Chapter 35
Beckett was roughly draggedinto the crowded, stuffy, loud, Heighton Port police station, where he was unceremoniously booked by a gruff man who seemed irritated by Beckett’s wounded face. As if Beckett had beaten himself on purpose to make everyone uncomfortable. Beckett asked, “What, is my black eye bothering you? The blood on my shirt? That was Officer Capstone. Are you writing it down on my booking papers? Taking note?”
Apparently the gruff man didn’t plan to take note.
He was shoved into a jail cell crowded with twelve other inmates. No one talked, they glowered. They glared. He glared back. Or slumped his head against the wall and tried for inconspicuous. Rebounding between furious, want-to-pace-the-room anger, and defeated, want-to-curl-up, fear. Crap, and this morning had seemed so promising.
