Blood Rush

Chapter Sixteen: She Had It Coming

Sitting in Interrogation Room #3, Deedee sat in the steel chair, tapping her fingernails against the wooden table pensively. A rollercoaster of emotion had taken hold the entire ride to the precinct; she had heard Detective Bullock report to "Jim"—Ah, James Broody Gordon, himself—that she had been laughing while shackled in the backseat, but Deedee couldn't recall what was so funny. She had felt certain rage toward Mr. Cicero—dead beat dad, liar, snake in the grass—And she had felt a rush of panic when Jerome and she had met each other's gaze as he had stepped out of their mother's trailer—He'd think that I'd turn him in, but I'd never betray him.

Deedee caught a reflection of herself in the one-way mirror of the Interrogation Room. She eyed her appearance curiously, and then a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She was still dressed in her dancing costume, though through all the thicket of action that had happened, her dress was partially torn by the thigh, scuffed and some of small bells had fallen loose. And a small thought crossed her mind that made her emit a low chuckle:

Lila had only been dead for the last three days. Three. Days.

She was maggot food, and yet the bitch had managed to tug at Mr. Cicero's heartstrings and make Deedee's life a bit more complicated—even after death—

"What's so funny, Deedee?" asked Detective Bullock, stepping into the interrogation room, unbeknownst to she until he had closed the door with a slam of finality. Deedee wiped a happy tear from her eye, and her grin continued to pull at the side of her face. So much for acting anyway. "From where I'm standing, you're up shit creek."

SLAM! Deedee smacked the table with a wicked HA! "Without a paddle, Detective!"

Bullock stared at her. Deedee patted the table gently, gesturing for him to take the seat in front of her. He did so cautiously, moving his tie to the side as he slowly sat in the opposite chair.

Deedee cleared her throat, placed her hands on the table, and offered a very long sigh of relief, "Evening, Harvey."

"Got something you wanna get off your chest, Deedee?" asked Bullock. "What's so funny? Did Jerome tell you a funny joke?"

"C'mon, Detective," said Deedee. "You know how it is."

"I don't." Bullock replied with a smile of his own. "Why don't you tell me?"

"You mean confess?" Deedee suggested playfully. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Bullock shook his head.

"No?" Deedee half-smirked. "D'you haul my brother in after you put me in here? I know Detective Gordon's gotta be talking to him by now. He's a sharp man. Does he always look that broody?"

Bullock remained silent.

Deedee shrugged, slid out of her seat. "Guess it doesn't matter anyway, does it?"

Bullock's eyes watched her as Deedee approached the one-sided mirror, observing her reflection. She then turned on her heel, leaned against the wall, and clicked her tongue, "Detective, have you ever had a very long work week? Like the week just drags on and you can't wait for the weekend? And then Friday comes along, and instead of being able to go out and have a drink or party with your friends, you gotta work a double because somebody at your job quit? Like the bad news that breaks the camel's back—" Deedee uttered a small chuckle—"And all you can do is just laugh because it's better than getting angry?"

A beat.

Deedee grinned at Bullock. "Ya ever have one of those days, Detective?"

Bullock inhaled slowly. "I reckon I've had one of those days, yeah. Is that what happened, Deedee? Did you have a bad week?"

"One. Bad. Week." Deedee said.

A tap on the glass made Deedee turn slowly. Although she didn't know what that meant, Bullock rose to his feet significantly and then strode to the door to the interrogation room. Deedee watched curiously as Bullock opened it, and in came Detective Gordon, holding a pair of handcuffs.

"Hello, James," Deedee teased.

"So," said Gordon in his usual flat tone, "you and Jerome are sleeping together."

"Same bed for eighteen years," Deedee shrugged nonchalantly.

"No…" Bullock's eyes widened as if he had gotten some juicy gossip. He turned from his partner to look at Deedee. "You're banging your brother?"

"Harvey." Gordon chastised him pointedly.

"It's all right," said Deedee calmly, dismissing Bullock's unprofessionalism with a whimsical hand. "I guess Dad told you, huh?"

"Yes, Mr. Cicero informed me that you and Jerome had been involved in an incestuous relationship; which, paired with Lila's apparent 'nagging'"—Gordon air-quoted the word with a raised eyebrow— "You and Jerome formed a plot to kill your mother. That's the way Jerome told me. Is that about right?"

Deedee smiled. "Yeah…"

"So," said Bullock, "you admit it, then?"

"Yeah…" Deedee repeated in the same lackadaisical voice. "But if you had a mother like ours, tell me you wouldn't have done the same."

"Deedee," said Gordon gently, "I know about the abuse—"

"It's got nothing to do with what happened in the Past," Deedee raised a finger to silence him, instantly angry. "Mother was ratchet; and she always made herself out to be such a good woman when really, she was the worst there was. All that self-righteous talk of 'Oh, how could my children do this to me?'" Deedee snorted a disgusted laugh, "Please. To her? Jerome wanted it as much as I did. Please."

A pause.

Full disclosure?

"What sent Jerome over the edge was that she was boning and boozing, and all the while screaming at him to do the fucking dishes—THE DISHES WERE DONE!" Deedee suddenly screamed, eyes wide, face beat red. "They were done! And she wouldn't stop calling for him! 'Jerome!' 'Jerome!' He and I were having a conversation—but that bitch wouldn't shut the fuck up!"

Gordon's facial expression enlightened to the idea that perhaps Jerome's confession had been more relaxed than hers; however, Deedee continued furiously, all rage rising to the surface:

"And do you know how many times I've told that fucking bitch that I don't go by Delilah!? MY NAME IS DEEDEE!" Deedee slammed her hand hard into the paned mirror—Gordon didn't jump, but Bullock did, stepping back slightly when they heard a small crack.

Deedee glanced down to see blood slowly running down her fingers. She turned to see spider-veins running up the one-sided mirror. Oops. A small snicker emitted from her lips when she had seen what she had done…

Deedee showed the policemen her hand, "My brother always says that I have our mother's temper." She bit her lip slightly.

"Jerome killed her," Gordon said slowly, "but you restrained her long enough to let him bludgeon her to death?"

Deedee nodded. "She had it coming."

Then in a small sing-song voice, and Detective Bullock staring at her in aghast, she sang with a whisper: "She had it coming…She had it coming…She had it coming all along…"

Gordon approached her with the handcuffs, gently putting her hands behind her back.

"I didn't do it…" Deedee continued to sing, swaying slightly, "But if I did it…How could you tell me I was wrong…?"

You're a performer, aren't you, Deedee? Well, then, perform…

Detective Gordon steered Deedee out of the Interrogation room in her handcuffs, and Deedee's gaze brightened as she met Jerome Valeska outside in the corridor. He shared the same insane smile.

"Hello, Sister." Jerome said in jubilee.

"Hello, Brother," Deedee returned fondly.

Bullock shook his head, "Welcome to Haley's Circus…"