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by Andrew Dunn
By: Andrew Dunn
Rosaline pulled her ballcap down to hide her eyes. Damned camera. She wasn’t supposed to
know it was there but she’d streamed enough video. Every interrogation room had a camera.
Either obvious in a corner but in this one it had to have been hidden inside that awkward dark
bulb stark up against the ceiling tiles.
No doubt someone was watching it. Scribbling notes hard on a notepad like the one the
detective had used. No doubt they were scribbling about how she, the suspect, had yet to shed
“It’s not like I don’t want to,” Rosaline wanted to whisper to herself but was smart enough
not to. She’d streamed videos where suspects said things in monitored interrogation rooms and
hidden microphones picked it up. The person scribbling notes on a notepad like the one the
detective had used took the audio to court and used it to make sure the suspect turned into one of
Condemned. To how many more hours sitting in a fluorescent room visited by detectives
with questions when Rosaline was already late for the Hamptons. Everyone else no doubt was
already there. Clinking ice in glasses they clinked together and plotting and planning who might
end up in who’s bed at night. It was the summer pastime for well, the right people. Until he
Romeo. Sure, his credentials were impeccable. The right parents and right schools and he
knew how to make a martini and could boast a significant number of summers spent in Italy.
That was better than Donovan. He’d traveled abroad once and only to Paris – good Lord who
hadn’t been to Paris – and the only drinks he could make involved pulling a tab off a can and
chugging it down as fast as humanly possible.
All the same, Rosaline wished she’d been with Donovan. Yes. Donovan. And all his rude.
Uncooth. And disgusting mannerisms. The boy wasn’t half bad in bed even if the Pennsylvania
in him reeked sickly with every word that drooled from his mouth after she was done. More
importantly, Donovan hadn’t slept with her then made a beeline for Juliet.
Rosaline eased back in the plastic chair so uncomfortable it ought to have subtracted time off
a prison sentence. If that’s what it came to. In any other circumstance Dad would have made
arrangements. Bought the local schools computers or something. But after it happened the
family had almost completely cut her off.
“As if I made them kill themselves!” Rosaline shrieked inside just before the door opened.
“Didn’t you?” The detective this time was dirty blonde and dressed in sky blue pastel, just
like Juliet liked.
“Didn’t I what?” Rosaline asked.
“Pressure them to kill themselves.” The detective was assertive.
Before Rosaline answered she looked up toward the awkward dark bulb stark against the
ceiling tiles. Made eye contact then pulled her ballcap down hard again.
There was no way she was going to cry.
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