Matenapped

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jem

"Get up!"

I jolted upright, hitting my head on the top bunk.

"Fuck!" I swore loudly, rubbing my head.

I glared at the cop who was standing behind the cell door. He shoved two plastic trays through a slot in the bottom.

"Breakfast."

Courtney jumped off her bunk. "Hell yes, I'm starved."

I wrinkled my nose. "That looks like shit."

"It is," she agreed, munching on a piece of bread that resembled a hockey puck. "But it's the only shit we get to eat for another five hours."

"Whatever you say," I mumbled. Something that smelled like fruit but looked like gummy bears made its way into my plastic spoon. I bit off a tiny piece.

"Eww, gross!" I spit it out, rubbing my tongue with my sleeve.

Courtney laughed. "I told you so."

I pushed my tray towards her. "You can have it."

"James!"

Courtney's head whipped up. She was ghost-white, the blood completely drained from her face.

"James?" she whispered.

The officer jerked his thumb in my direction. "Yeah, James Wilson. Her."

"My name is Jem," I snapped.

He shrugged. "Whatever. You're coming with me."

I sighed. Turning to Courtney, I placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Court? You okay?"

She managed a shaky smile. "Yeah, of course. I'm fine. He meant you James, not...not my James. Sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," I muttered. "Are you sure you'll be fine?"

"Hurry up!" the officer yelled, impatiently banging the bars with his hand.

"Alright," I snapped. I gave Court one last sympathetic pat on the shoulder before getting up and joining the officer.

The second we were outside my cell, he slapped a pair of cuffs onto me.

"Is that really necessary?" I sighed as he shoved me forward.

He glared at me. "It's protocol."

We made our way through a bunch of winding hallways before stopping in front of an empty room. The door was open, and I could see an empty metal table and two chairs inside.

"Time for an interrogation?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. I was really hoping he'd correct me.

"Sit down." He led me over to one of the chairs and attached my handcuffs to a small ridge on the table.

"Don't I get a lawyer or something?" I shouted to his back as he left the room.

Fuck, I thought, cursing under my breath.

The door opened a few minutes later, and a man in a suit walked in. He sat down across from me and immediately opened a suitcase.

He was clean-shaven, with a cropped haircut and piercing grey eyes.

"James, is it?" he asked, finally looking at me.

"Jem," I corrected. "James is more of a formality."

He smirked. "My apologies. Jem, nice to meet you. My name is Derek Smith. I'm with the FBI."

"FBI?" I asked, feeling my voice get higher.

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. "Your case caught our attention."

"Case?" I asked, my voice sounding like a mouse at this point. "I thought I was just a suspect."

"Nothing is certain at this point," he explained. "However, we have an outstanding amount of evidence accumulating against you. Fingerprints and DNA from the scene, things like that."

"Fingerprints?" I repeated dumbly. "I...I don't understand. Don't I at least get a lawyer? What the fuck is this?"

"Of course you'll get a lawyer," he said, smiling coldly. "When we begin interrogation. Right now, I'm just here to explain the details of your case to you."

"This is crazy," I muttered, half to myself. "This is actually fucking insane."

"Would you like a glass of water?" he asked. Something about his tone was so condescending, it made me want to punch him in his smug face.

"No, I'm good," I retorted sharply.

"Okay." He smiled. "Then, let me begin with the facts. On Tuesday, April 15th, Caine Potters was murdered in his house. There was no evidence of a break-in, although there were clear signs of a struggle. His girlfriend of three years, you, were nowhere to be found. Forensics found your fingerprints on the broken beer bottle that was lodged into his throat."

"Is that all?" I drawled sarcastically, leaning back in my chair.

Derek's smile turned hard. "We also have reason to believe you were hidden at Michel Washington's mansion when several officers came to search the house."

My eyes popped wide open upon hearing Michel's name.

"What the hell does that have to do anything?" I asked, trying to hide my astonishment. "Not that I'm confirming for denying anything, I'm just...wondering," I finished lamely.

His eyes glinted maliciously as his smile widened. "The FBI has been building a case against Michel Washington for several years now. He has no records with the IRS, multiple million-dollar properties, and bank accounts under six different names. We've never had any concrete reason to detain him--" He leaned forward, smirking deviously. "--But housing a fugitive is more than enough reason to bring him in for questioning."

My jaw was slack.

Fuck.

Fucking.

Damn.

Shit.

There weren't enough swear words in the world for this.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

"Let me get this straight," I said slowly. "You're holding me...because you need an excuse to question Michel?"

Derek closed his suitcase, putting away the papers he'd taken out. "If you'd like to call your lawyer now, the officer outside can provide you with a phone."

"You're an asshole," I muttered.

He smiled, standing up. "It was wonderful meeting you, Jem. I hope we'll be seeing each other again soon."

I smiled sarcastically. "Gee, I hope so too, Derek!"

The second he was gone, an officer came in. "Do you want your phone call now?"

I rubbed my hands over my face wearily. "These calls are tracked, aren't they?"

"Yes," he said honestly. "Do you still want it?"

I thought for a minute. "Yeah. Let's go."