Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,38

with a few clicks of a mouse, admitted to it, and we’re just supposed to say thank you?” She sounds so cold, so bitter, but her skinny arm is still wrapped around my shoulders like she needs me to keep her going. “We should be executing them.”

The E-word makes my breath catch and my steps falter.

Michelle looks me up and down like I’m the one who needs help. “You okay?”

Leaning into her side, I nod, but then I shake my head as I inhale warm traces of vanilla on the hoodie she’s wearing.

“My fiancé is supposed to be”—I have to swallow back a sob before I can say the word—“executed tomorrow.”

“Oh my God. Wesson Parker? I covered his sentencing yesterday.”

Michelle leads me around a corner where a sudden rotten stench slaps me in the face and makes my stomach turn on contact. Without warning, I lean over and puke on the sidewalk, right next to a dead Bony wearing a King Burger mask covered in flies.

“And I’m pregnant,” I cry, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as we stumble away from the bloated corpse. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I don’t even know where he is.”

“I do,” Michelle says, stopping about fifty feet short of the Channel 11 news van. Lifting a shaking finger with a jagged, broken nail clinging to the end, she points in the direction of a modern-looking building across the street.

Fulton County Police Department, the sign announces.

“He’s in there.”

My shoulders slump, and my heart breaks all over again as I take in the fortress in front of me.

“I’m guessing they don’t have visiting hours,” I mumble in complete and utter defeat.

Michelle reaches into the neck of my sweatshirt and pulls out a laminated card on the end of a lanyard. “They do if you’ve got one of these.”

Rain

Buzz.

The exterior door unlocks after Michelle flashes her media pass at the bulletproof window. She pushes her way through with the grace of a seasoned professional despite the fact that she’s wearing my spray-painted hoodie, ripped jeans, and filthy hiking boots.

The cops inside reach for their guns as soon as they see those neon-orange bones but immediately relax when the cameraman and I walk in. Or should I say, hobble in. Michelle’s feet are a full size smaller than mine, so these slingback pumps are killing me.

“Good afternoon, Officers,” she announces as we walk into the center of the police department lobby.

I’ve never been in a police station before. I expected it to feel more like a jail and less like the Department of Motor Vehicles. There is a counter where you talk to someone through a window, a few cubicles with yellowing desktop computers that look like you might have to crank ’em to start ’em up, and a sea of mismatched plastic chairs bolted to the floor.

“Officer Elliott, Officer Hoyt, this is my cameraman, Flip, and our new reporter”—Michelle looks at me with a blank expression on her face, and I freeze, realizing that I never told her my name—“Stella McCartney,” she declares without missing a beat.

It’s the same name that I saw printed on the label inside her skirt.

I manage to squeak out a tiny, “Hello,” without letting my voice shake too much.

“Gentlemen, as you know, there will be no sentencing or execution today, so the governor has demanded that I get some behind-the-scenes coverage to show during that time slot to ensure that the one true law stays top-of-mind for the citizens of Georgia. However, as you can see”—she gestures to her outfit—“I’ve been involved in an … incident. So, Stella here is stepping in as my replacement.”

The two officers—one thin, bald, and dark; the other round, shaggy, and pasty—glance at each other skeptically. They’re so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, fast and hard, before the lanky one’s face splits into a grin.

“I knew it!” he yells, clapping his hands together. “I knew as soon as y’all walked in here that you were gonna interview me. Finally!” He raises his palms to the sky. “I told myself—I said, ‘Marcel, you just keep doin’ what you doin’, baby. They gon’ notice. And when they do … oooooh … you goin’ to Hollywood!’” He turns to face his partner and slaps him on the arm with the back of his hand. “What did I say? What did I say?”

“Officer Elliott.” Michelle clears her throat. “I’m afraid the governor has instructed us to interview the accused, not