ones on the doorknob and the personal business card that was left in Harper's chest."
Laila ceased pacing immediately and turned to the Detective, "I don't have personal business cards."
Narrowing his eyes, he spoke calmly, "You have never created a business card nor handed them out?"
Laila shook her head, "I don't have anything like that. My information is online, Detective. Anyone can find me on Detroit Academy's website. I don't have a reason to send them out, it would be rather pointless."
"Where is your second job?" The Detective with the piercing grey eyes questioned her appraisingly.
Laila crossed her arms over her chest protectively, "I bartend at a place downtown."
"Which bar?"
"Velvet Crown Lounge."
Gavin's eyes flickered with recognition, "Who are your coworkers?"
Laila stumbled but her facial features tightened, "I don't believe that is pertinent to the investigation, Detective."
"They will provide character references of yourself and reliable information that may prove pertinent indeed." Nines intoned severely as Laila regarded him with scrutiny.
Laila refused to say another word on the matter, "I don't believe that they would want to speak with you."
"You're probably right, but this isn't a request, this is a demand." Gavin reiterated, his expression storming and infuriated.
Laila narrowed her eyes feeling anxious but steadfast, "No. You can demand this, but I will give you the name of my boss, not my coworkers. They are not your concern."
Gavin gave a glare worthy of a murderer, but Laila refused to give up names.
"They deserve privacy Detectives."
Nines spoke up critically, "You are impeding an investigation of a murder. We will prosecute you for obstruction of justice."
Laila tilted her head, "My coworkers at another location separate to the Academy have nothing to do with my Company in the Academy."
Nines gave Gavin a knowing look, but Laila was not going to crack.
"You can't do this. I'm being truthful with you. I've answered your questions." Laila asserted, her arms tightening over her chest defensively.
Her stance was balanced, two feet firmly on the floor, her posture pin-straight, and her eyes sharpened on both men, unrelenting and darkened.
Without a word of warning, Nines strode forth from the couch and began to reach for his cuffs to begin reciting the Miranda rights.
"Laila Ayad, you have the right to remain silent-" As Nines was reading her the Miranda Rights she was entitled to and withdrawing his cuffs, her phone began ringing.
She had left it idle on the coffee table, face up when it began vibrating and ringing. Giving a cursory glance to the screen, she noticed the name appear: 'Ah'ite Baby.'
"Arrest me after this please." Laila commanded, her hands slowly reaching for the phone, not waiting for a response from either detective.
Quickly shooting out an explanation, Laila began, "Dallas, listen to me really carefully. I'm going to need to switch my shift for tonight, I'm being arrested."
Nines felt a smirk about to grace his lips, but he fought it from appearing on his visage. Gavin on the other hand looked oddly surprised. There was a moment where Laila paused and both Detectives could hear Dallas laughing and talking back.
"Real fucking cheeky Lye, seriously, what's going on?" Dallas' voice was loud enough to hear through the phone.
"Dallas! I'm not playing with you, I swear. I swear on the mantle." Laila emphasized, her hand nearly shaking with an unsteady hold.
Gavin knew of the mantle. It was a tradition in their bar to place their favourite items on the wooden ledge behind the countertop, it was a sacred spot that ensured there was some life to their working space.
"Who's arresting you? Ask, you have a right to see their badges and names." Dallas informed her sharply.
Laila took a look and both men were standing still and listening to the conversation with masked faces.
"They did earlier but I wasn't paying attention. I was, am, having anxiety over this." Laila blinked at the two Detectives who remained unmoving.
"Describe them to me." Dallas commanded.
"What do you mean describe them? For the love of God Dallas, there are hundreds of cops in Detroit."
"Just Do It!" Dallas bellowed harshly.
Laila backed up a step to appraise them both, "Okay, first detective looks as though he has to duck when he enters a doorway. He has brown hair, crystal blue eyes with flecks of…silver, but he looks like he's dissecting me eighteen different ways. He looks so serious and its really high key intimidating. Second detective is about your height, has a distinguished look as though he could insult me eight different ways to tomorrow. He has…grey eyes, stubble…they're both comfortable enough to sit close to one another so I'm going to guess they're partners- Dallas for God's sake, switch my shift!"
"I don't fucking believe it."
"Dallas I'm telling the tru- wait…Dallas…."
Laila suddenly came to the realization after looking at Gavin's facial reaction. Although subdued, the corners of his mouth were upturned as he was trying not to smirk.
"This is your boyfriend? This is the Gavin you've not shut up about? It has to be…Gavin's partner is seriously tall. No one is this tall. Okay Dallas, we have to talk about your choice of a boyfriend. He's arresting me for not naming my colleagues."
"What the fuck is going on?" Dallas questioned with an edge to her voice.
"So much that I have no idea about. I've been panicking for the last hour! Please just bail me out, you can have the tips Craig gives me to sleep with him. It's not going to happen, but he keeps paying me like I'm going to do it." Laila spoke fast and with efficiency knowing her time was limited.
"Alright, Laila, just name us for fuck's sake. Don't die on this hill."
"Dallas, it's the principle of the matter. It's not a fair question."
"Put me on speakerphone."
"I am NOT going to put you on speakerphone. This entire situation is increasingly tragic as it is weirdly poetic."
Speaking away from the phone, she looked at Gavin and Nines apprehensively, "This may be a conflict of interest. I know more about you two than you do about me."
Gavin groaned and Nines closed his eyes as though he was fighting a biting remark.
"Dallas, please. Bail me out, take my tips, we can talk about this as soon as I go to the police station."
"Laila…put me on fucking speakerphone right now."
Laila sighed and handed the phone to Gavin, her palm outstretched.
Rather than putting it on speakerphone, she ensured that it was so only that Gavin could hear after adjusting the volume.
"Gavin why are you arresting Laila? She's the least intimidating bartender we have, we need her for tips. She knows how to make money. She couldn't have done anything wrong. She wouldn't harm anyone, not even someone trying to grope her at the bar."
"She's withholding information Dallas." Gavin sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Salvatore Tredavo, Ian Woodburn, Seth Williams, Nina Carter, Allison Brown, and Stephanie Smith." Dallas recited, "I just gave you all of our coworkers, you arrest her, I swear to God, I will rip you all a new one."
Laila overheard the threat issued from Dallas and smiled softly, thankful that her friend had stood up to her boyfriend for her. Dallas gushed about him all of the time, but she would never admit to being sappy. It was always in a harsh mocking tone, but her eyes softened exponentially, and she looked weightless when speaking about him.
Nines was witnessing Laila's placated expression, clearly seeing the relief written on her features. Her irises lost their piercing edge and had reverted back to a doe eyed expression Her fervent loyalty to her coworkers was admirable, but it would be her undoing.
Laila was elated at Dallas' statement she tried to subtly glance at the taller detective, but she froze when she found him giving her an analytical stare. Feeling as though she were under a microscope, she swiftly averted her gaze to Gavin who had his back turned. Her face had warmed and she for the umpteenth time had considered just pretending this was a nightmare and not real life.
She wondered what would happen to the studio. The old moniker of 'the show must go on' really hit its limitations with this one. The Company couldn't expect to continue as though nothing happened. It was impossible, even they couldn't be that heartless.
Laila abhorred that term now. She vowed she would never use it again if she could help it. As she zoned out, she pulled at the bun that was on her head, taking out several bobby pins and discarding them on the oak shelf that she had been using for a seat. Wincing at the pin that had lost its plastic coating, she felt a small warmth spread over her hair from a small cut on her scalp. Wiping her hand, she continued taking the pins out painstakingly. Once she had freed her hair from the pins, she removed the double elastic and felt her hair coming down in waves. Brushing her fingers through the stressed strands, she grimaced at the sensation of having her hair constrained for such a prolonged period.
Her obsidian hair matched well with the darkened outfit she had been rehearsing in. Scratching her neck, she continued to massage her head with her free hand.
She did not notice the tall detective watching her movements with precision, noting the flashes of pain, discomfort, and relief that graced her features as she was maintaining her hair. The scrunch of her long eyebrows, her eyes shut tightly while feeling the small abrasion one of the several pins had left in her hair, and the way she had bit her lower lip at pushing her unruly strands back.
Laila turned around to pluck something from the small side table and began furiously pulling out several makeup brushes, foundation, concealer, mascara, eyeshadow, and lipstick. She had a distinct feeling that Dallas was not going to let her switch her shifts and the goddess herself had singlehandedly ensured she was not going to be arrested.
She needed to be sure she wasn't going to be. Giving a cautious glance to the intimidating detective, she could tell nothing; other than the fact that she was feeling flustered as his sharp irises had not deviated from her form while she was taking her hair down.
Realizing that she was staring she broke away just as Gavin was nearly finished his call, "Alright, I get it Dal. I don't know if she can go to work tonight, ask her."
Gavin left the phone in his palm and outstretched his arm and Laila plucked it from his warm and calloused hand.
Closing her eyes, she spoke, "Hey-"
"No, you're coming in. Don't even try it. Craig is in here already asking about you…serve him! Be here in twenty."
At that Dallas had hung up the phone.
Laila tilted her head questioningly and in disbelief at Dallas' words. A steady stream of Arabic flew from her mouth as she felt the irritation that came with working with Dallas.
After releasing pent up frustration in the form of another vernacular, she vented in her native tongue about Dallas and about her slave-driver work ethic and ability to intimidate and manipulate men.
Both detectives looked mildly amused at her statement, but only the tall detective gave her a knowing glance. Realizing with horror that he had understood exactly what she had said, she nearly went white as a ghost.
"Hal tatakallam al-lughah al-araabiyah?" Laila swallowed nervously, regarding the steely eyed detective with a strong wariness.
"Anaa afham tamaaman." His voice speaking her native tongue was perfect, it was pronounced with such emphasis she couldn't imagine that he wasn't born and raised in the Middle East.
Blinking furiously, she stumbled out another phrase, "Min ayn anti?"
"Detroit Michigan."
Giving him an absolutely lost expression, she tried to nod along but her surprise was evident.
"You speak perfectly…how?" Laila blushed furiously at the question, but her curiosity had overridden her nervousness and she felt she had to know.
"I have the capability to speak over 6,000 languages."
Laila was bewildered until she came to the realization slowly, "You are an android."
The tone in which she stated the comment was not unfriendly nor was it said accusingly. In fact, it was nearing the opposite as she tilted her head with curiosity. Inspecting the detective, she spoke politely not wanting to be perceived as rude.
"We don't have any androids in Bahrain. Coming to Detroit was a bit of a culture shock…it still is sometimes. I'm extremely grateful that doctor didn't press charges when…" Laila trailed off realizing it was so completely irrelevant to the conversation and that she was actively speaking to two members of law enforcement.
Shaking herself off and blushing, she spoke quickly, "A story for another time."
Gavin's visage was marred in confusion and she quickly relented, "Dallas knows the story…it's a bit…well…just-she'll tell you. It's fine if she tells you. Nothing can stop Dallas when she wants to embarrass somebody, just wait till you hear what she-"
Laila never closed her mouth so quickly; she did not want to be interrogated again. She needed to get to work. She had to get to work.
"I have to get ready for work. Do you have any more questions?" Laila wanted to sink in the floor and never emerge at her lack of social skills.
The tall detective shook his head but offered her a word of warning while handing her a number to contact, "I suggest you be more forthcoming with your answers given your predicament as a person of interest."
Laila felt stung by his words, but a flash of anger had her eyes narrow at the detective that was making his way to her door to leave her apartment.
Gavin gave a nod but followed his partner and soon she was left alone with her thoughts as she raced to get ready for work.