Help

They had left Martina alone in the interrogation room for a long enough time that she had begun to think they had forgotten her. It was a small room, cinder block walls painted beige, a small white table, plastic folding chairs. There was no one-way-mirror window like in the movies, but there were cameras in three corners of the room. Above the table to her right were painted the words: Interrogation Room 2

Maybe they had forgotten her. That was fine. She was in no space to answer the questions of the officers. The images of Alexandro dead at her feet still haunted her when she closed her eyes, and so she fought sleep, leaving her exhausted, despondent. Yes, he had been a sad excuse for a boyfriend, but you can’t control who you love. She could have fixed him, saved him, if only she had tried harder, loved harder. In the end, she knew that this mess was all her fault.

One of the officers had mentioned the **** penalty the last time they spoke. It was said to scare her, but it hadn’t worked. Not that she wouldn’t eventually confess to everything they were accusing her of. She was innocent, but with her Alexandro dead, with his blood on her hands, **** had lost its bitter bite. If she was to die, then so be it. There was no will in her breast to fight anymore.

One day. That was all it had taken to bring her to this state. One day after her boyfriend is killed in front of her, Martina was ready to give up. Her mother always told her that if she didn’t grow a backbone she’d end up on her knees. How right her mother had been. She was no fighter. It was comical to be accused of the list of crimes the police had informed her of. How could she have pulled all that off? She was weak! She had not fire in her to be of any consequence, no less be as impactful as someone who could do all that!

Murders and thefts and kidnappings and bribery; the list was extensive. Whoever it was that had been working with Alexandro meant serious business. Yes, she had seen her boyfriend with dangerous men, but Martina had kept to herself, not paid attention. It was safer that way.

A commotion outside the door brought Martina back to the present. Voices were raised, not so loud that she could hear clearly what was being said, but she could pick out a word or two. ‘Lawyer” and “represent” stood out, giving her a bit of hope that she wouldn’t have to argue with the police anymore, that someone else’s would argue for her. Not that she wouldn’t confess in the end, just that she could rest.

Then the door opened and in walked a vision of masculinity in a denim skirt, black crop top, and thigh-high boots. His tits bounced hypnotically as he approached the table, smiling knowingly through his painted lips.

“Martina Delgado?” The man’s mainly high-pitched voice asked.

She nodded.

“My name is Tim Thompson,” he continued, sitting down across from her, crossing his smooth legs, “I’m here to help.”