Don't Tell (Don't 1)

She rose from the sofa slowly. Her face stained with tears.

I looked on either side of her. She was surrounded by men in suits. Tall men. Serious men.

“Emily,” she whispered, choking back a sob.

“What’s going on?”

I tried to piece things together, but they quickly spun out of control. I couldn’t grasp it. I couldn’t assemble the fragments fast enough. I could sense her pain and fear. I tried to reach for her. I couldn’t find her. They shuffled me to the right and left. The black suits flanked me.

“Just stop. Stop,” I pleaded.

One of the men grasped my elbow, pulling my arm to my back before taking the other one. I heard the clicking sound of metal. Did he have handcuffs?

“Emily Charles, you are under arrest for conspiring to commit theft against U.S. property. We will present you with a full list of charges at the Bureau.”

“Charges? Theft?” I squealed. “Greer, what’s happening?” My head spun to my friend.

She cried. “I-I can’t help you. You

helped him.”

“What?”

The men urged me to the door. “What is going on?” I tried to dig my heels into the floor, but they were strong.

One of the men read me the complete Miranda Rights, but I wasn’t paying attention to him. Everything echoed around me. Greer cried in the background, while they led me down three flights of stairs and stuffed me in the back of an expensive Town Car parked by the curb.

I was in a daze. My heart pounded so loudly, nothing else sounded clear.

The men mumbled to each other. What bureau were they talking about? From low in the backseat, I didn’t know where we were going. The white buildings raced past until we pulled inside a parking garage.

I was jerked from the backseat and led through a set of double doors.

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as we walked through a hallway lined with tan doors. There was nothing discerning about the inside. I still had no idea where I was. There were no signs. No markings. Not even a lit exit box.

Finally, we stopped and a door opened.

“Wait here.”

I stumbled inside. There was a table and two chairs. Along one wall, a mirror that was at least six feet long. I knew someone was on the other side. I looked up and noticed the small cameras in all four corners of the gray walls. Red lights blinked under the lenses. They were on.

I twisted my hands, only to be pinched by the cuffs.

I didn’t know how much time passed before the door opened. I spun on my heels.

A tall man walked toward me. He extended the key for the handcuffs.

“Would you like me to take care of those?”

I nodded.

He flicked the lever and freed my hands. I massaged the skin where the metal had scraped.

“Please, Miss Charles. Take a seat.”

He pointed to the chair that faced the mirror. He took the other one.

I was reluctant to sit. Reluctant to talk.