“Your aunt?”
“I’m a minor. I don’t think I’m allowed to say or do anything without her there.”
The cop hesitated, then said, “We’ll call her at the station, okay?”
Nita slipped her phone back in her pocket and nodded.
She couldn’t believe she’d been arrested. All her life, she’d been so careful, her parents drilling into her the importance of staying safe. Because if they caught you, if they put you in prison, then you were a sitting duck, trapped and waiting for your enemies to murder you.
Or eat you, as would happen in Nita’s case. She knew it wouldn’t be long before word of what she was got around and she was torn apart and consumed.
She shivered at the thought, imagining the way her limbs would protest as they were ripped from her body, flesh stretching and shredding and clinging, blood spattering the floors and the walls, inmates desperate for immortality licking at the blood, gnawing on her bones.
No. That wouldn’t happen. She was being detained, she wasn’t arrested or in prison yet.
She leaned her head against the glass window. She would call her mother at the station. If anyone could get Nita out of this, her mother could. And oh, how her mother would gloat about it. Her mother would delight that Nita had finally cracked and admitted she needed her. She’d smile, sharkish and cruel.
Nita wished she could call her father instead.
Her heart tightened, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Not now. She couldn’t afford to have a breakdown now, the cops wouldn’t understand that it wasn’t fear of them, that it was grief. She couldn’t look weak.
But she also couldn’t stop imagining how her father would have handled this. How he’d come in, slow and quiet, voice soft and heavy as he gently explained the misunderstanding and brought Nita home. How he’d smile at her when they left the station and ask if she wanted ice cream.
Nita stifled a sob and dug her fingers into the pleather seats. She missed him so much.
Her father had been the only truly good person in her life. Yes, he had been complicit in her mother’s business killing unnaturals and selling their body parts online. But he had a soul.
She wasn’t sure she could say the same thing about her mother.
When she’d been a child, he was the one who did things with her. They went to carnivals, he told her fairy tales before bed, he picked out her birthday presents and held her when she cried.
Nita let her mind drift back as the car continued through the heavy Toronto traffic. On her eighth birthday, it had blizzarded. The snow was so dense it was impossible to go out. They’d planned to go to a movie and have ice cream. Instead, they were housebound, just the two of them. But her father, undeterred, had taken liquid nitrogen from the garage and made ice cream with it. The two of them had geeked out over science, then taken their ice cream and watched Disney movies on repeat.
When Nita had asked her mother why they had liquid nitrogen in the garage, her mother said she used it to assassinate people, as it was odorless and tasteless. If Nita wasn’t a good girl, her mother would release the gas in her room while she was sleeping and she’d never know what killed her.
Later, her father told her that her mother had just been messing with her. It was actually there to cryopreserve blood, sperm, and other more delicate bodily fluids from dissections. He told her if her mother wanted to kill her, she’d use a more direct, less expensive method.
Nita was surprised at how comforted she’d been by those words. Her father hadn’t said, Your mother would never do that, because even at that age, Nita wouldn’t have believed it. Instead he’d told her she didn’t have to worry about invisible gases as the method. It had saved Nita years of paranoid nights lying awake wondering if she was inhaling gas at that moment.
Her father had always understood. He’d always known exactly what to say to make everything better. Nita always took his advice seriously.
Until he’d told her not to free Fabricio.
And look how that had turned out.
Her heart clenched with regret for not listening to his final request, and she forced herself to wipe her watery eyes. She wondered if the grief would ever subside, or if she’d always be like this, caught in a spiral of pain whenever she was reminded of him.
She felt awful as soon as she thought it. She was supposed to feel bad he died. But she didn’t want it to hurt like this. She wanted to be able to think about him without feeling like her body was breaking from the inside out.
The police car lurched to a stop, and one of the officers opened the door. “We’re here.”
Nita let out a breath. Her father wouldn’t want her to be caught up in grief now. He’d want her to keep a cool head and get out of this situation.
So when Nita exited the car, all trace of pain was gone from her face and she held her head high. “Lead on.”
The station was new, all shiny glass and steel. It looked like a modern art sculptor had been trying to design a building that said we’re watching you, but you can watch us too, because everything was glass and mirrors and giant black security cameras like warts. The artist had failed, because all the building did was say we had a really weird architect, please don’t look, this is embarrassing.
Nita was led into a small room, white walls all around and a big security camera on the front. A metal table sat with four fold-out chairs, two on each side.
The officer who’d caught her at the store gave her some paperwork and left. A different cop, wearing a button-up white shirt and slacks, came in. He frowned, then asked, “Can we see some ID?”
“I don’t have any.”
He looked baffled.
Nita shrugged. “I’m seventeen, what do I need ID for? I don’t drive, I can’t drink.”
“Do you have a school ID?”
“I’m homeschooled.”
The cop rubbed his forehead. “You mentioned an aunt.”
“Yes. Can I call her now?”
The officer nodded and handed her a phone.
Nita took it before remembering she had no idea what her mother’s new cell phone number was. And she couldn’t email. Damn it.
Her mom was an expert at getting out of arrests, and she had Nita’s ID. Nita needed her.
She chewed her lip. There was only one place that would have her mother’s cell number.
INHUP.
Well, Quispe had offered to go to the police with Nita. Hopefully the whole getting drugged and left in the back seat of a car hadn’t changed that. It wasn’t like Quispe knew Nita was responsible. Hopefully.
Nita pulled out Quispe’s card from her pocket and dialed.
It rang a few times, and Nita uneasily wondered if Quispe was still unconscious in the back seat of the car they’d stolen. Or if Fabricio had killed her and dumped her body somewhere after realizing she was in the back of his getaway vehicle.
Quispe finally picked up. “Hello?”
“Agent Quispe!” Nita’s voice pitched a little too high in relief. “I’m at the police station, and they want to question me, and I need you here to help explain things. I also forgot my aunt’s new cell phone number. Can you call her please?”
Quispe let out a heavy breath. “Okay, okay. Hand me over to the officer there.”
Nita dutifully handed the phone over and crossed her arms while the two of them talked. Or rather, while Quispe talked and the officer frowned deeper and deeper. He ran a hand over his short fuzz of brown hair and nodded along at something.