Ghostface Killer(3)

"Exactly, little fox."

That ring is the only valuable thing I own. Not because it's gold, but because it was my mother's. It's the only thing I have from either of my parents. For the most part I'm an orphan, but when my biological mother overdosed when I was ten, a social worker showed up at the foster home I was living in and delivered a box with her things. Most of it was junk, except for the gold ring, which I put on my finger and never took off. I don't even really know if it belonged to her, or if it was just a hot item she was going to hock. It didn't matter to me either way. It was in her possession at the time, so in my eyes it was hers. It was my only link to her. And now that shithead has it.

"Are you done punishing me?" I ask with my jaw clenched. My ego is black and blue, and I'm sure my cheek and ass will be, too.

"I am. Yes. The state of New York, probably not." He takes my arm, and I immediately try to yank myself out of his grasp. "Good effort, foxy, but I'm bigger and stronger and smarter." He drags me out of the alleyway the same way he dragged me in. With me kicking and screaming. "You have a lot to learn. Officer!" He yells to a man leaning against a parked car across the street. "I've got a live one. Pickpocket. I want to press charges."

"What?" I cry outraged. "You spanked me in the alley. Wasn't that punishment enough?"

"Don't listen to her." The man hands me over to the officer, who promptly handcuffs me. "She's deranged. I'm sure she'll say just about anything to get out of being arrested."

"This one?" The officer in street clothes looks down at me in disdain. "I wouldn't doubt it. Little punks are all the same."

"The only punks around here are the two of you!" I kick off the side of the cop car trying to break free.

"You did find a live one." The cop laughs as he strong arms me into the back of the unmarked cruiser. I protest with profanities the whole time until he slams the door in my face. Fuck! I kick the back of the driver's seat. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! This is a fucking mess. All I can hear is the echo of the judge's threat the last time I stood in front of him. "Miss James, the next time you end up in this courtroom, I am reprimanding you to the juvenile detention center until your eighteenth birthday. Do I make myself clear? Clean up your act."

I've been arrested twice in the last year for petty theft. Both times I got off with a stern warning and probation. Child Services placed me in a new foster home, and a week later I was back on the streets. My last arrest was three months ago. My face and rap sheet will be fresh in the judge's mind. I'm completely screwed.

The officer and the man spend several minutes talking outside the car. Every now and then a cloud of smoke from their breaths billows by the window. What could they possibly be talking about? He's pressin' fucking charges. Drive me to the station so we can get this over with.

The cop whistles, long and high pitched as he slides into the beat-up driver's seat. "You're lookin' at some jail time, little lady."

Little lady? What is this, 1890 Texas? "That watch was worth over ten K. That's grand larceny in the third degree. And I'm guessin' this isn't your first offense. Looks like the odds are not in your favor." Was that supposed to be some bad Hunger Games joke?




 

 

"Thank you for the unwanted analysis of my situation," I bite bitterly.

Grand larceny in the third degree. That sounds so bad.

The cop turns on the cruiser and throws it into drive. It doesn't look like he's from around here with his flannel shirt and wiry auburn mustache. He certainly doesn't sound like he's from New York.

"Just lettin' you know what you're looking at." I catch him eyeing me in the rearview mirror. The way that guys do when I know they like what they see. Like they want to lick me from head to toe. It used to make me uncomfortable. It still sort of does, but I've learned to hide the thorny feeling it gives me. I turn my head and look out the window as the buildings pass by in a blur.

The handcuffs are too tight around my wrists, my butt is sore, and my cheek is throbbing. This has to be the worst night of my entire life.

"What's runnin' through that head of yours, darlin?" the cop asks.

"Does it really matter?" I answer vacantly.

"Maybe."

What's running through my head? Let's see. I want to tell you that man isn't the only victim in all this. That he hit me and stole from me, too. But who is going to believe a homeless thief like me? Who's going to care? I'm the criminal. It will be his word against mine. I know that much, and money always wins an argument.

I just keep staring out the window. Desolate tears cloud my vision.

"I hate seeing someone as pretty as you in such distress."