Chapter 21 The Confession #2
He could almost hear the case being argued in court.
The attorney would show the jury the photos of Mitch in the car park, asking why someone with a straightforward meeting would hide behind a post unless he was actually lying in wait.
The mysterious neighbour would testify that Mitch had been lurking outside.
The butler would explain that there was no way Salinas could’ve come home without running into him.
The only thing missing was the murder weapon.
Five minutes. Three hundred seconds. Confess and take twenty years. Never see Anna again. Never return to the bookshop. Twenty years of surviving, day by day – or roll the dice on life behind bars.
The door opened abruptly and the detective barged in, yanked Mitch to his feet, and dragged him down the hallway to a dimly lit interrogation room. The first stop in a long descent to hell.
“Wait here,” he commanded. As if Mitch had a choice.
Locked up alone in the windowless room, Mitch bowed his head. A storm of images, memories, book covers and pages, words and sounds flashed through his mind – and then it all faded away, leaving only the sight of his shoes, from which the laces had already been removed.
Despair looks different to everyone.
Ten minutes later, the door swung open.
“Wait – I’ve made my decision,” Mitch cried, terrified that the deadline had come and gone.
The inspector walked in, jaw clenched, eyes dark with rage; he looked like he was one second away from punching Mitch in the face. Instead, he uncuffed him and growled, “Get the hell out.”
“Is this some kind of trap?” Mitch asked, rubbing his wrists. “I’ve heard this tune before. As soon as I walk through that door, you’ll claim that I tried to escape. You might even bash your own head into the wall so you can say I hit you.”
“You read too many goddamn books. Bad for your health. What part of ‘get the hell out’ didn’t you understand?”
“Did you find the real culprit?”
“The only culprit here is you, and I will prove it eventually; I don’t care who claims they were with you on the night of the murder. But you seem to have an alibi. Enjoy your brief reprieve – and it will be brief. I know this is just one more lie, and soon everyone else will too.”
A uniformed officer escorted Mitch back into the main lobby of the station. At the intake desk, the clerk handed him his belongings: his wallet, some crumpled bills and loose change, his shoelaces, watch and keys.
Mitch looked around the lobby. A third of the large space was cut off from the rest by a metal chain-link screen, turning it into a holding cell.
Inside, a visibly drunk woman had been left on a bench to sober up, her upper body swaying slightly.
Next to her, a pickpocket was mumbling incoherently through a split lower lip.
Two men who’d been arrested for brawling were handcuffed to bars on either side of the door, staring daggers at each other, ready for round two.
A sex worker paced from wall to wall, pausing occasionally to hike up her sagging chest beneath her corset.
Mitch walked out the station door, leaving this modern-day Court of Miracles behind.
Evening had fallen early, bringing with it the kind of drizzling rain that soaks into your bones.
Pedestrians hurried past the station with their heads hunched into their upturned collars.
But Mitch, savouring his freedom, had eyes only for the vivid colours flaunting their existence defiantly against the grey backdrop: the bright umbrellas jostling for space on the sidewalks, the gleam of rain-soaked car hoods, the wet asphalt shining under the glow of the street lamps.
How much time had passed since his arrest?
The honking of a car horn made him look around. A van parked at the curb was blinking its headlights at him. As he approached the passenger door, he saw Anna behind the wheel, motioning for him to get inside.
“Sorry I didn’t wait for you in the lobby,” she said as he climbed in, “but I don’t feel too comfortable in places like that – besides, I didn’t want to tempt fate.”
“How did you find out I’d been arrested?”
“Funny story,” she said, turning on the engine.
She had come to the bookshop to see Mitch in the early afternoon. It was empty, but she’d gone inside anyway.
“I heard whispering in the back room, and I thought…”
“Thought what?”
“I thought you were back there with another woman! But when I went in, I saw a couple I didn’t know. They both looked upset. The man was comforting his wife, telling her there must have been some mistake, that you couldn’t possibly have killed anyone.”
“She’s not his wife.”
“If you say so – but I hardly think that matters right now…”
“It sort of does, actually. I’ve messed everything up,” Mitch groaned.