Helena Hunting - Inked Armour

Mindful of the new ink, I buried my face in her hair and tried to fight the rising tide of fear. She whispered soft words of reassurance until I was no longer at risk of losing it completely.

A police cruiser turned the corner and came down the narrow stretch of asphalt. Tenley slid back over to her seat as the vehicle came to a stop a few feet away. I opened my door at the same time as Officer Miller got out of the cruiser, along with another cop I didn’t recognize. Tenley met me at the front of the car and linked our hands as Miller and her partner approached. Introductions were made, none of which I retained. Tenley did all the explaining as she brought them over to the painting.

Officer Miller and her partner snapped on rubber gloves as they looked it over.

“Have either of you touched this?” Miller asked.

“I took it out of the box, but I was wearing gloves,” Tenley replied.

Miller nodded and turned back to the framed art. She and her partner inspected the piece. “Are you seeing this?” Miller asked.

There were nods and more murmuring, lots of gestures.

“That painting used to scare the shit out of me as a kid.” When the male officer turned to look at me, I went on, as though it required further explanation, “I think it’s because the color is incongruous with the subject matter.”

He gave me a funny look. “Are you an art teacher or something?”

I pried my eyes away from the angel to meet his inquisitive stare. “Tattooist.”

His eyes moved from my feet to my face. “Huh. I never would have guessed.”

“I’m calling this in,” Miller said. “We need to get it to the lab.”

Tenley put me back in the car. I watched as Miller paced around, making calls, conferring with her partner. The painting went back in its box. Tenley handed over the key to the storage unit. Miller locked it up and came over to the car. I stared at her through the glass when she tapped on the window. She opened the door and crouched down.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“You did the right thing by calling me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tenley’s going to bring you to the station. We’ve got a few questions for you.”

“Okay.”

“Hang tight, there.”

Miller shut the door. She and Tenley had a conversation. Based on the number of times they looked my way, I could guess what it was about.

When we arrived at the station, Officer Miller met us at the front doors and ushered us quickly through the lobby. There weren’t any suspicious stares this time. Their eyes slid over Tenley and me, pausing briefly before moving away. One of the receptionists even smiled when we passed.

I froze when we reached the hallway. I’d been down there before, and the memories associated with it were not pleasant. “Where are we going?”

“To my office.” When I didn’t move, Officer Miller’s features softened. “This isn’t an interrogation, Hayden.”

I sucked in a deep breath, squeezed the shit out of Tenley’s hand, and followed them down the hall. The fluorescent lights above hummed and flickered, giving it an ominous feel. In spite of Miller’s reassurance, the farther we went, the greater my sense of disassociation became. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop from being sucked back into the past.

We were led into a small office with an old, beat-up fake-leather chair behind an equally beat-up desk. Two plastic chairs sat on the opposite side. When I was offered one, I quickly dropped into it. I was light-headed. Tenley sat down beside me and I slid my chair across the floor to close the space between us. The metal against linoleum made a horrible screech.

“Sorry,” I mumbled when everyone in the room flinched.

My knee was going a mile a minute. I shrugged out of my coat and draped it over the back of the chair. I yanked at the collar of my shirt; my tie felt like a noose around my neck. The office was cramped, with shit strewn all over the desk. The lack of order stressed me out even more than I already was. It was too hot, and I couldn’t seem to drag enough oxygen into my lungs. I wanted to roll up my sleeves, but then everyone would know I was faking civilized in my dress shirt and tie.

“Can we get Hayden a glass of water?” Tenley asked.

“Of course. Duggan?” Miller looked to the male officer.

He nodded once and left. It was a little less claustrophobic with one fewer in the room, but not much. Tenley started up with the slow circles on my back, but it didn’t help calm the anxiety. Duggan came back with a bottle of water. I drained it and immediately wanted to hurl.

Then the questions started, which didn’t help the nausea. I recounted the events of the night my parents were murdered, from the moment my parents walked out the door, to the moment I came home. The more of the story I relayed, the clearer the details became. I told them about Damen picking me up, about the kids I remembered being with us, about the girls I later found out were dancers from The Dollhouse.

“There was a guy there, I can’t remember his name.” I rubbed my temple, the headache cropping up behind my eyes making it hard to think. “Brant or Brett? I’d only seen him once before. He was around the same age as me, I think? Is this even important?” I glanced over at Miller, who was recording everything I said.

“Anything you can remember, no matter how insignificant, could be helpful.”

“Okay. This kid, I’m pretty sure his name was Brett. Anyway, I didn’t talk to him because he was a loser. All annoying and shit. I remember him being way too loud, like he wanted to fit in. He pretty much attached himself to Damen both times I met him. I thought he was a creep because he kept watching me. I was with this girl—” I glanced at Tenley, mortified that I had to relay this in front of her.

She gave me a smile that held no judgment, so I continued.

“I was already messed up at that point because Damen had brought out a boatload of weed and I’d been pounding beers. That night, that Brett kid and Damen kept having these side conversations. Damen kept blowing him off. He got pretty pissed at one point and then the kid left. I never saw him again after that.”

“What about this Damen person, did you ever see him again?” Officer Miller asked.

“Yeah. A few months after my parents died, I started apprenticing for him. I worked for him for almost three years. He runs this seedy tattoo shop, Art Addicts. I’m pretty sure he was questioned about the whole thing since he was my alibi.”

“You got a last name for this Damen character?” Duggan asked.

“Martin. His last name is Martin.”

Miller and Duggan exchanged a look.

“What’s going on? Do you guys know him?”

“The name might be familiar,” Duggan said. “Can you tell me a little more about your relationship with him?”

I stared down at my shoes. The toe of the right one had a scuff. “He was my employer and my dealer for a number of years. He introduced me to a lifestyle I didn’t want any part of, after I got my head out of my ass.” I looked up at Miller. “I made some regrettable choices when I was kid, especially after my parents died.”

“I’ve seen the crime scene photos. You witnessed some pretty horrific stuff.”

“That painting you took? It wasn’t in those photos. I remember being confused about that. I know I was messed up at the time and I wasn’t thinking clearly, but that’s one thing I couldn’t forget. When I walked into my parents’ room”—the images in my head were so vivid, my stomach clenched—“that painting was on the floor. I remembered thinking if my dad had seen it like that, he would have freaked out. But in the photos, it wasn’t there at all.”

“You’re sure about this?” Miller asked, leafing through the file on her desk, searching for something.