Page 22 of Pieces of Her (Andrea Oliver 1)

Her legs retracted like a roller shade, heels hooked onto the edge of the toilet bowl, as if drawing herself into a ball would make her invisible.

“Andrea?” Palazzolo’s chunky police-issue shoes thumped across the tiles. She stopped directly in front of Andy’s stall.

Andy stared at the door. A faucet was dripping. She counted off six drops before—

“Andrea, I know you’re in there.”

Andy rolled her eyes at the stupidity of the situation.

“I gather you don’t like to talk,” Palazzolo said. “So maybe you could just listen?”

Andy waited.

“Your mom might be in a lot of trouble.” Palazzolo waited another beat. “Or not.”

Andy’s heart leapt at the possibility of the not.

“What she did—I get that. She was protecting her daughter. I’ve got a kid. I would do anything for the little guy. He’s my baby.”

Andy bit her bottom lip.

“I can help you with this. Help you both get out of this.”

Andy waited again.

“I’m going to leave my card here on the counter.”

Andy kept waiting.

“You call me, anytime, day or night, and together, you and I can figure out what you need to say to make this problem go away.” She paused. “I’m offering to help your mom, Andrea. That’s all I want to do—help.”

Andy rolled her eyes again. She had learned a long time ago that one of the prices of prolonged silence was people assumed that you were simple-minded or outright stupid.

“But here’s the thing: if you really want to help your mom,” Palazzolo tried. “First you have to tell me the truth. About what happened.”

Andy almost laughed.

“Then we’ll go from there. All right?” Another weighted pause. “Right?”

Right.

“Card’s on the counter, doll. Day or night.”

Andy listened to the drips from the faucet.

One drip... two drips... three... four... five... six...

“You wanna make a gesture, like flush the toilet to let me know you heard me?”

Andy held up her middle finger to the back of the stall door.

“All right,” Palazzolo said. “Well, I’m just going to assume you heard. The thing is, sooner rather than later, okay? We don’t wanna have to drag your mom down to the station, open a formal interview, all that stuff. Especially since she’s been hurt. Right?”

Andy had this flash in her head, the image of herself standing from the toilet, kicking open the stall, and telling the woman to go fuck herself.

Then she realized that the stall door opened in, not out, so she couldn’t really kick it open, so she waited on the toilet, hands wrapped around her legs, head buried between her knees, until the detective went away.