Page 47 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
Relief moves through me fast and I push it down before it can reach my face. Adrian is here.
I get to my feet. My legs want to shake. I don't let them.
The police officer takes my arm above the elbow and walks me through the hallway. His grip is harder than it needs to be. Not enough to bruise, but deliberate. I'm not walking through this building, I'm being walked through it.
The processing room is bright and smells like old coffee. Counter with papers on it, a woman behind it, a door ahead with wired glass in the frame.
Through the glass, Adrian.
I lose the thread of what the officer is telling me. Court date. Conditions of release. I nod at the intervals that seem to require it. Adrian is standing in the lobby at full height.
His jaw is set. His eyes are fixed on the glass and when they find me through it they don't move. I can't read his face from here. I'm not sure the distance is what's making that difficult.
I sign where I'm told to sign. My belongings come back in a bag: phone, wallet, keys,hoodie.
When I push through the door Adrian is right there. I open my mouth to thank him, but he raises his hand to stop me from talking before I have a chance to say anything.
"Not here," he says.
His hand comes to the small of my back, light but clear about its direction, and I go where it points me.
As we pass the front desk he gives a short nod to the uniformed officer behind the counter. An acknowledgement.
And I understand what it means. He called in a favor to get me out. I feel the weight of that settle onto everything else I'm already carrying.
Then we're outside.
The night air hits me and my body starts to make decisions on its own. My legs go unreliable. The shaking starts in my hands, moves up through my shoulders. I press my arms to my sides and it doesn't stop. It's not the cold. It's the adrenaline finally finding somewhere to go.
Adrian steps in front of me. His hands close around my upper arms and the warmth of them is immediate and specific.
He looks at me. "You're freezing."
"They took my hoodie." I can hear my voice shaking. "The strings. You can't have strings in holding."
"Fuck." One word, quiet, more exhale than anything. His hands are still on my arms. I can feel his anger radiating from him.
He lets go. I reach into the bag, pull out the hoodie and get it over my head.
"Thank you," I say. "For coming. For getting me out."
He's already walking toward the car.
"I can call an Uber from here," I say, following. "You've already done enough, you don't have to—"
"Get in," he says.
"Adrian. Seriously. I don't want to keep taking up your—"
He stops. Looks back at me once. "Get in the car, Sienna."
I get in the car.
The interior smells like leather and something clean underneath it. My clothes smell like dirt and the holding room.
I'm aware of my jeans the moment I sit down. The knees dark with soil from the garden, a smear of mud across my t-shirt that the light in here makes obvious. I shift slightly to limit the contact with the seat and then stop because I'm making it worse.
"Sorry about the upholstery."
