Millie swings the heavy barrier open, allowing the cold evening air to rush in. She then notices Sergeant Bower darkening her doorstep. Millie's eyes narrow and her body is rigid when she says, "I'm not answering any more of your questions."
"I was hoping we could just talk a second and clear a few things up. Stepping closer to the door, she asks, "May I come in?"
Panic surges through her body; her pulse hammers against her chest wall as the image of the bloody mannequin sprawled across her bed flashes through her mind. I can't risk letting her inside, she thinks, but refusing to let the sergeant inside will only sharpen her suspicion, something I can't afford. Millie nervously shifts her weight, trying to come up with a plan. "So you find something incriminating that'll send me back to jail again? I don't think so." She steps outside, pulling the barrier closed behind her. The wood presses against her back, slightly shielding her from the cold north wind. Shivering, Millie wraps her arms around herself.
In a harsh tone Rachel replies, "We had a warrant to search."
Millie's lips curl into a bitter smile. "A warrant that was all based on circumstantial evidence," she replies, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and fear. "My lawyer told me I could sue the city for harassment and false arrest. I told him not to pursue it, but now that you're here harassing me again, I think I'll call and tell him I've changed my mind. Good day, officer." Millie turns to leave. Rachel's hand clamps around her arm to stop her. Stopping, Millie drops her gaze to the sergeant's fingers wrapped around her arm. Millie's sharp voice cuts through the air. "Either remove your hand, Sergeant, or I'll add unlawful detention to the lawsuit."
After a slight hesitation, Rachel brings her hand to her side. "Answer one question and I'll leave." She pulls paper from a folder. Its edges are crisp, and the ink is sharp. The sergeant points to the top of the page and asks, "Is this your email address?"
Millie's eyes flicker over the page. That's what I use at work. So maybe my aunt is right about being one of my colleagues.
"Well, is it yours or is it not?" Rachel impatiently asks.
It could also be a trap. Millie's eyes narrow when she says, "I refuse to answer anything without my lawyer present."
"Answering this simple question could clear your name."
Or it could incriminate me. "I refuse to continue this conversation without my counsel."
The sergeant's eyes shoot daggers, and her voice is sharp and clipped as she warns. "That's your right, but just know that you refusing to cooperate will only heighten our suspicion."
With a look of disdain on her face, Millie spat. "I don't care about what you or anyone else in this damn town thinks about me. And since you don't have any business on my property, I'm ordering you to leave." Turning, she shoves the door open and storms inside. Her body trembles with every step. Both rage and fear collided in her chest. She slams the door, then collapses against it. The nerve of that… "That woman," she says, slamming her fists against the door. She exhales in a sharp, jagged breath. Her fury builds. Screaming, Millie slams her foot against the door. She pictures Rachel in her mind and says, "My lawyer will hear all about what you tried to pull tonight. The conversation replays in her mind. She smiles; I'm sure he'll tell me that I handled the situation quite well. A fleeting smile tugs at her lips. "Like the sociopath they claim I am." It was written in her first psychiatrist's notes, but the diagnosis was later determined to be inconclusive.
Her humor turns to fear when she remembers what's waiting for her upstairs; dread coils in her stomach like a nasty bug. How am I going to get everything out of my house without being seen? A thought suddenly comes to mind. Darting towards the counter, she scoops up her phone and begins dialing a number, then nervously glances around. The cops might've bugged my house last night. She then recalls the shoddy things they've pulled in the past. I wouldn't put anything past them at this point, she thinks, eyeing her phone. "I'll get him over here, then explain. She steps outside as the call connects.
"Hey Jake, It's me, Millie." Please play along, she thinks. "You said you were coming over today to fix the oil leak."
"Oil leak?"
"You don't remember me telling you about it a few days ago?"
"Ah, no."
"Well, I did."
Jake tries to recall but comes up blank. "You said this was a few days ago?" He questions.
"I called and told you about it right after you left."
"If you say so."
"Go ahead and pull into the garage so we can get it fixed."
"On my way."
Minutes later, Jake's car rolls into her garage. His headlights slice through the darkness as he pulls in. Climbing out, he glances towards Millie, confusion etched across his face. "What's this about?"
Closing the garage door, Millie presses her fingers against her lips. Scooping up a folded note, she places it in his hands. Jake reads it and nods.
"We need to see about that leak before it gets worse." She winks.
"Right," Jake smiles.
"How about a little music?"
"I'm on it," he says, reaching for the radio. Millie motions him to turn it up. Doing as he's told, he follows her upstairs.
Reaching the landing, Millie scribbles another note explaining what's going on. Her hands shake as she passes it to him. They'd been friends forever, but she wasn't sure he'd risk losing everything doing this for her. Nodding, he gives her a thumbs up.
Thank you. She writes.
Jake takes the notebook and pen from her and writes, "Anytime."
The two quickly get to work cleaning up the mess with urgency and sharpness in every motion. Stripping the bed, they throw it in a trash bag along with the godly-looking doll, then carefully drag the oversized bag downstairs. Their hearts racing, their nerves are on edge with every squeaky step.
"Thanks for helping me fix the oil leak," Jake says, loading the bag in the trunk. His voice is tight-sounding, as if the line has been rehearsed.
"What are friends for?" She replies.
Millie watches the taillights fade into the darkness of the night. Her breathing is quick and shallow; her pulse beats at record speed as the garage door rattles shut, sealing her in both silence and dread. Millie presses her back against the wall, hoping to calm her nerves, but her frail state intensifies instead. Every creak of the house sounds amplified and overwhelming. Dark shadows cast across the walls seem to come to life as an eerie voice echoes in her head. "They're coming for you, Mille." The voice warns.
"I'll prove that I'm innocent. I will. I will."
"How can you be innocent when there's blood on your hands?"
Millie glances down to find her fingers were stained. A quick flash of a memory of her standing over someone holding what looks to be a knife comes to mind. Dismissing the image, she says, "I didn't do it. I didn't."
"No one believes you, Millie." The haunting voice laughs.
Sliding down the garage wall, Millie draws up her knees, covers her ears, and says, "Go away. Go away. Go away."
"You'll never get rid of us, Millie, never." The evil voice laughs again.