His hand moved to her knee, sliding up her thigh. Sarah clenched her jaw so hard her teeth creaked. She told herself: *Not yet. Wait for the opening.* The drive to the substation took forty minutes. Forty minutes of Dixon’s wandering hands and Reed’s crude jokes.
By the time they reached the small, dilapidated brick building in the woods, Sarah had a mental map of the route and a list of every crime they had committed. The substation smelled of mold and old tobacco. Vance led her through a side door, bypassing any official desk.
They threw her into a small interrogation room with no windows. A single buzzing fluorescent light flickered overhead. Vance threw some paperwork on the table and left, telling the other two to “keep an eye on the Major.” The door slammed shut.
Dixon sat on the edge of the table, his knees inches from hers. Reed leaned against the wall, his phone still out. The silence was heavy. Dixon told her he liked her “tough girl” act, saying it made things more interesting. He reached out to unbutton her tactical shirt, “to see if she was hiding any more weapons.”
Vance walked back in, carrying the classified folder. He had left it in the car, but now he tossed it on the table. He started listing charges: speeding, reckless driving, assaulting an officer. He told her she’d be lucky to see the sun again in ten years. Sarah sat in total silence, her face unreadable.
Vance blew cigarette smoke in her face, describing how “pretty girls” like her fared in the state penitentiary. Dixon, standing behind her, began rubbing her shoulders, his fingers dipping toward her chest. He suggested there was a “way out” of this if she was “cooperative.”
