Moira Crane is an English teacher at the local high school. She has a strict rule about cell phones in her class and has a padded bin that everyone has to put their phones into before class begins. One day, hers rings, though she thought it was turned off. The students insist she put it in the bin with theirs. Someone steals it. She reports it to the phone company, but also goes to the police. When it turns up at a crime scene a few days later, she finds herself in a sticky situation.
"It wasn't me!" Moira Crane protested. "I didn't do it. I'm not a murderer!"
"We found this at the scene," Detective Rhys Fletcher set an evidence bag on the table. "Your fingerprints are all over it. There are texts made to all the victims, including Amy Sutherland, who still can't be found. Is that your phone?"
She reached for the bag with difficulty, her cuffed wrists making the movement awkward. "It looks like it," she replied once she'd looked at it carefully. The face was cracked and crusted with dried blood. The bright pink case with flashy rhinestones, was distinctive.
"So, you admit it's your phone."
Her dark brown eyes fastened on the police detective. "No. I admit it looks like mine."
"The case is distinctive."
"Any five year old can switch a case. That means nothing. You need to work on your listening skills, Detective Fletcher."
"If it's not your phone, why is it covered in your prints? Why have we picked up your DNA—"
"Wow, you're good," she said, her tone sarcastic. "You got a DNA sample run in less than three hours? Will wonders never cease?"
His jaw tightened, gray eyes turned steely. "Being flippant won't help your case."
She leaned forward aggressively, pleased to see him flinch slightly. "Lying doesn't help yours either. If it's my phone, it doesn't mean I was there. I reported it stolen six days ago, Detective."
He glared at her, but she could see calm resignation in his stormy eyes. "Begin with that," he said quietly.
"Begin with what?"
"The theft of your phone six days ago. Tell me everything up until now."
"Can I pee first?"
Detective Rhys Fletcher rolled his eyes. "Really? Moira—"
"I need a bathroom, Rhys. Badly. I had a latté grande before you unceremoniously arrested me—like a common criminal! The least you can do is let me urinate." She held up her wrists. "Without these, please."
"Rhys—" Her tone turned dangerous.
"All right. But Officer Simpson is going in with you."
"I distinctly hope that Simpson is a girl, or some other man will see parts of me you haven't."
Angry, she stood up. Fletcher called in a blonde, female officer. Simpson escorted Moira to the bathroom, removing the cuffs once she'd locked the door and checked the tiny window. Moira did her business and washed her hands. The cuffs were back on as soon as the paper towel hit the trash. At least Officer Simpson didn't click them quite as tightly as Fletcher had when he arrested her.
Walking through the interrogation room door, Moira sensed more people behind the glass. Smiling in their direction, she took her seat, waiting for Rhys to collect his thoughts. He repeated his demand.
Sitting as comfortably as she could in the hard, metal chair, Moira began. "Six days ago, my phone was stolen. . . ."
© 20114 Dellani Oakes