Trapped In A Mind Of Wonder.

Cold, desolate, concrete walls tower high above my head. I've been cuffed to a metal table, forced to sit on a hard, metal chair. and a two-way mirror lined with metal, is on my right.

I abhor metal.

They underestimate what a person like me can figure out by sitting isolated for a few hours, they assume I am clueless to the fact they're watching from the other side of the glass. But I've known everything. I've been sitting here for three hours and fourteen minutes, a standard physiological wear-down tactic for a regular criminal. Though when they forget to turn off the AC unit, which flows at 60 hertz a minute, it's pretty easy to count if you memorize the cycle.

A loud click echoes in the room just as the hinges of the grimy door (metal of course) begin to open, revealing a stalky, cold eyed man. I access him. The way he walks, his eyes, his confidence. He might appear threatening to others, though based on the tan line on his left ring finger, and heavy eye bags drooping on his face. He's either one of two things.

A cheater.

Or a liar.

He seats himself across from the table, neatly folding a stack of paper,

“Taking the divorce pretty hard, huh?” I inquire.

Blondie's eyes bore into mine, wide saucers staring with surprise.

“How did yo-“

“Edward Castanza.” I read from the badge on his coat pocket. “I recognize the name from the plaque outside. Hours ago, when being taken to interrogation. Your plaque hangs squeaky clean on the lobby wall. The words– Deputy of the year. 0 missed days –caught my attention.”

His brows spike up. “Is that important, miss….?" he glances at a sheet, “Miss Clara?”

“Considering it's too cloudy in Seattle to get much sun, yes. The sunglasses around your collar suggest you've traveled somewhere with sunny weather, maybe tropical, in order to get the tan you have?”

Edward, my so-called Interrogator, huffs a low chuckle, trying to hide the fact his fingers fidget against the paperwork. “Yes, I-I did. What are you getting at, child?”

At this point I'm the one interrogating him, not the other way around. I might as well have some fun.

“Does your Wife know you cheated on her?”

In a blink of an eye, His grin drops. “I’ve done no such thing.” He murmurs. Glancing at the mirror.

I wonder how many people are watching. Though it really doesn't matter, they all know what I've done. I'm more impressed with the fact that I have correctly guessed that he's having an affair. The divorce was obvious, but sometimes you have to go out on a whim. God, I love it when I'm right.

“When you, presumably, met with a mistress of some sort, you removed the wedding ring, got a tan during vacation, and..let me guess. The lovely wife figured it out?”

His silence is my answer.

Releasing a hum, I can't help but say: “That explains the eye bags. You can't sleep if you're busy fighting with the misses.”

My triumph only lasts so long, after fragile moments of silence, he smirks, slow clapping my monologue of observations. “Impressive.”

My satisfaction dissipates.

“Really Clara. I got chills.” he deadpans. “While those may all be correct, a disloyal companion is not a crime in the state of Seattle. However Murder, without a doubt, happens to be against the law.” His tone lowers when his forearms lean against the table. “Care to explain why you stabbed two innocent men yesterday evening?”

My teeth grit in annoyance. Do I have to explain it to everyone in the entire building?

“They weren't innocent. Those were the two men who robbed the jeweler on 25th street.” I feel the crease already forming in between my brows. Are they dense? This is the third person I've told the same thing to.

“While I loved hearing you explain that..again.” Edward sighs, “We have no proof to believe they were the same people. They were 7 miles from the shop, their records are spotless, I mean..they’re both in the hospital because of you! You can't go stabbing blameless citizens just because they resemble who we’re looking for.”

“I Know what I saw.” I insist.

I thought law enforcement were supposed to be helpful…and smart.

“Did it occur to you, that when you charged at them with a knife, they ran away in fear?”

“They ran because they didn't want to get discovered!”

“Listen kid,” blondie heaves. “I believe you, but this doesn't help your case against a judge.”

The amount of people telling me they ‘believed me’ was getting tiresome.

“Im twenty-three, Dont call me ki–”

He silences me with a held up hand. “Youre not gonna give me anything different?”

I glare at him, as if I could transfer trust into him with my eyes. “I know what I saw.”

If all of these interrogations are just trying to get me to confess the “real” reason because they don't believe the truth, then all of this is pointless.

Edward sighs and with a disappointed look, he turns and walks out.

I don't know how I can make anyone understand. I graduated Harvard with a 4.0 GPA, I impressed Scholars with my extracurriculars and had a remarkable study group. I have an IQ of 163. Yet when you stab a few runaway burglars, You're the bad guy…girl.

It took another half hour of silent waiting until I was escorted into a holding cell.

The transition from the sterile interrogation room to the holding cell was a lesson in human decoration. The air was thicker, smelling of stale sweat, industrial bleach and cheap tobacco smoke. They stripped me of my shoelaces, my belt, and my dignity.

I never saw a reason to be dramatic before. It was easy to be technical because I was smart, but it's getting harder when I don't have something to focus on. I sat down, pulling my knees to my chest. Pacing won't help me get out any faster…

For the first two hours I kept my mind occupied and calculated the volume of the cell, memorizing the geometric patterns of the graffiti scratched into the paint by desperate hands. I even trapped the footfalls of the guards outside one heavy stepper with a squeaky left boot who walked by every twelve minutes and one lighter faster Walker who checked every twenty.

Six hours in and I feel completely useless. I've been staring at this wall for 362 minutes. The longer I wait the more I think about it. I think I've written a whole novel about everything I've thought. Though the crushing weight of the legal system–a system too slow and bureaucratic to see the truth–started to settle in.

For all of my intelligence I have been profoundly stupid, I had expected them to look at the facts to see that I was helping them out. Instead they looked at all the blood on my hands, well metaphorically speaking, I didn't stay long enough to see all of the blood.

No one came in still after hours of waiting. Nine. dreadful. hours. The lights outside the small bald window had faded into a deep Seattle Twilight. It was quiet. My eyes were heavy, my muscles aching from the cold concrete when the heavy latch on the door finally clicked.

it wasn't Edward.

the man standing in the doorway or a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than my old salary, it doesn't take a genius to Guess that I've lost my job by now. He didn't look like a local cop; he carried a Sleek leather portfolio under his arm and possessed the quiet terrifying confidence of a man who held all of the cards.

I spoke too soon when I thought I won the game that they were playing with me. I rubbed my tired eyes forcing my spine straight. “If you're here to ask me why I stabbed them again, I'm going to repeat what I've already told you. look at the gait analysis of the suspects. look at the matching kinetic Tremors and their right hands–”

“I'm not here to ask that. we called in a… higher power. and you're right.”

“What?”

“Wait.. how did you compare? How did you get access to the security footage?

“Oh…I–well…”

He huffs, “Miss Clara.” he crouches in front of the bars “says on the papers you got an IQ of 163?”

I nod.

“Yet you’re facing twenty years for aggravated assault.” With a low shake of his head he continues, “You saw a micro expression on a surveillance tape that our software missed. I don't get it. I don't understand how you– I mean you track two federal fugitives across seven miles on foot unknowingly and neutralize them with..what. A three inch pocket knife?”

He chuckles, “You are either the most dangerous vigilante in Seattle or the best asset I've ever seen in a decade.”

I'm not sure what I should say as a response. I don't know that thank you is a very appropriate one, so I stick with silence.

His eyes soften with a smile, “were clearing your record.”

I perk up almost immediately, “Really?”

“ I don't know how you did it kid, but we're calling off the search, ‘cuz we finally found our suspects– because of you.”

His eyebrows dip, going from soft to serious and under a second as he grabs a folded paper from his pocket. “Have you ever thought about being a detective?”

He slides it through the bars. I open it, staring at the official looking font.

Department of criminal investigation. Hire of participant: Clara Berchwood.