. I'll post the rest of Chap. 2 when it's written. :3 Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep, beep. The freaking high-tech Boynet security camera went off with a fury. All for a pack of gum and a box of Cheerios. Jillian stuffed them in a plastic grocery bag, then prepared to sprint for her bike. It was the one thing of hers that she hadn’t stolen.
A cop, in black slacks began walking towards her. Okay, she thought. Time to go. She casually walked out of the store, then grabbed her bike and ran like heck. When she was sure the guard wasn’t close, she threw her legs over the bicycle seat.
Pedal. Pedal. Glancing over her shoulder, Jillian realized the guy was hot on her heels. She pedaled harder.
Her blood turned to ice as she felt arms throw her down and the cold iron handcuffs encircle her wrists. Jillian groaned. The officer grinned at her with teeth yellowed by alcohol, cigarettes, and coffee.
“Back to old juvy for you, eh, girlie?” The cop grabbed the back of her neck, and then shoved her face down to the ground. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked.
Jillian gritted her teeth. “Cassadee Liller.” It was the name she was legally registered under, anyway.
“ID?”
She held out her very realistic, yet not bona fide, ID. The guard glanced at it and nodded. “Whaddya say about my buddy taking you the department?”
“I say he can screw it,” Jillian said, unable to stop herself.
The guy seemed taken aback, then grinned with his beer-stained teeth. Jillian glared at him, refusing to be intimidated. And he wasn’t intimidating. Jillian had dealt with plenty of freaks like this guy, and every single one of them have been the same. They all thought they were God, they all drank and smoked, and none of them gave a crap for anyone but themselves.
So she smashed her metal-bound fists into the cop’s nose. Bright scarlet blood gushed between her fingers. His jaw tightened and he shouted at her angrily, cussing. She grinned up at him. “I had fun, now, but can you get rid of these cuffs?” she said, still grinning. “They’re kind of pretty, but totally not my style.”
Suddenly she heard the high-pitched squeal of distant sirens.
Crap, crap, crap.
She yanked her wrists apart, only to feel a sharp buzz throughout her whole body. “Wow, these are so 1979. Barmen? Really?” Barmen’s was a brand of security and protection devices that had opened in 1945 and stopped producing in 1982. The closer to the 2000s, the better the technology.
These wristbands specifically were designed to send a strong zap throughout the body whenever the person wearing them applied too much pressure on the cuffs. Clever. But that didn’t mean they weren’t old-fashioned.
The guy, still attempting to stop his nose from gushing, stared at Jillian with a look of pure contempt. But the sirens were too close for comfort now. Soon she could hear the squeal of tires and see the white and navy blue Trasgood police department’s car design. A female cop with plain brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and no makeup wordlessly strode to Jillian and practically dragged her to the backseat of the cop car.
Jillian jerked back her arm and bit back words that would have gotten her the death penalty. The interior of the vehicle was clean and crisp and smelled like air freshener. Was that good, or bad? She’d never been caught before. She didn’t know.
The drive to the station was quick, but getting in wasn’t. First, a gate in the chain-link fence had to be opened so the female cop could drive through. Then Jillian had to wait in a small room with a “mirror” on one dark gray wall, a locked, brown door on another, and cameras on the other. A small, white, rectangular table sat in the middle, and Jillian was waiting on a chair on one side of it. It was not a comfortable chair.
The rippled mirror-that-was-not-a-mirror showed Jillian’s reflection, distorted yet accurate. Her unwashed black hair rested at her shoulders. Alert and focused green eyes stared back at her. The smudges of the mirror seemed as if they were actually on her pale skin.
Finally, the same cop came in and sat on the other side of the table.
“You going to interrogate me for stealing some Cheerios and gum?” Jillian asked, raising her brows.
“No. I’m going to interrogate you for the murder of Kaylie Rome.”
Jillian’s heart skipped a beat. “Wh-what?” Kaylie was Jillian’s long-time roommate. Jillian would never think of even hurting the girl, but Kaylie might hurt Jillian if she got to close to Kaylie’s clothes and shoes.
“Kaylie was found dead in your apartment at 1:30 a.m. this morning. We’ve deduced that her time of death was about 12:30 a.m. We know you were her roommate. Where were you then?” The cop looked bored and agitated.
We know you were her roommate.
Were.
“I was driving. In Kaylie’s car. She lets me use it,” Jillian quickly explained at the cop’s triumphant look.
“We’ll be checking your alibi, so this is your last chance. Speak up.”
Jillian had been driving at the time, and she knew the alibi would check out. The cops’ cyber team would hack the car’s computer and check if it had been in use at that time. It had.
Jillian’s glance didn’t waver. Instead, she asked, “What about the Cheerios and gum?”
The cop snorted, seemingly not out of amusement but more out of apathy. She shook her head. “I don’t care. Keep them. Petty theft isn’t a big deal around here. We have worse crap.”
And with that, she strode out.
Jillian had to wait until another cop took her to a place to stay. She couldn’t go home because it was an “active crime scene.” And she had nowhere else to go.
But holy hell, the place she would stay was elegant and sophisticated, way too posh for Jillian. Still, she’d never mind staying there for a while. Especially with the huge TV screening wall, plush couches, huge rooms, and silk curtains. Not to forget the pretty heather walls.
The police officer was nice enough, too. He’d said his name was Mat Griffin and that he, among others, lived in the mansion, which was some kind of safe house. He gave Jillian a room and told her, basically, to make herself at home. So she raided the kitchen(s) for spoons, bowls, and milk, and helped herself to a great big bowl of Cheerios.
Later, Jillian noticed the cop sitting in a huge, leather armchair, reading what appeared to be a mystery novel.
“What in the name of cute shoes is this place?” she demanded, pretty bluntly, too.
Mat Griffin didn’t even look up from his novel as he explained. “I bring kids here that I pick up at the station that need help or simply a place to stay.”
“Is there anyone else here?” She couldn’t help it, she was curious. She wanted to know if anyone would be digging in her bras. She really wanted to know if the clean dishes she’d be eating out of were actually dirty ones stuffed into the cupboard.
“Yes, there are two girls here about your age.” At least no one would be digging through her bras. “I’m sure they’ll be pleased to have company other than each other.”
Jillian nodded. “Where do I sleep?”
“I’ll show you.”
He led her up four flights of white, carpeted stairs into a long hallway with multiple wooden doors on either side. One of those doors was painted a light shade of pink and another was painted a bright orange. She figured those were the other two girls’ rooms.
Mat opened one of the off-white doors and ushered Jillian inside it. She nearly gasped as she took in the room. The walls were the same white as the door, blank and pristine. There was a large mahogany dresser on one side of the room, as well as a gigantic closet and a leather chair. On the other side of the room was a queen-size four-poster bed, with satiny sheets and a feather pillow. The floor in the middle of the room was adorned with a soft peridot rug. There were two small windows and each had curtains that matched the rug. There was even a viewing wall on the side of the huge closet.
“It’s wonderful,” Jillian said, her jaw on the floor.
“Thought so,” Mat said, grinning.
Glancing at the opened door, Jillian realized the orange door was slightly ajar, so she left the room and peeked in it.
A very Goth girl with shortly cut lavender hair, light brown skin, and a whole conglomeration of odd, strangely robotic clothing stood at the door, staring at Jillian.
“Who are you?” the girl blurted, throwing the door open and glaring.
“Your worst nightmare. You?” Jillian said, glaring right back.
“Jaclyn White, your worst nightmare. Honestly, you’re not intimidating. You’re almost as innocent as Bri, and she’s a friggin’ prepster.”
Bri? “Don’t judge a book by its cover, Jaclyn White.” And with that, Jillian approached the room Mat had given her.
Her cover was tattered and dusty, but the font was dangerous, the pages white and striking.
She lay down on the elegant duvet and shut her eyes tightly. She was too dirty for all of this, too dull and too insignificant. Not good enough. Never had she been good enough.
She gazed out the window at the perfect scenery, the chestnut leaves of the oaks and elms, the bright scarlet of the maples, the grass that wasn’t dead yet but was getting there. Even the grass was too perfect for Jillian and she didn’t like these feelings one bit.
But nothing would drive her out of here, ‘cause she would make it last for quite a while. She didn’t mind perfection. So she opened the window, crawled into it, and let her legs lean out to feel the clean, crisp autumn air as she sat on the stool.
Jillian soon realized that this place was absolutely dang boring.
No game consoles, no art supplies—every single pencil she owned was at the apartment—not even a computer. The only books were dirty—really, really dirty—romances that only desperate 60 year-olds would read. Not really anything to do, except sleep, eat, or talk to the other girl/s here. None of the options seemed like a great time-passer, especially knowing that she could be here for a while.
Maybe she could grab some cash from Mat…
Jillian threw open the door and didn’t shut it. She could hear Jaclyn through the orange door, mostly swearing. Fitting. But she also heard music coming through the pink door. Curious, she nudged it slightly open to see a girl with poofy brown hair and light skin singing softly to a song about a girl killing herself and her abusive boyfriend.
“You have a pretty voice,” Jillian said, startling her accidentally.
“Who are you?” she questioned, barely looking at Jillian as she muted the music.
“Ji—Cassadee Liller,” she responded simply, forgetting for a split second that nobody knew her name was Jillian.
