“Elena,” Daniel said, his voice dropping to a low, warning register. “Tell them.”
I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since the concrete patio.
“I am not going home with you, Daniel,” I said, my voice quiet but steady.
Officer Vance stepped forward, his boots heavy on the floor.
“Daniel Vance, you are under arrest,” Vance said.
He reached for his leather briefcase, but his hand stopped in midair as the metal handcuffs clicked open on the officer’s belt.
The metal ratchets clicked twice, a sharp, clean sound that seemed too small for the quiet room. My husband. Daniel did not look at my face as Officer Vance pulled his arms behind his back. He kept his eyes on his own leather shoes, his shoulder brushing against the blue privacy curtain as the second officer turned him toward the door.
Patricia sat in the high-backed vinyl chair by the wall, her fingers frozen on the silver beads of her rosary. She did not look at her son as he was led out into the bright light of the corridor. Her mouth was set in a thin, hard line, her chest rising and falling beneath her pressed linen blouse.
