The Wrong Kind of Love

Men dressed in black uniforms and bulletproof vests, littered the highway, guns aimed at us.

"Throw any weapons you have down, and lie on the ground."

This is where this ends. Right here. Right now. I glance at Tor, whispering, “I’m sorry” as I toss my gun to the asphalt. "You had nothing to do with this. Nothing. You understand.” I lower myself to the ground, ignoring the pain in my leg. “You look after our baby, Tor.”

Men rush toward us, yelling, "Get on the ground!"

"I am on the fucking ground," I shout, placing my hands on the back of my head.

"Get on the ground. On the ground!"

But it's not me they're shouting at, it's Tor. One of the officers grabs onto me as I strain my neck to look back at Tor. She's on her knees, her face white, tears pouring down her cheeks. And it's then I notice her bloodstained clothing and hands. Mine and Tom’s. Because I held her.

"Don't move," one of the men says, shoving a knee in my back.

"She's pregnant." I lift my head to find the barrel of a rifle pointed in my face.

A man steps behind Tor and forces her to the ground, yanking her arms behind her back. He presses her cheek against the asphalt.

"Let her go!" I plead. "She's innocent. She's my fucking hostage. She had nothing to do with any of this. Just let her go."

The past few months rush through my mind. How the hell can I protect her from this right here? She’s an accomplice to murder. She's pregnant with my child. "Stockholm Syndrome," I yell in desperation. "She has Stockholm Syndrome."

An officer jerks my arms behind my back, and the cold metal handcuffs snap around my wrists. Panic rises in my chest. This is the risk that comes with my lifestyle, the fear that's always lurked in the back of my mind, that one day I would get caught. I've always known if I get caught, I'm done for, because my list of wrongs is a bottomless pit, but Tor... this was a risk she never bargained for.

Victoria

I'm taken to a room, with white walls, a mirror on one side, and a table with four chairs in the middle. I'm asked the same questions over and over for what seems like days. Back and forth different detectives go until I snap and tell them all again what I've already told them: I love Jude, and I killed Tom.

They take my clothes, DNA samples, photograph the scars littering my body, and even want to do a rape examination on me. It's at this point I lose my shit and refuse to speak to them anymore. It's clear that I've gone from suspect to victim over the course of their questions.

Eventually they send a woman into the room to ask me more bloody questions. She wants to 'help'. I'm a doctor. I know a shrink when I see one. She was doing a psych evaluation. They think I have Stockholm syndrome, which is bullshit. I mean, yes I fell in love with a man who held me hostage, but... he didn't really. He let me go. I chose to stay with him. I was with him by choice, not necessity.

Just when I think they can't possibly have any more questions, I'm led to another interrogation room, this one without a mirror. When the detective walks in, I can tell she's not like the others. She has a no bullshit manner about her and she’s not here to give me sympathy. She's pretty, except for her eyes, which remind me of a snake stalking its prey.

"Miss Devaux, I'm Detective Lowe." She throws her badge onto the table and takes a seat opposite me. I glance at it. FBI.

"I already told them..."

"I'm going to cut to the chase. I'm not after you, Miss Devaux. My job is to go after much bigger fish than you. I want Jude Pearson."

"I don't know anything."

She smiles. "I have a trail of bodies all pointing to Pearson, but not enough evidence to nail him to the wall, and I really want to nail him to the fucking wall, Miss Devaux. I need a witness statement saying he killed Tom Campbell, and you watched him do it."

"I killed Tom Campbell," I say coldly.

"Oh, I know." She pulls out a file and dumps out pictures. "This is the gun used to kill Campbell. It has your fingerprints on it, and there was gun powder residue on your hands, meaning you fired it. Lastly, the trajectory of the bullet when it hit Tom Campbell's body was the wrong angle for someone of Pearson's height, but the perfect angle for someone of your height."

"Why are you telling me this? I just told you I killed him."

Her lips twist into a smile. "Because I don't care that you killed him. You’re going to testify to the fact that Jude pulled the trigger."