Samuels nodded along to something Miller said, chins appearing and disappearing with every bob of his head. Rolls of flesh. A shiny, pink ocean of it, wave after wave, nod after nod.
‘What’s taking so long?’ Jenny threw herself against the back seat and pulled her knees up, tucked into her chest. The red scratch livid on her shin.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But they’re going to ask us a lot of questions.’
‘So? We didn’t do anything wrong.’
I shifted on the leather seat, arms and legs sticking. ‘They won’t see it that way.’
‘They’re idiots.’
‘They are. But we need to agree what to tell them.’
‘What’s to tell?’ Jenny’s arms tightened around her knees. She did that when she was embarrassed, held herself close like she would split apart if confronted. Momma used to do it too, before Pa left, before the Old Milwaukees and the whiskey, but Momma didn’t get embarrassed any more. No sense in shame, John Royal, she said, shame comes from other people and who gives two sweet fucks about other people?
Jenny elbowed my side. ‘Johnny?’
‘Sorry.’
A few more deputies appeared at the top of the valley, crowding behind Samuels. One, his uniform soaked through with sweat, held a handkerchief over his mouth like he was going to hurl. Samuels turned to him, patted him on the shoulder, and the cop turned and retched into the dry grass.
Jenny nudged me again. ‘What do we tell them?’
‘We tell them the truth but we don’t say anything about you and Momma arguing. That’s family business. We say we were worried about foxes or dogs getting to the poor woman before the police could come so we went down there to keep watch. We fell asleep. That’s it.’
‘That’s not the truth, Johnny.’
Outside, Samuels’ voice boomed. ‘Wrap it up, boys.’
He slapped Miller on the back and lumbered toward us.
‘It’s close enough,’ I whispered. ‘You remember it?’
Jenny nodded, arms tightened up around her shoulders.
Samuels and Miller both got in the car, the axles groaning under their new weight. The sheriff inched the Plymouth out of the field. As soon as we got onto the track, he put his foot down. Fresh air flooded the car, prickled my skin, blew away the stink of cigarettes and leather. It would take about twenty minutes to get to the station. Jenny held my hand as I hung my head out the window.
The wind and sun pulled at my eyes, stung tears from them. I let them blur, enjoyed the haze. The world had become too real. Too stark and bright white, all sharp edges and hard stares, and I didn’t know what would be waiting when we arrived at the station. For a few more minutes, at least, it was just a car ride.
I heard a rumble of a big engine on the road behind and turned against the wind, hair flicking in my eyes. I blinked the tears away but the haze didn’t lift. The heat transformed the asphalt to water, shimmering, wavering like a mirage, made the car almost invisible. The car, a light blue or grey, kept its distance, too far away to see its details, but close enough to hear the engine, feel the thunder of it in my chest. I could tell a car’s badge from a glance but nothing much else. I knew it was a Ford but didn’t recognise it from around town or school pick up. This was a back road, a shortcut into Larson locals used. Outsiders didn’t know it. My chest vibrated with the roar of the engine, like I stood too close to a booming speaker. The shimmer grew. The grey paint job, so pale, like no colour I’d seen, didn’t reflect the light, seemed to absorb it. Seemed to pull the colour out of the world, suck it up and devour it.
‘Johnny?’ Jenny’s voice.
The grey car swerved, took a right and disappeared.
‘John! My hand.’
I turned to my sister. I’d been clutching her fingers, my knuckles white.
Samuels parked at the back of the station and led us through the cops’ entrance. Thoughts of the grey car faded and all but disappeared with one step through the door. Just someone lost on a back road, nothing strange, the heat playing tricks. Get your head on straight, John, this is about Mora.
A blast of frigid AC hit me, hardened my skin, turned my outsides into a shell. Too hot to too cold, one hell to the other. Samuels took us through a mess of desks used by the deputies and junior officers. One wall was glass and looked out onto a corridor spotted with doors. Some marked IR 1, IR 2, some unmarked. Interrogation rooms. Observation rooms. Cuffs. Locks. Would there be a spy mirror like in the movies? Once they get you in, you don’t get out.
Samuels walked us into reception. Brown carpets dotted with orange triangles made my stomach churn. The receptionist, Mrs Drake, watched us. Everyone knew Mrs Drake. The witch woman, one in every town. Old, thin, with a loose grey bun on top of her head, arcs of escaped hair framing her face like claws. A mole on her jawline sprouted white whiskers. Her eyebrows arched.
She touched a crucifix around her neck. The deputies at the Roost had radioed all about what they found the Royal kids doing. Freaks. Was she looking for signs? Horns erupting out our foreheads? Forked tongues? Would everyone in Larson look at me and Jenny like that from now on?
The churn in my gut turned to a tide, swelling and burning up my throat. I imagined it fizzing through my flesh, turning me to mush on the inside. What was Samuels going to say? Would he take Jenny away into one of those rooms? She’d be scared. My sister would be scared and I wouldn’t be able to help her.
‘Sit,’ Samuels grunted, pointed to a row of chairs by the front wall. I hadn’t noticed them, nor who was sat on the far end, head down, under the leaves of an overgrown pot palm.
‘Rudy!’ Jenny dashed over.
He looked up as Jenny sat next to him. ‘What took you guys so long?’
I nodded at Samuels who leant against the reception desk.
‘He drive as slow as he runs?’ Rudy asked.
‘You betcha,’ I said, took a chair beside my sister. ‘Where’s Gloria?’
Rudy slouched so far in the chair he was almost lying down. ‘She’s in there.’
He pointed to a glass-walled office. Through the blinds, I could just make out Gloria and, beside her, filling the room, her father. Her knees bounced, her head bowed and staring, look of shame on her face like she’d disappointed her father, rather than angered him. Mr Wakefield was nice, a lawyer who worked all the time but he took Gloria on trips, bought her pretty dresses, played Frisbee and tennis in their back garden, knew how to laugh. Not like her mother. Gloria might as well not have a mother for all the attention she paid her. She’s more like a distant aunt, Gloria said once.
‘What’s going on? Have they spoken to you yet?’ Jenny asked. I kept my eyes on Gloria, hoping she’d look this way. See us.
