So Long
seventeen.
The chair beneath her is hard and uncomfortable, and Claire resists the urge to squirm under the detective’s weighted gaze. With a sigh, he starts tapping the end of his pen against the metal tabletop; the sound instantly sends a shock of annoyance through her, and she grits her teeth to stem the words.
“Miss Hunter, you have to give me something. I mean, things are looking pretty bleak for you right now. You were found in the same apartment as a, quite frankly, staggering amount of marijuana and cocaine, you have a history with one of the men you live with, and you had two cell phones on you when you were arrested, one of which is actually labelled ‘Work’. None of that is good, not for your claim that you’re not involved.”
“I’d give you something if I had something. I really don’t know what the Hell is going on or what my roommates were up to, okay?” She sighs, fidgeting, and the cuffs that connect her wrist to the table scrape and clink together. “Look, the work phone is literally for my job. Paid for and given to me by my boss, to be returned to my boss when I no longer work for him. My days are from sunup to way past sundown. My bedroom? Literally only see it for a few hours each night before I’m gone again. I wouldn’t be surprised if the guys forgot I even live there with how little I’m ever home.”
“And what do you do for work?”
The implications are heavy, obvious, and she barely manages to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “I’m not a prostitute, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m a personal assistant.”
“Oh? And would your boss be willing to corroborate?”
“Probably, if he wants to keep me as his PA.”
“Okay, well, I’m gonna need his name so I can make a call to him and check out your story.”
“Detective Hooper, is it? I don’t know anything. All I know is I got home at midnight last night and then got woken up by a bunch of cops and SWAT bursting through the door at, what, two in the morning? I. Don’t. Know. Anything. Whatever my roommates were doing is on them.”
The man snorts derisively, barely giving her a quick glance. “You’re telling me that you lived in the same apartment and have for over a year, and you never heard any details of what they were doing?”
She throws her hands in the air as much as she can, collapses into the seat; a wince pulls at her face when the metal of the chair presses into her spine. “Fuck, yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
“How do you know your roommates?”
“I was friends with Matt in high school. We ran into each other when I moved back to California from college in New York, he found out I needed a place to live and offered up one of the rooms in the apartment. I don’t really know the others that well. As I said, I’m hardly ever home any more, and when I am, I’m in my room, sleeping.”
“I’ll be right back, Miss Hunter, sit tight.”
“Yeah, well, where the Hell else am I gonna go?” she mutters as Detective Hooper closes the door quietly behind him.
Eventually, an officer comes to lead Claire away, and her feet slap against the freezing tiles of the floor. No one says anything to her as they pass and head down the stairs. Her heart leaps into her throat; she’s seen enough cop procedural shows to know this is where they keep the cells. She also knows that this is going to be an even longer night.
Claire shivers in the cold air of the cell, and the woman at the end of the bench gives her a once-over before pointedly turning her face away. Claire’s eyes burn with tears of humiliation. She still doesn’t even know what’s going on, and her body aches for rest; between the adrenaline and fear that courses through her veins and not getting to bed until after midnight because of some last-minute emails that Niall wanted her to send out, she’s exhausted, both physically and mentally. And it doesn’t help that she’s had more late nights than early bedtimes in the past two weeks.
She coughs quietly to dislodge the lump in her throat, but it’s still there when she swallows back the tears. This isn’t fair, she thinks to herself and sighs. Who cares what’s fair - fairness has nothing to do with whatever the Hell is happening. Voices echo down the hallway from the bullpen, muffled by distance and cinder-block walls painted a garish yellow. She wonders if the colour is meant to be torture or if it’s just a bonus. Shoving away the thoughts, Claire curls herself into a tight ball on her end of the seat and drags her hands roughly along her arms and legs in an effort to warm up by friction alone.
Something soft collides with her shins, and Claire lifts her head to see a black sweater, body-warm and inviting. The woman’s lips quirk upwards just a bit, but she doesn’t say anything, just continues to lean against the wall with her eyes closed. Claire hesitates for a split second before her desire to not freeze pushes her into wrapping the hoodie around herself. It isn’t much, not really, but it’s enough that Claire feels a little less like sobbing hysterically. She shudders and wiggles her toes, honestly worried that they might actually fall off soon with how chilly she is. A clock somewhere down the hall ticks away the seconds, the clicking of the hands echoing in the freezing silence of the cell block; Claire loses track of how long it’s been past forty-seven minutes. She glances up at the sound of nearing footsteps, and an officer stares with impassive eyes back at her.
“Hunter?”
“Yeah?”
She stands at the cop’s gesture. He unlocks the cell door, the hinges squealing as he pulls it open. She hurriedly hands the hoodie back to the woman with a quick but heartfelt thanks, darts out into the corridor. The officer leads her back up the stairs to the main lobby of the precinct, and he motions her toward the desk by the doors. The cop behind the desk passes over a plastic bag, and Claire nearly weeps with gratitude right then and there at the sight of the phones inside. She signs the paperwork as quickly as she can then heads outside. The sun is already up, the bright rays touching everything in sight. Claire realises then, as people push past her, that she doesn’t know where to go or how to get there.
The line rings and rings, and Claire ends the call before trying again. This time, there’s a soft click, and she exhales heavily; relief diffuses through her, tinged with hope.
“Hey, I’m… I’m so sorry. I know I was supposed to be there, fuck, three and a half hours ago, but -”
“Do you realise how unprofessional it is for you to be so late without any kind of heads-up?”
Claire’s throat tightens, and she glances out the window as the driver zips past a minivan. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“I really don’t care how sorry you say you are.” Niall sighs. “Just, just get here, drop off the phone and any work-related files you have, then leave. You’re fired.”
“But -”
The line goes silent, and she pulls her phone away from her ear to stare at the screen. Yep, he’s hung up on her. She drags in a shaky breath, but her lungs are too small, too tight, in her chest. Clearing her throat, she reaches for the notepad and pen that rests in the netting on the back of the passenger seat. Her handwriting is nearly illegible, but she continues writing down the information Niall demanded, including the rescheduled meeting times. At least those calls weren’t this terrible, she thinks, and they hadn’t been. Sure, she’d been treated as if she was incompetent by one company, but the rest had seemed to understand that Niall missing the meeting was nothing of his own doing and all on the fact that his assistant had a personal emergency. The tight ball of dread beneath her ribs grows, her heart sinking further the more her brain plays you’re fired you’re fired you’re fired on a loop. Thankfully, the driver doesn’t speak as she lets herself sob in the backseat, and she absentmindedly decides to give him five-stars, simply because he’s allowing a pyjama-clad woman to let loose with her emotions without mentioning it.
The car comes to a stop next to the fence, and Gavin presses the button for the hazard lights. Claire hiccups, tears the paper from the top of the notepad, and forces a smile. Making sure she has her phones in hand, she pushes open the door and steps out of the car. The asphalt burns the bottom of her bare feet, and anger surges up in her. It isn’t fair, the way she’s being punished for her roommates’ stupidity. Gavin pulls away once she’s far enough way to not risk running her over; she stares up at the house in front of her, sighing. For once, the grounds don’t prove able to distract her. She wonders if it’s the time she’s spent here or if it’s because the storm inside her is too strong. She clutches the paper and phones in her hands, steeling her resolve, and begins the trek through the gate and up the walk to the front door.
“Miss Hunter, you have to give me something. I mean, things are looking pretty bleak for you right now. You were found in the same apartment as a, quite frankly, staggering amount of marijuana and cocaine, you have a history with one of the men you live with, and you had two cell phones on you when you were arrested, one of which is actually labelled ‘Work’. None of that is good, not for your claim that you’re not involved.”
“I’d give you something if I had something. I really don’t know what the Hell is going on or what my roommates were up to, okay?” She sighs, fidgeting, and the cuffs that connect her wrist to the table scrape and clink together. “Look, the work phone is literally for my job. Paid for and given to me by my boss, to be returned to my boss when I no longer work for him. My days are from sunup to way past sundown. My bedroom? Literally only see it for a few hours each night before I’m gone again. I wouldn’t be surprised if the guys forgot I even live there with how little I’m ever home.”
“And what do you do for work?”
The implications are heavy, obvious, and she barely manages to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “I’m not a prostitute, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m a personal assistant.”
“Oh? And would your boss be willing to corroborate?”
“Probably, if he wants to keep me as his PA.”
“Okay, well, I’m gonna need his name so I can make a call to him and check out your story.”
“Detective Hooper, is it? I don’t know anything. All I know is I got home at midnight last night and then got woken up by a bunch of cops and SWAT bursting through the door at, what, two in the morning? I. Don’t. Know. Anything. Whatever my roommates were doing is on them.”
The man snorts derisively, barely giving her a quick glance. “You’re telling me that you lived in the same apartment and have for over a year, and you never heard any details of what they were doing?”
She throws her hands in the air as much as she can, collapses into the seat; a wince pulls at her face when the metal of the chair presses into her spine. “Fuck, yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
“How do you know your roommates?”
“I was friends with Matt in high school. We ran into each other when I moved back to California from college in New York, he found out I needed a place to live and offered up one of the rooms in the apartment. I don’t really know the others that well. As I said, I’m hardly ever home any more, and when I am, I’m in my room, sleeping.”
“I’ll be right back, Miss Hunter, sit tight.”
“Yeah, well, where the Hell else am I gonna go?” she mutters as Detective Hooper closes the door quietly behind him.
Eventually, an officer comes to lead Claire away, and her feet slap against the freezing tiles of the floor. No one says anything to her as they pass and head down the stairs. Her heart leaps into her throat; she’s seen enough cop procedural shows to know this is where they keep the cells. She also knows that this is going to be an even longer night.
Claire shivers in the cold air of the cell, and the woman at the end of the bench gives her a once-over before pointedly turning her face away. Claire’s eyes burn with tears of humiliation. She still doesn’t even know what’s going on, and her body aches for rest; between the adrenaline and fear that courses through her veins and not getting to bed until after midnight because of some last-minute emails that Niall wanted her to send out, she’s exhausted, both physically and mentally. And it doesn’t help that she’s had more late nights than early bedtimes in the past two weeks.
She coughs quietly to dislodge the lump in her throat, but it’s still there when she swallows back the tears. This isn’t fair, she thinks to herself and sighs. Who cares what’s fair - fairness has nothing to do with whatever the Hell is happening. Voices echo down the hallway from the bullpen, muffled by distance and cinder-block walls painted a garish yellow. She wonders if the colour is meant to be torture or if it’s just a bonus. Shoving away the thoughts, Claire curls herself into a tight ball on her end of the seat and drags her hands roughly along her arms and legs in an effort to warm up by friction alone.
Something soft collides with her shins, and Claire lifts her head to see a black sweater, body-warm and inviting. The woman’s lips quirk upwards just a bit, but she doesn’t say anything, just continues to lean against the wall with her eyes closed. Claire hesitates for a split second before her desire to not freeze pushes her into wrapping the hoodie around herself. It isn’t much, not really, but it’s enough that Claire feels a little less like sobbing hysterically. She shudders and wiggles her toes, honestly worried that they might actually fall off soon with how chilly she is. A clock somewhere down the hall ticks away the seconds, the clicking of the hands echoing in the freezing silence of the cell block; Claire loses track of how long it’s been past forty-seven minutes. She glances up at the sound of nearing footsteps, and an officer stares with impassive eyes back at her.
“Hunter?”
“Yeah?”
She stands at the cop’s gesture. He unlocks the cell door, the hinges squealing as he pulls it open. She hurriedly hands the hoodie back to the woman with a quick but heartfelt thanks, darts out into the corridor. The officer leads her back up the stairs to the main lobby of the precinct, and he motions her toward the desk by the doors. The cop behind the desk passes over a plastic bag, and Claire nearly weeps with gratitude right then and there at the sight of the phones inside. She signs the paperwork as quickly as she can then heads outside. The sun is already up, the bright rays touching everything in sight. Claire realises then, as people push past her, that she doesn’t know where to go or how to get there.
The line rings and rings, and Claire ends the call before trying again. This time, there’s a soft click, and she exhales heavily; relief diffuses through her, tinged with hope.
“Hey, I’m… I’m so sorry. I know I was supposed to be there, fuck, three and a half hours ago, but -”
“Do you realise how unprofessional it is for you to be so late without any kind of heads-up?”
Claire’s throat tightens, and she glances out the window as the driver zips past a minivan. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“I really don’t care how sorry you say you are.” Niall sighs. “Just, just get here, drop off the phone and any work-related files you have, then leave. You’re fired.”
“But -”
The line goes silent, and she pulls her phone away from her ear to stare at the screen. Yep, he’s hung up on her. She drags in a shaky breath, but her lungs are too small, too tight, in her chest. Clearing her throat, she reaches for the notepad and pen that rests in the netting on the back of the passenger seat. Her handwriting is nearly illegible, but she continues writing down the information Niall demanded, including the rescheduled meeting times. At least those calls weren’t this terrible, she thinks, and they hadn’t been. Sure, she’d been treated as if she was incompetent by one company, but the rest had seemed to understand that Niall missing the meeting was nothing of his own doing and all on the fact that his assistant had a personal emergency. The tight ball of dread beneath her ribs grows, her heart sinking further the more her brain plays you’re fired you’re fired you’re fired on a loop. Thankfully, the driver doesn’t speak as she lets herself sob in the backseat, and she absentmindedly decides to give him five-stars, simply because he’s allowing a pyjama-clad woman to let loose with her emotions without mentioning it.
The car comes to a stop next to the fence, and Gavin presses the button for the hazard lights. Claire hiccups, tears the paper from the top of the notepad, and forces a smile. Making sure she has her phones in hand, she pushes open the door and steps out of the car. The asphalt burns the bottom of her bare feet, and anger surges up in her. It isn’t fair, the way she’s being punished for her roommates’ stupidity. Gavin pulls away once she’s far enough way to not risk running her over; she stares up at the house in front of her, sighing. For once, the grounds don’t prove able to distract her. She wonders if it’s the time she’s spent here or if it’s because the storm inside her is too strong. She clutches the paper and phones in her hands, steeling her resolve, and begins the trek through the gate and up the walk to the front door.