Dear readers

Just wanted to let you know that, even though real life forced me to take a break for a while, I am still planning on finishing this story. I updated this second chapter and is currently reworking the third, also. In my humble opinion, this second chapter is much better than the previous one, I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it, too!

I have had six days to come up with a story, six days to think up a way in which to explain the facts without making me look the guilty bastard I apparently was. But now that it has come down to it, I had nothing. Nada. Zilch. Only a couple of half-baked lies with more holes in it than a Swiss cheese, and the utter conviction that the truth will land me in jail for the rest of my life.

Damn it.

I rested my head on the table, twisting it side to side to get rid of the stiffness in my neck. Something clicked into place in my spine. It felt good. A tiny comfort in a very uncomfortable situation.

The interrogation room was cold and grey and bare. Half of one wall was covered with a mirror, which was, of course, one-way. Someone – or more than one someone – was undoubtedly gawking at me from the other side, and I had a strong urge to stick out my tongue and cross my eyes.

I didn't.

My situation was shitty enough already.

The agents would probably be back from Steve's flat by now. There really was nothing of interest for them there; Steve was a Marine, and a law-abiding type of guy, who would probably kick my ass if he knew I used his flat to hide from the Law while he was deployed. As for me, I carried nothing in there but a week's worth of takeaway boxes and the clothes on my back.

So they would be typing. Making calls. Chatting over how best to break me. Staring at me from behind the mirror. Stalling, drinking coffee, making me nervous.

I cracked my neck again.

Waiting was not my strong suit.

The room was remarkably clean. Not a cobweb or a dust bunny in sight and the table sparkled. I wondered if there were chewing gum under the seat. Probably not. Not under this one, anyway. It is kind of hard to get your hands under the seat with the cuffs on. Or to your mouth, for that matter.

A numbness tracked down from my shoulders through my arms to my fifth finger on each side. The cuffs were too tight. The nerves in my shoulders were pinching and the circulation in my hands were going down. I flexed my fingers slowly. It hurt my wrists. I stopped.

Moving my head hurt, too. So did breathing. The exertion of the chase has made all my week-old injuries come alive again, especially in my ribs. I think a couple of them were cracked. And if they weren't before the chase, they definitely were after the tackle.

Boy, I was exhausted.

I rested my head on the table again. There was a new bruise forming over the old one right in die middle of my forehead. The pressure on it hurt. I didn't care. Everything hurt.

Maybe they were not talking about how to break me at all. Or staring at me from behind the glass. Maybe they had all the evidence they needed. Maybe they were just waiting for a warrant. Or a witness.

A witness.

Somebody who saw me leaving the house that night. Somebody who saw me throwing up in the rubbish bin in the park. Somebody who remember a big young man in a bloodied T-shirt sitting in the corner of the bus, shivering. Or, perhaps, somebody who was in the house that night.

Because somebody else was in the house that night.

Even though I didn't see anybody, didn't hear anybody, there must have been someone. Something was nagging around at the edges of my memories, something that I can't quite pull out of the confused jumble of thoughts. I think there was someone. Hell, there must have been someone, because if there weren't, I really was guilty. Guilty as hell.

I banged my head softly against the table a couple of times and sat up again.

Waiting really was not my strong suit.

The mirror showed dark circles under my eyes, exhausted wrinkles around the corners. The bridge of my nose was red and swollen. On my jaw and cheek bones, new bruises were forming over the old ones, colouring my face blue and yellow and green, making it look distorted. And the week old beard did not do much to hide it.

It didn't hide my expression, either. Knotted jaw-muscles, clamped mouth, drooping eyelids, eyebrows pulling together. I looked uncooperative. Unfriendly. Stubborn.

It was an unfortunate expression, but I couldn't help it. I just wasn't created to look friendly. I couldn't change that expression, even if I tried.

Damn it.

I cracked my neck a third time.

The waiting was killing me.