|Bild lånad från bokus|
“I know you didn’t do this alone,” she said. “I heard what happened to Grantham Cary. I doubt Mr. Universe could do that to a person, let alone a young woman your size.”
So this was the good cop. The one who was supposed to make me spill my guts, an older woman, maternal, understanding. I wanted to leap to my feet and tell her to take her act and go.
As I sat there, I realized why such an overused police routine worked. Because, after hours of being yelled at and made to feel like a lowlife degenerate, I was desperate for validation, for someone to say, “You’re not a cold-blooded killer and you don’t deserve to be treated this way."
I knew this woman didn’t give a damn about me. I knew she only wanted a confession so she could high-five her colleagues watching through the one-way glass. Yet I couldn’t help wanting to confide in her, to gain a smile, a look of sympathy. But I knew better, so I fixed her with a cold stare and said, “I want a lawyer.”
A smirk tainted Flynn’s warmth. “Well, that could be difficult, Paige, considering he’s just been taken to the morgue. Maybe you don’t understand the seriousness—"
Fler smakbitar finns på bloggen Flukten fra virkeligheten. Ha en trevlig söndag :)