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I closed my eyes.

The noise faded.

And then she dropped the gun.

She dropped the gun.

21

Closing Time– Tom Waits

The police swarmed us, cold metal and scratchy black fabric and hands moving my arms forcefully, but surprisingly carefully, behind my back. Lights flashed, red and blue, red and blue, and the dank smell of standing water from last night’s rainstorm wafted up from the ground.

People were shouting, but I felt myself drifting away. It didn’t matter anymore. My mind was blank and my body was numb, and it didn’t matter.

I turned my head, and Brooke was bent over the trunk of the Mustang while another police officer put handcuffs on her. Like the ones on me. Our eyes met, and she grinned. Cat-like. Shark-like.

Brooke-like.

‘I love you, Norma Jeane!’ I yelled. This was it. I might never get another chance to tell her. I couldn’t let them take us away without saying it. ‘I love you!’

‘I love you too, Jolene!’ she screamed over the noise of everything going on around us.

Brooke turned her face so her forehead was pressed to the red paint on the car, and I saw her shoulders were shaking with laughter.

Or maybe not laughter. Maybe something else.

I stopped paying attention to everything after that.

I was put in the back of a cop car and taken to an Atlanta police station. They didn’t bother taking my photo or fingerprints, which confused me, but multiple people asked for my name and date of birth, and whether I had any identification on me.

I didn’t, but I recited my name and birthday every time I was asked.

The officer who had driven me to the station led me to an interview room and took off my handcuffs.

‘Wait here,’ he said gruffly.

I was panicking now, desperate to know where Brooke was, what was happening to her, if she was getting the same treatment I was or if it was worse for her because of the gun. Or if it was worse for me because of the murder charge. Something lurched in my stomach and I thought I was going to throw up. It was definitely going to be worse for me.

I paced back and forth across the worn carpet, glancing up at the clock on the wall every minute as the second hand made its slow, relentless circle. After fifteen minutes, a harried-looking woman came into the room.

‘Jessie Swift?’ she asked, and I nodded. ‘I’m Claire Morris. I’m with the judicial service. I look after minors when their parent or guardian isn’t available to represent them.’

She was short, though still taller than me, with reddish hair pulled back into a braid, wisps of it coming loose around her face. Wearing jeans and a white shirt, andcarrying a tan leather backpack, she had the smart-casual vibe nailed. I wanted to trust her, but it was impossible to trust anyone right now.

‘Law enforcement have contacted your mother to let her know you’ve been found safe. We can wait for her to get here if you want,’ she said in a rush, ‘but we’d have to put you in a foster home until she arrives in Atlanta.’

‘I don’t want to wait,’ I said quickly. ‘Where’s Brooke?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry,’ Claire replied.

‘Can I see her?’

‘Not right now, Jessie. Please sit down,’ she said, gesturing to one of the chairs. She settled into the other one and pulled a notepad from her leather backpack.

‘I’m good.’ Walking was better. I was full of nervous energy, and I needed to get it out somehow. I drummed my fingers on my thighs as I moved. ‘Are you, like, a lawyer?’

‘No,’ she said with a sharp laugh. ‘I’m a social worker.’